"Who is Britney Spears?"
My eyes rounded in shock as my trivia life flashed before my eyes. Fortunately, his sexy little smirk was telling. The lying liar.
"I'm kidding," he confirmed.
"Oh my God." With a hand to my chest, I pointed an accusing index finger toward his face. "Don't joke around like that. You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"A heart attack?" he questioned through a laugh. "What kind of trivia night is this?"
Hands spread on the table in front of me, I lowered my voice in an attempt to make it sound grave and wiped the smile off my face. "High-stakes trivia."
"What happens if we lose?"
"You don't want to know."
"Damn." Nick grinned again. "Are we going to make it out of here alive?"
"It depends." I shrugged. "But don't worry, I have faith in you."
"I'll do my best to make Fleetwood Mac's Sex Pants proud," he said as he reached his hand out to my shoulder and eased a strand of my hair from its unconventional place under my bra strap. I shivered ever so slightly from the delicious feel of his fingers brushing across my skin.
"Sorry," he apologized for some godforsaken reason. I wasn't sure which I enjoyed the most, his dry sense of humor and quick wit, his gorgeous fucking lips, or the delicious feel of his touch. "It was stuck."
"Grab your pencils, buffs. First question of the night," the MC announced without actually pausing to give anyone any time to get their shit together. That wasn't surprising, though. I came every week, and he was one of my favorite things about the whole ordeal. He had no time for bullshit. "How many seasons did Derek Shepherd appear on Grey's Anatomy?"
I picked up our pencil and stared at the number one spot on our answer sheet. "Okay … okay … I think it was ten seasons, but it might have been nine. Nine, ten, nine, ten. Shit, Charlotte," I muttered to myself manically, and then looked at Nick. "What do you think?"
"Well, considering I've never actually watched Grey's Anatomy, I think it's safe to say I have no fucking clue."
"What?" I asked on a near shout. "How have you never seen Grey's Anatomy? It's a show about goddamn doctors!"
He laughed. "Probably because I've spent the last fifteen years of my life actually in the OR."
"Holy moly." I sighed. "You need to get out more."
The tilt of his head was mocking. "You mean, stay in more."
"Now isn't the time to be a smartass," I snapped, and he just grinned in response.
"Fifteen seconds!" the MC shouted.
"Shit," I muttered and wracked my brain. I mean, pretty much everyone in Grey's Anatomy eventually dies, obviously, but I just needed to remember what season Dr. Shepherd bit Shonda Rhimes's death bullet. "Okay … I think it was nine … yeah, it was nine. Okay, yeah, I'm putting ten," I rambled and quickly jotted down my final answer.
"Time's up! Pencils down!"
As I set my pencil beside our answer sheet, Nick whispered, "Are you sure it wasn't eleven?"
"Shut up." I playfully slapped his shoulder, and he chuckled.
"Question number two! A little bit of sports trivia!"
"Oh, good," I whispered toward Nick. "You should be able to answer this one."
"Who has the most wins as a head coach in the NFL?" The mic squealed in annoyance as the MC announced the second question.
I picked up the pencil and stared at Nick, awaiting his response.
He smiled, took a sip of his beer, shrugged. What he didn't do was give me an answer.
"Do you know this one?" I asked, and he shook his head.
"Nope."
What the fuck? "Aren't men supposed to know, like, everything about sports?"
He shrugged. "Maybe, but I don't. Time in the OR, remember?"
"When was the last time you watched ESPN?"
"Uh … " He ran his hand across his jaw. "A few years ago, I guess."
"A few years ago? Haven't you heard of DVR?" I questioned with widened eyes. He had the good grace to laugh, even in the face of my insults. "Jesus Christ, I think we should probably start praying they ask medical questions."
He winked. "Good plan."
"Fleetwood Mac's Sex Pants are going to be so disappointed in you."
A hearty laugh left his lips, and I couldn't help but smile in return.
"Time's up!" the MC called out. "Pencils down!"
