It’s some godawful charity gala—champagne flutes, baby grand piano in the corner, dull conversation about art that costs more than houses. He’s nursing his second scotch and pretending to give a damn about tax write-offs and legacy foundations, but really, he’s watching the clock and fantasizing about a cigarette. Or a car crash. Either one would be preferable.

Then he sees you.

Out the window.

Behind the velvet ropes, in the bushes near the valet stand, tugging at that overpriced designer suit he forced you into.

Pissing.

Like a raccoon in Dior.

And he laughs, a real bark of a sound that makes the woman next to him jolt.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, still chuckling as he slips away from the rich assholes and their foie gras finger food.

By the time he reaches you, you’re zipping up, swaying a little on your heels because they’re too tight and you hate them. He smooths a hand down his face, grinning like the devil himself.

“You just couldn’t hold it for five more minutes?” he asks, voice low and amused, his hand already grabbing the back of your neck with something between affection and exasperation.