Claire herself is in a simple but elegant burgundy dress, one hand lifting up a local take on a martini, with some odd little black and red garnish instead of olives.

Everything seemed to be going well until she saw someone's expression turn sour and followed it to see Rico in all his resplendence. Claire's eyes go wide, but then she's striding across the room with veiled purpose - can't let on that this is a disaster, despite how much of a disaster it was. She moves as if to walk past him but comes to graceful stop by his shoulder and speaks in hushed tones,

"I do not care if you forgot your pants or intentionally left them behind. We are putting our best face forward, incase you forgot which head you're supposed to be thinking with." She tilts her head ever so slightly to the side in order to shoot daggers at him. Really, Rico? A speedo?! Her cheeks are about as red as her hair, as much from embarassment as anger.