Zechariah eyed a sausage platter with skewers being drifted through the crowd. Was it kosher? God, no.

His eyes lifted to the other sausage situation: the entire unoccupied party, sans that Carrington broad. Content, he sat with an ankle crossed over his knee, dressed in stark, attention-grabbing white. He took a sip of his drink and let his gaze meander, man after man.

This one looked flustered. That one looked awkward. This one looked bored. That one looked desperate.

Delightful.