"Son of a bitch," I muttered. "We didn't even get an answer for that one."
Nick patted my shoulder. "Don't worry, trivia girl. We'll get the next one."
"If we do, it won't be because of any help from you." I tried to feign annoyance, but even playful anger slid from my features as if I were greased up like a slip and slide. All smiles here.
"Now, that," he said with a grin, "is probably one hundred percent accurate."
"I was hoping your trivia success rate matched your surgical success rate."
"Sorry, Charlotte. Looks like we're going to lose this one on the table."
I couldn't not giggle at that. "Don't talk like that! Get out the defibrillator! It'd be a damn shame if Fleetwood Mac's Sex Pants didn't live to see another day."
"I get it. I'm attached to this patient too."
"Then don't let FMSP die! Get in there!"
"FMSP?"
"It's getting too long to keep repeating," I admitted.
He moved his lips into a firm, serious line and slapped his hand on the table. "C'mon, Charlotte. We have to get it together here. In the name of freedom, liberty, and the pursuit of Fleetwood Mac's Sex Pants, we need to make our country proud and bring home the trivia trophy."
I narrowed my eyes and mimicked his stern expression. "Let's do it. Let's show these trivia bitches who's boss."
We talked a big game, but our follow-through was subpar at best.
The next twenty-three questions went the same as the first two, and by the end of the night, when the MC ran through all of the correct answers, we had only managed a whopping two out of twenty-five. Our only right answers revolved around my expertise in Harry Potter and Friends.
Question #12: "For Harry's birthday, what color did Hermione turn the leaves of the Weasley's crabapple tree?"
My correct answer: Gold.
Question #19: "What does Phoebe legally change her name to?"
My second correct answer: Princess Consuela Banana Hammock.
Nick, the fucking brain surgeon, was zero help. And when I say zero help, I literally mean zero help. The man was absolutely terrible at trivia.
But, despite the fact that he'd given Fleetwood Mac's Sex Pants a bad name, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had so much fun with someone.
Nick Raines might have sucked at trivia, but he sure as fuck had caught my attention.
The bar was dark, and the air felt thick as I shook the last of my Jack and Coke and tipped it to my lips.
Somewhere over the last five hours, Charlotte's skin had taken on a sheen that I couldn't stop analyzing. Was there glitter in her moisturizer that came out the longer the day went on, or did she have a natural glow? Did it taste salty like sweat, or would it be as sweet as her smell? I'd become accustomed to the fragrant lavender, sitting in the aura of it as it permeated off of her, and now that it was time to go, I wondered if I'd notice the difference as soon as it was gone.
"I guess we have to go, huh?" Charlotte mused, jerking her head toward the bartender who looked like he wanted to wait for us assholes to get the fuck out about as much as I wanted an ice pick to the brain.
I knew from experience, ice picks to the brain weren't good.
Brain surgeon, remember?
"Looks like it. Looks like he might find a gypsy to curse us if we don't leave soon."
Charlotte rolled her eyes. "It's only eleven p.m. If he's upset about closing this late, he probably shouldn't be in bartending."
"It is a Wednesday. Maybe he's got more patience on the weekends," I excused.
"Maybe." She shrugged and smirked as she put the rim of her wine glass to her peach-colored lips.
I couldn't even tell you when we'd switched from beer. Frankly, we'd been so busy talking, I didn't even know how many drinks I'd had. Good thing I wasn't driving.
"Maybe he needs to be slapped by a dick."
A startled bark of laughter left my lips, and I reached for her glass. "Okay, maybe you've had enough of these."
"I just miss the pretty blonde," she muttered dejectedly, and I laughed again. I didn't know who she was talking about, but the pretty blonde I knew was still sitting in front of me making adorably tipsy threats of genital violence.
"What pretty blonde?"
"The one behind the bar. She gave me our first beers and no attitude." She snapped her fingers and struck an imaginary line in the air. "That's what I like in a bartender. Fast alcohol and limited lip."