chapter nine
RILES
Peanut butter!
Pressing my back to the cabin door, I fan my face with my hand, cheeks burning, heart thumping.
What in God’s name was that?
I consider going back in there to make up an excuse for the hot mess I just was, but I flee to the Vista Lounge instead, ready to play trivia.
Hopefully, general knowledge questions will reset my brain, because it certainly requires a reboot.
My cerebrum needs to focus on Nobel Peace Prize winners, one-hit wonders, and ancient cities of the world.
Not impeccable lines, sun-kissed skin, and a sumptuous happy trail leading down to—
Why didn’t I knock? Jesus, Riley!
Taking a seat after ordering myself a health juice, I suck in a mouthful of pureed beets, apple, and pomegranate, then settle back into the plush club chair, my heart rate finally easing, the fire in my cheeks no longer ablaze with embarrassment.
Gosh, it’s been a while since I’ve seen a wet, mostly naked man in the flesh, my unusually voracious hands itching to explore every bump and groove, my typically subdued body screaming for a release I didn’t realize it needed.
And boy did he have some delicious bumps and grooves.
Peanut butter, peanut butter, peanut butter!
I swallow my fruity mouthful and fan my face again, this time with the trivia game sheet, when I notice a couple of flustered women sitting by the windows and doing the same thing, no doubt for entirely different reasons than mine.
Then again, who knows? Maybe they too just came face to face with a freshly showered man barely wrapped in a towel.
Swiftly placing the sheet of paper down, I set the pencil on top and gather my bearings.
“Two more minutes,” the trivia host singsongs into his microphone.
I welcome his jovial distraction as he enthusiastically dances around the lounge area, welcoming passengers of various ages, some in teams of six or more.
My solitary ass is going to get royally kicked, especially if he asks questions about geography or sports other than basketball. I can hold my own with music, movies, and literature, but ask me what the capital of Norway is, and I’m bound to write No Clueville.
“Are you on your own, dear?” an elderly lady sitting at the table beside me asks. “Because if you are, you’re more than welcome to join us.”
I’m about to take her up on her kind offer, when Riley plops down into the chair opposite me.
“Oh, never mind,” she adds. “Good luck!”
“Thanks, you too.” I chew the inside of my cheek before giving him a curt nod. “Glad to see you put some clothes on.”
“Only because you asked me to.” He drapes his arm across the back of the chair and casually surveys the room, as if what happened back at the cabin didn’t happen at all. “Looks like we’ve got some stiff competition.”
Grateful he’s not making a big deal of the hot mess, and also a little shocked he wants to join in, I ask, “You’re gonna play with me?”
“Sure.” His eyebrow hitches seductively, and my insides curl.
So much for not making a big deal.
I curse my treacherous insides and narrow my gaze, needing to change the subject. “Do you know the capital of Norway?”
“I do.”
“Well… what is it?”
“Oslo.”
I have no idea if he’s correct or not.
“Did I pass?” He winks confidently, so I assume he’s right.
“Yes.”
“Do you always run an aptitude test for potential partners?”
I snatch up the game sheet, tap it on the tabletop, and then set it down again. “The stakes are high, so yes.”
“What are the stakes?”
“That.” I nod toward the gold plastic ship-replica trophy sitting on top of the piano beside the host. “I want it.”
“Whyyy?”
“Because it’s the prize for winning.”
“You do realize you can buy one in the gift shop, right?”
“You can’t. Not gold ones.” I rub my hands together greedily. “Plus, we get bragging rights.”
“For winning trivia?”
“Yes. Don’t you want to win?”
“Honestly, I don’t care. It’s supposed to be about having fun.”
“Exactly! We’ll have more fun if we win, so pay attention.” I collect the pencil, ready to write a team name on the sheet of paper, when I pause.
“So what are we calling ourselves?” he asks.
“I-I don’t know. The Unfortunates?”
Riley chuckles. “Nah. Too negative.”
“What do you suggest then, smarty-pants?”
“How ’bout R‘n’R?”
“Rest and relaxation?” I scrunch my nose—his team name is awful.
Riley bends his elbow, supporting his head with his hand, his fingers partially covering his eyes. “No. Not rest and relaxation. Who in their right mind would call themselves that?”
“No one!”
“Exactly.”
“Do you mean Rock ‘n’ Roll? Because that’s not too bad, I guess.”
“No.” He belly-laughs. “Riley ‘n’ Riley.”
“Ohhh!” I bite my lip, suppressing my idiocy, then jot the name down and scoot forward, ready for the first question.
“Maybe I should’ve ran an aptitude test on you,” he mutters.
“Maybe you should zip it so I can hear.”
He runs his pinched fingers across his lips, pretending to seal them.
I sneer.
