That she wanted a party was fine. That she wanted him to dress up for a masquerade party wasn’t.

Rose came swirling towards him in a blood red gown and a blue butterfly mask, slightly breathless from dancing and wine. She poked him, saying, “You look like the Big Bad Wolf watching a flock of sheep.”

“If I’m the Big Bad Wolf, does that make you Little Red Riding Hood?”

“Nah,” she said. She was holding a white rose that some poet had given her, and neatly tucked it into his leather coat. “I’m just a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”