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Oh, someone needs to be spanked.

“I’m sure my going rate will shock you.”

“No doubt,” she says dryly. “Prostitution must pay handsomely. Or do you prefer man-whore?”

“The point is, I’ll reimburse you.” I check my watch and swear under my breath. We are officially out of time.

I rip open the garment bag.

“No need to reimburse me.” She folds her arms, chin tipping up. “I owe you. We’ll just call it even.”

“Trust me,” I say, already distracted. “When the Lamborghini-tier man-whore tab comes due, you’ll want reimbursement. And you will be. Just make sure no other woman walks away with me and?—”

I look into the bag.

Jacket.

That ridiculous cummerbund I will absolutely not be wearing.

But where’s the?—

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

Pix leans closer, genuine concern breaking through her sass. “What?”

I dig the shirt from the bottom of the bag and hold it up.

A smear runs straight down the front.

Her lips twitch. “Is that… chocolate?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.” I pull out my phone and tap Obnoxious Butthead Number One.

“Yello,” Brian answers.

“Did you let Ollie grab my tux?”

“Yes,” he says, cheerfully.

“With chocolate-covered hands.”

Silence.

Then, cautiously, “I’ll be right over.”

Click.

A second later, a knock at the door, followed by a rattle of the knob. “Harrison?”

Under her breath, Pix says, “So the lumberjack has a name.” Her smile is fucking kissable.

I open the door, and Brian rushes in with a club soda and a stack of paper towels. “The bartender said this would work.”

“It won’t work,” Pix says.

I snatch the club soda and point at her with a towel. “Yes, it will.”

“Not with cho-co-la-te,” she says, her delicious Spanish accent making it hard to think straight.