“Okay, trivia buffs, my name is Carlos, and I’m your daily trivia host. Woot!
” Carlos pumps the air with his fist. “Don’t forget to write your team name on the top of the sheet.
And no cheating. Cell phones in pockets, and your arms will remain in their sockets.
” He gives us all a playfully menacing look. “Are you ready?”
We call out, “Yes!” and he drums his hands on top of the piano he’s standing next to. “First question: Which singer’s real name is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta?”
“Ooh. That’s easy.” I scribble down Lady Gaga, pleased we’re off to a good start.
Riley leans forward and assesses my answer, but he doesn’t have to, because I know I’m right. So I flip the page over so no other teams can see what I’ve written and then smugly sip my juice. One question down, nineteen to go.
Carlos hums “Poker Face” while waiting for everyone to finish answering the question, and I roll my eyes, annoyed.
“He’s giving it away,” I grouch. “That’s so unfair.”
“Ease up, Riles. It’s just a game.”
“No, it’s a competition.”
He scoffs. “Let me guess… you were Homecoming Queen?”
I clench my jaw. “No.”
“Class President?”
Damn it!
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Thought as much.”
I continue sipping my juice, ignoring him.
“Next question,” Carlos announces. “According to Greek Mythology, who was the first woman on earth?”
I flip the page quicker than a fish flips out of water and I jot down Pandora.
Riley leans forward, assessing my answer again. “You sure?”
“A hundred percent.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle, and I have to look away. They’ll distract me, and I want that damn trophy.
“Question number three. What is the chemical symbol for iron? And I’ll give you a clue.” Carlos places his hands on his hips. “It’s not I-R.”
Pencil to paper again, my hand pauses.
Crap! I hated Chemistry.
“Cat got your fingers?” Riley asks.
“No. And it’s cat got your tongue,” I say, correcting him, “not fingers.”
He gently slides the pencil from my hand, his knuckles momentarily brushing mine, before he writes down Fe.
Fe? Wouldn’t that be Fluorine or something?
“Are you sure?” I ask, tempted to scribble it out.
He stares me down, much like I had him, and mimics my previous response. “A hundred percent.”
I snatch the pencil back and point it at him. “You better be.”
He chuckles. “I am.”
“Because if you’re not, you need to tell me.”
“Trust me. It’s correct. My sister was a middle school science teacher.”
“Really?”
He nods.
Curious about his personal life, I ask, “How many siblings do you have?”
“Just the one. Veronica… Roni. She’s two years older.”
“Are the two of you close?”
“The closest.”
My heart warms at the sincerity in his eyes. “That’s lovely.”
“How about you? Any brothers or sisters?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m an only child.”
At least I think I am. Who knows if the sperm donor that is my biological father donated more sperm?
“Are we ready for question number four?” Carlos asks.
Everyone in the lounge, except Riley, shouts, “Yes!” and I wonder why he’s taking part if he’s not overly into it.
Carlos’s eyes widen with exaggeration. “Eager bunch, aren’t you? I like it. Okay. What bones are babies born without?”
Glancing to my left out the window, blue ocean as far as the eye can see, I try to recall if I’ve ever heard of boneless babies, which I haven’t.
Again, Riley’s knuckles gently graze mine as he takes the pencil out of my hand and scrawls Kneecaps.
“How on earth do you know that?” I blurt.
His sparkling crinkly eyes return, but this time, they’re not as animated, instead serene. Somewhat desolate. “I just do. And I have a niece, remember?”
“Oh, yeah. The one you drug to go to sleep.”
“That’s the one.”
“What’s her name?”
“Poppy.”
“That’s sweet. I love floral names.”
“So does my sister. She has a cat named Marigold and a car she calls Lavender.”
I laugh. “Is it purple?”
“The cat? No.”
“Not the cat, the car.” I roll my eyes when I realize he was messing with me.
“Yes.” He chuckles. “The car is purple.”
His sister sounds fun, unlike her irritating brother.
“This next question is for all you sweet tooths,” Carlos says, singling out a child as he points his microphone in her direction after he asks, “Do you like chocolate?”
She nods emphatically.
“I don’t have any, sorry.”
The girl pouts, and I feel sorry for her, until Carlos pulls a Hershey’s bar out of his pocket and tosses it to her. “Just kidding.” He winks, then adds, “The next question is… what is the rarest M&M color in a standard packet?”
Pulling an I’m-not-sure face, I look to Riley, and he does the same.
“Well, there’s red ones, orange, yellow, green, blue, and brown,” I declare, picturing them in my head.
“Always bet on red,” he tells me.
“Isn’t the saying ‘always bet on black’?”
“Is there a black M&M?”
“No.”
“So bet on red.”
“But brown is the closest color to black.”
“It’s not ‘always bet on brown,’” he deadpans.