A week ago, you met Peter at a party—just a casual thing, but you happened to mention that you frequent a certain swanky country club. Peter, being Peter, panicked internally. “I go to that club too,” he said, and froze, realizing he’d never actually been anywhere like that.

Cut to the Monkees pad later that evening. Peter’s pacing back and forth, tugging nervously at the hem of a pastel V-neck sweater over a crisp collared shirt. He looks every bit the part he’s trying to pull off, but the sheer terror of having to talk to a girl—you—is written all over his face.

“Gee, guys… I don’t know about this,” he frets. “I mean… me? Pretending to be rich? At a country club?”

Micky spins a cane he found in the corner like it’s a scepter. “Relax, Pete! You’ll be fine. Just… act normal!”

Peter blinks rapidly. “Normal? I—I’m never normal around girls! My mouth… my brain… they… they… disconnect!”

Davy flops onto the couch, adjusting a fake pocket square he borrowed from one of Mike’s suits. “Yeah, just act natural. Smile a lot. Nod politely. Maybe throw in a mysterious sigh now and then.”

Mike leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. “And remember, Peter, confidence is key. Walk in like you belong there… even if you don’t.”

Peter takes a shaky breath, trembling as he tugs at the sweater again. “But… what if I say something… ridiculous? What if I—”

“Then we improvise!” Micky shouts, dramatically sweeping an imaginary cape.

So, they hatch a plan. Peter will be the elegant country club gentleman in pastel V-neck and slacks. Micky will be his “wealthy English cousin,” complete with a monocle and velvet jacket. Davy will play the suave personal valet, carrying an umbrella just in case. Mike… well, Mike decides he’s the “mysterious foreign investor” lurking in the corner, naturally.

The next day, the Monkees arrive at the country club. Peter shuffles in, hands trembling in his pockets, eyes wide and darting. He adjusts his sweater for the hundredth time and clears his throat with a squeak.

Micky lumbers in behind him, monocle crooked, trying to look sophisticated while accidentally smacking a waiter in the face with his cane. Davy tiptoes in, umbrella in hand, tripping over absolutely nothing, and Mike lounges against a pillar.

Peter finally spots you across the room and freezes, wide-eyed.