Before I can ask if he indeed has a farmer’s daughter—I mean, I don’t see a ring on his finger, but you never know—another man in a suit steps up behind us. “Sam, you forgot your portfolio.”
Sam groans as he takes it and sets it down on the bar. “Thanks, John. As my grandma would say, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
John’s gaze immediately zeroes in on my breasts. “Who do we have—”
Before he can finish, Sam slaps him on the shoulder so hard that John stumbles slightly. “Thanks again. See you next week.”
With a sleazy grin, John backs up. “Yeah, sure man. Got it. You got here first.”
I swear Sam growls as he watches the man walk away, and when he turns back to me, he’s frowning. “Can I just apologize for me and every other male out there?”
Laughing, I say, “Anytime.”
He gestures at my half-finished meal. “Please, don’t mind me. Eat.”
I slump back in my seat. “I think I’m done.”
“Which jerk ruined your appetite?”
“It’s not them. This always happens with pasta at a restaurant. I can never get to the bottom of it. Plus, I’m a little nervous about a presentation I have to make tomorrow.”
“Well, if you’re not going to finish it, I will.”
“Do you want a menu?”
“Nah.” He hooks a thumb in the direction of the restaurant. “I had a work dinner, but I grew up with four siblings on my grandparents’ farm. Hate to see food go to waste.”
I slide the plate over and pepper him with questions about the farm. As he eats, I learn that they grow soybeans in the Catskills, and the farm’s been in the family for generations.
“Do you work in agriculture?” he asks. “You seem to know a lot about it.”
“I do.” The reason I’m in this bar instead of holing up in my hotel room rears its head again. “I really don’t feel like talking about work, though.”
He lifts his beer. “Amen to that.”
As the bartender refills his water glass, Sam asks for extra ice. I should ask for the check and head back to my room, but I’ve never been one to do what’s expected of me. “How about a game instead? I’m obsessed with this new trivia app I found.”
He narrows his eyes at me, and for the first time, I can’t quite read him. “Which app?”
“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.”
