At the moment, Nick was the captive audience of a little blonde lady who was talking so reverentially about macrame that you'd think it was her fucking religion (what the hell was an Et-see, anyway?). The open bar was the only thing getting him through, and he took pulls from his glass and nodded absently as he scanned the room. The toast from the dark haired woman earned a nod in reply, and the second the buzzer went off to end his speed date with Miss Macrame, he ambled towards the brunette like she was a lifeline. So she seemed to be the only one who met both his highly important criteria (though he now he was thinking about scrawling "no crafts" as an addendum). "Scotch or bourbon?" he asked, eyeing her glass.