Eric, the bastard, grinned, as if he were in the middle of a cinema watching the year’s best summer flick. No, as if the news had thrown in a gratuitous blip of hot women mud-wrestling—everyone scantily-clad, of course. Amber wrinkled her face, annoyed that her frustration had been met with amusement and a flair of egotistical smugness.

"There's nothing to be jealous of," Amber insisted. Really. What did Thirteen have that she didn't? No, better yet, what did Amber have that Thirteen didn't? A whole lot, Amber was sure. Like this date who was possibly turned on by her rivalry with another woman and, okay, perhaps at this moment Amber didn't think she had much over Thirteen, romance-wise. "It just struck me that you started and stopped at her looks, when I asked for an opinion."

But Eric's gaze, intense and appreciative like a caress, went a long way in untying the knots of Amber's bad humor. Strength and confidence defined his half-embrace, and it was easy to follow his lead, pressing back against him. Better than agonizing over Thirteen's attractiveness and unfair spot-stealing was the way the streetlights sketched Eric's face, the silk softness of his suit's collar. Fingering the material, Amber thought of how beneath lay cotton, skin, heart; she could sense them all, if she liked. Probably would, at some point tonight.

Amber wouldn't let go that easily, though. "I wouldn't put it past him to hire lobby art. Well, at any rate, if I need you to put on a show of liking her, we seem to have that covered."