''Hotter than hell,'' said the short man in the panama hat, sipping his brandy.
The blonde woman in the red shoes smirked. ''Yes, I rather suppose I am.''
''What? Oh, no, I meant that's what the Rolling Stone called this performance.'' He nodded towards the scene where the young sandpaper-voiced singer was indeed heating up the dancing crowd. Including the Doctor and Romana, who were currently taking a break by the bar.
''I thought there was more than one Rolling Stone?''
''The Rolling Stone is a magazine. You're thinking of The Rolling Stones.''
She liked those alveolar trills of his a good deal more than was sensible. Not that she was about to tell him that. The alcohol wasn't helping. Nor was the humid Miami air.
''Have some brandy,'' he suggested, as if reading her mind (and if she hadn't known that he would never dare such a thing with her...), holding the glass to her lips. She obliged him, and he smiled as she grimaced at its bitterness.
''What year is it?'' she asked after taking a gulp of her own drink to wash down the brandy.
''1927, I believe.''
Romana looked unconvinced. ''The fashion suggests the early 1960s.''
''Ah, I thought you were referring to the brandy. The year is 1963.''
''Ah,'' she merely said. She knew that this year held a special place in his hearts.
''Happy Valentine's Day, Romana!'' he almost shouted into her ear, emboldened by the fact that nobody could hear them over the music and the crowd singing along.
''Doctor, it's January.''
''Is it?'' he said, innocently. ''I suppose I have had too much brandy.''
''Did you bring me here just to seduce me?''
'Cause, honey, nothing, nothing can ever change this love I have for you, the singer crooned.
He looked her straight in the eye. ''That depends.'' He pushed a stray hair behind her ear. ''Is it working?''
Their faces were inches apart. Nobody would notice them.
Her fingers brushed his wrist. ''One more dance?''
He removed his hat and placed it on her head. ''It suits you,'' he told her. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy from the heat and strands of hair clung to her face and neck. The Rolling Stone's words about Mr Sam Cooke came to mind. Not that he would tell her that.
She pulled a small, compact mirror from her coat pocket. ''It rather does, doesn't? In fact, I think I'll just keep wearing it when we get back to the TARDIS.''
''Oh? Playing dress-up, are we?''
''I didn't say I was going to wear anything else.''
They skipped the dance.
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