“It’s called Trivia Crush.”

He pulls his phone from his jacket pocket, unlocks it, swipes, and holds it up. “Hello. My name is Samuel. I’m a Trivia Crush-aholic.”

The challenge in his blue eyes stokes a flame deep in my core—one that’s been cold ashes of late. This could get interesting. Reminding my lady parts that I don’t have the brain space for random hookups, I power up my app to ignite competitive engines instead. “This is exactly what I need. I usually play against this guy called Daniel12051 but⁠—”

His beer glass hits the bar so hard liquid sloshes out of it. “What did you just say?”

“Um, that I usually play⁠—”

“Daniel12051?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, a little freaked out by the intensity of his voice.

He holds up his phone again. This time the app is open, and I can see his username emblazoned across the top. “That’s me.”

It’s my turn to drop something. Luckily, Sam has quick reflexes and catches my phone before it hits the floor. When he places it in my palm, I think I might actually shudder.

“This is nuts,” he says, his tone almost reverent. “You’re Cortland1898. We’ve been going head-to-head for, what? Six months?”

I nod slowly. “Something like that.”

The corners of his mouth lift in slow motion. When they hit a full-blown smile, I swear a tooth sparkles, like in a toothpaste commercial.

“Are we playing or what?” he asks, like I’ve been sitting here agog, jaw dropped, drooling, for five minutes. Which I probably have. “Or are you afraid you’ll lose and it’ll be too embarrassing?”

“Oh, no.” Rallying, I literally shake myself, refusing to be derailed by mere physical attraction. Trivia is not trivial to this girl. “I won’t lose.”

He purses his lips momentarily—making me glad that I’m sitting down because otherwise I’d be a puddle on the floor—before saying, “Let’s go.”

Let’s go, indeed.

It’s just like when I’m playing Daniel12051 but in surround sound. Grunts of frustration when I beat him to an answer, roars of triumph when I get something wrong. I’m distracted enough by his scent—earthier than you’d expect given his buttoned-up look—that I don’t dare look at him.

Per usual, I beat him at sports and literature. He crushes me in science. We go head-to-head with history and movies and music. Then he edges me out on the final bonus question, and I want to throw my phone across the room. “How the hell did you know that Taylor Swift song?”

But when I look up, the pure glee in those eyes melts all my frustration away. We’re both suspended in that moment, leaning close, grinning like fools. His gaze flicks to my mouth, and I think he’s going to kiss me. But then he blinks, shifts back, and stands abruptly.

Fumbling for his wallet, he slides a ten across the bar. “That was great, but I should turn in. Thanks for making my evening much better than it would have been.”

He grabs the portfolio and is gone before I can try and say… what? What’s your last name? Where do you live? Can we see each other again?

But as I’m signing the check, I notice his phone on the bar. Grabbing it and my purse, I sprint for the elevators. When I turn the corner, a tall, dark-haired man is about to step into a car. “Sam!”

He turns, a confused look on his face until he sees the phone I’m holding up. Knocking on his skull, he says, “That thing I said before about leaving my head behind? I wasn’t kidding.”

As I step closer, right in front of my eyes, he goes from golden retriever to German shepherd, searching the lobby. “Damn, I should’ve walked you to the elevator, just to make sure that jerk wasn’t hanging around.”

The lobby is practically empty, and we have the bank of elevators to ourselves, but the minute I push the call button, the air shifts between us. When a car arrives and he ushers me in, it intensifies. It’s a chemical thing, of course. His pheromones meet mine and want to party. I’m not one to deny myself simple pleasures, so the minute the doors slide closed, I face him. “How about a goodnight kiss as a concession prize?”

