We buzz in. Tessa answers while I murmur citations in her ear, my lips close enough to her skin that I can feel her shiver. She writes one-handed, the other still on my thigh, tossing olives into her mouth between answers.
We’re devastating together. Our minds work in complement—where she’s quick, I’m thorough; where I’m strategic, she’s intuitive. We don’t just answer questions; we demolish them.
Her thigh presses against mine with increasing insistence. My hand drops to her knee, fingers curling around it with a possessiveness I don’t try to hide. She doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans into the touch, her body canting toward mine.
It happens during a question about Miranda v. Arizona—she knows the answer, I can see it in her eyes, but instead of buzzing in immediately, she turns to me. Her lips form the words silently, that smirk playing at the corners of her mouth, and the look in her eyes is pure challenge. Pure invitation. Pure Tessa.
I’m not pretending anymore. I haven’t been since the moment I saw her in that alley with that dog. Maybe haven’t been since the day she left and took pieces of me with her.
And the way she’s looking at me—open, wanting, real—tells me maybe she’s not pretending either.
Maybe we’ve both been too scared to admit that some things don’t end just because you walk away. Some things follow you. Haunt you.
Her hand squeezes my thigh, bringing me back to the present, to the question hanging in the air.
“Miranda v. Arizona,” she says clearly, hitting the buzzer with her free hand. “1966. The right to remain silent and the right to counsel during interrogation.”
“Correct!”
She turns to me, triumphant, glowing with the kind of joy that makes her look like mine again.
Chapter Thirty
Rowan
There was never a version of this evening where we didn’t win this game. I don’t enter competitions to participate. I enter them to eliminate variables, and tonight, there were none left standing.
The applause that follows is polite enough to pass for sportsmanship as the moderator lifts our hands with forced enthusiasm. “Team King and Whitmore—undefeated.”
A bottle of expensive, aged scotch is placed in my hand. The label is understated in the way brands are when they assume you already understand the price. I rotate it once, reading the year, committing it to memory out of habit more than interest.
“Will you be sharing that?”
“No.”
Tessa snorts, but her smile doesn’t fade. She won something tonight, and it wasn’t just trivia.
“Mr. King, Miss Whitmore.” A woman in a navy blazer approaches with a practiced grin. “Chef Bastien would like to welcome you for your private tasting whenever you’re ready.”
I glance at Tessa.
She arches a brow. “Are you ready?”
Translation: she’s starving and will eat the napkins if I don’t say yes right now.
We follow the chef through a tucked-away corridor off the dining hall. The walls are darker here, lit by soft sconces. Everything feels quieter. Like we’ve stepped behind the curtain into someplace exclusive.
However, we are shocked when the private dining room comes into view.
It barely qualifies as a room.
One round table. Two high-backed chairs designed for people who enjoy being uncomfortable in expensive ways. Linen napkins. Flickering candlelight that’s definitely a fire hazard.
There’s an open view into the kitchen, where a tall, tattooed man in a black apron greets us with a single nod before returning to his work.
Tessa takes it all in with a soft smile. “This is dangerously romantic.”
“It’s a tax write-off with mood lighting,” I mutter.
