Tom Bishop ran his index finger between his sweaty neck and the damp collar of his shirt. The church had been as frigid as his ex-wife, but the reception hall would have made Dante feel at home. Add three hundred or more wedding guests and you had a ripe-smelling hotbox. He had been loathe to loosen his tie, but the heat bent his will more quickly than decorum, so he loosened it and unbuttoned the top button of his tuxedo shirt.

He scanned the buffet line ahead and shook his head.

                No one has normal food at these shin-digs anymore, he thought. It’s always this frou-frou shit.

                “Some spread, huh?”

                He turned to his right to see the young woman directly behind him in the line. She raised both eyebrows, an invitation for him to respond. When he didn’t, she laughed like Tinkerbell, soundless and beautiful.

                “I was kidding,” she said. “This looks like it was catered by people who’ve never eaten real food. People who allow themselves 600 calories a day or some bullshit like that.”

                It was Tom’s turn to laugh, only his came bellowing out like a cow in labor and drew the attention of everyone in line.

                “Easy there, Lion-O,” the woman said. “Don’t hurt yourself. My name’s Angie. You are?”

                “Mortified,” he said, stepping aside to let others in the line pass him. “I have a faulty volume nob.”

                She smiled at that. Tom thought it a good, good smile.

                “I agree, by the way. About the food, I mean.” He suddenly felt completely inept. His instinct to flirt was overridden by his overwhelming sense of dampness. “Give me a steak and potatoes any day. Hell, roasted chicken is easy enough and who doesn’t like roasted chicken?”

                “Aside from the Texas Cattleman’s Association and those PETA hippies, not anybody that I know of, Mort.”

The look of disdain on her face when she said hippies made him smile. She was too young to know about hippies, at least real hippies.

“You did good up there,” she said. “In the wedding, I mean.”

“All I had to do was stand there.”

“And walk in doing that weird-ass wedding shuffle.”

“Well, yeah, but—“

“So you were good with the walking and standing. Plus, extra points for looking cute in a tux.”

Tom hated his smile but he couldn’t help letting it loose. “I’m not sure if that comment means I rented a tuxedo with some sort of enchantment on it or you’re just in serious need of some new contact lenses.”

“One, you still haven’t told me your name,” Angie said. “Two, I have perfect 20/20 vision, thank you very much. The way I see it, tuxedos do one of two things for a man.” She looked Tom up and down. “It makes some guys look completely uncomfortable, like someone put pants on a monkey. Other guys get the Pierce Brosnan effect, like they’re one martini away from being James Bond.”

Tom motioned for her to cut ahead of him in line, noting how lovely she looked in her pale green dress. Her red curls bounced with each step. “So where do I fall on this continuum of yours?”

She spooned some sort of stuffed endive onto her plate. “You’ve totally screwed up my theory. You don’t look like the slick sort that dresses to the nines because all he has are going for him are his looks, and you don’t look at all uncomfortable in those duds-aside from the heat stroke, of course.”

Tom avoided the endive, choosing instead the stuffed mushroom caps. “I haven’t been this hot under the collar since I caught my ex-wife having sex with the babysitter.”

Angie looked back at him. “Ouch. Did you have a male sitter?”

“No,” he said. “Didn’t have a baby either.”

No Tinkerbell laugh for that. Instead, Tom got a full-on snort followed by a playful slap on the arm.

“It’s true,” he said. “I got jilted for jailbait. Dumped for a drama major in daisy dukes.”

“You must be a writer,” she said, spooning macaroni salad onto his plate whether he wanted It or not.

“The alliteration gave me away, huh?”

“Just a bit. That makes you Tom, right? The bride’s brother?”

“Kara’s been telling sob stories about her big brother again, hasn’t she?” He stepped back and let an elderly woman reach past him to the salmon.

“Are you kidding? Black sheep poet in a family full of blue-collar fireman? That’s a great story!”

“It is if you aren’t the black sheep poet.”

Angie scanned the rest of the buffet and shrugged. “I’m done here. Come sit with me?”

“They saved me a place at the main table.” He hated himself for saying it. He didn’t give a fuck about the main table or anyone seated there except for his little sister.

“Oh, I know,” Angie said. “But this is the most fun I’ve had since I poured myself into this dress. I was hoping it didn’t have to end.”

“I, uh—“

“Just say, I’d love to, Angie.”

“I’m a lousy date, Angie.”

She put her palm on his chest, a touch that sang a million hopeful songs.

“I’ll be the judge of that, Big Brother Tom.” She removed her hand and took his breath with it. “Just say, I’d love to, Angie.”

“I’m old enough to be—“

“My new friend, Tom.” She put her hand back on his chest, lending him her strength. “I’m not here to break your heart. I’m not even here to win it, Tom. I just want to know it.” She stood on her tiptoes and leaned in to whisper in his ear. Her breath warmed so much more than his ear. “Just say, I’d love to, Angie.” She stepped back and looked him in the eye. “Come sit with me, Tom?”

“Are you sure that—?“

“Come and sit with me?”

“I’d love to, Angie.”