He frowns slightly, but he doesn’t budge when I step closer. We’re right back to that moment at the bar, but this time I’m not letting him get away without a taste. When our lips meet, the rest of my senses get on board, jumping in the deep end. The vibration under my feet tells me the elevator is going up, but I’d swear I’m in freefall. Hanging on to reality, I focus on what I feel. Strong fingers scrape my scalp and warm palms grip my jaw, tilting my head just so. The rough scrape of his five o’clock shadow contrasts with the downy softness at his nape. His musky scent is like rich loam ready for planting.

Suddenly, I’m parched by a thirst that could only be slaked by this tall drink of water. When the bell dings, we separate instinctively, panting like we just boxed a full round. The pull is elemental, but some part of my frontal lobe kicks in to operate my legs and feet and remove my hormone-drunk self from his orbit.

It’s satisfying to see him look equally gob smacked as the elevator closes between us, but instead of strutting back to my room in triumph, I stare at the doors, second-guessing myself. Should I have asked him to join me? Or not have kissed him at all? A quiver of lust pings through me in answer.

Better to have kissed and lost than never to have kissed at all, as the poet said.

No use standing here in the hall letting the regrets pile up. Too late to change things. So I stumble in the direction of my room and dig for my key card.

CHAPTER 2SAM

I’m not sure how many floors it takes me to realize that I missed mine. I’m not even sure what floor we were on when Diane stepped out of my arms. The only thing I’m completely sure of? I haven’t taken a full breath since the doors closed between us. It feels like all the oxygen left when she did.

At some point, my hands take over, slapping the spots where I may have stashed my keycard. It probably wouldn’t hurt to slap myself in the face, but before I can, I find the card, blessedly still snuggled inside the little envelope with my room number written on it.

Then I slap my face. That may have been the best kiss of my life. But I can’t afford to take the relationship train right now. I don’t have time to fall for a girl who will inevitably dump me. I’m not equipped to deal with the emotional fallout when I’m left alone, yet again, for being too much of a workaholic, too boring, too distracted, too absent-minded. You name it, I've had a girl break up with me for it.

Not that I’ve even been with that many women, but every single one has found some deal breaking habit or behavior that sends me packing, whether we’ve been together for a couple weeks or a couple years.

And I can’t do one-night stands. I get too connected too fast, usually for the wrong reasons. I especially can’t do a one-night stand tonight. My boss warned me that tomorrow’s hearing will be boring as hell, so I need to get a good night’s sleep if I’m to be on tap to answer any scientific or technical questions the state assembly members might have.

I keep up this mantra—adding in the fact that I don’t know Diane’s last name, let alone which room she’s in, so seeing her again isn’t going to happen no matter how much I wish I could—all while tossing my portfolio on the desk and shucking off my suit jacket. Even after I roll up my sleeves, the room is unbearably stuffy, so I crank up the AC, grab the ice bucket, almost leave without my keys—the number of times I’ve had to beg a desk clerk to give me another key because I’ve locked myself out is embarrassingly high—but remember at the last second, and then go looking for the ice machine.

I can see another person scooping ice through the small window, and when the door creaks, she looks over her shoulder. My eyes skip over the petite, brown-eyed beauty I never thought I’d see again, from the fine strand of honey-blonde hair draped over a freckled cheek to the plump lips surrounding an ice cube.

An entire X-rated movie flashes through my mind starring those lips, my dick, and all the other things we could do with a bucket of ice.

Diane sucks the ice into her mouth to ask, “You following me?”

I shake my head, “No, no, I promise, I⁠—”

“Kidding.” She grins, tipping her chin at my bucket. “Machine out on your floor?”

“No. Uh… this is my floor.”

Her brows come together. “Then why didn’t you get off the elevator when I did?”

I snort. “I had no idea where I was when you stopped that kiss. If you’d asked me the date, who the president is… heck, I doubt I’d have been able to tell you my middle name.”

She tips her head to the side. “That was some kiss, huh?”

“How about another one?”

She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “I don’t think so.”

When I deflate, she laughs. “You kill me, Sam. I swear when you go from guard dog to defeated dog, you shrink six inches.”