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Sam grabbed her wrist and her gaze flew to his, startled by his intense expression.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Do not play that game. Not with me.”
It’s not a game.
She tugged her hand back, and he released her arm but not her eyes. Riley took a deep breath. It was time.
“I said I was here because I needed a favor …”
His expression never changed. “Anything.”
Her heart flipped a little at that. “It’s um … a little more personal than my usual favors. This isn’t a ride home, or a lesson on the difference between screwdrivers, or help moving furniture.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. “How personal?”
Riley licked her lips. “Kind of
as personal as you can get.”
He warily came around the bar, settling on one of the barrels next to her, although keeping a safe distance between them. “Why don’t you start at the beginning.”
And then Riley was telling him everything. Well, not everything. Just the part about Stiletto’s anniversary issue, and how she was supposed to tell the truth behind the story. How she was supposed to write about something personal.
He nodded slightly when she was done. “Okay, I get it. They want all of the writers to give a more personal account for this issue. But I’m not getting what that has to do with me.”
Here we go, here we go …
“Well, my articles are mostly about … sex.”
He rolled his eyes. “I know. I think the entire city knows.”
“Well, that’s kind of my problem,” she continued quietly. “Julie and Grace, even Emma … it’s easier for them to make their stories more personal.”
“More personal than sex?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Nope.”
“Come on,” she said, exasperated. “You’re a guy. You should know more than anyone that sometimes sex is just … sex. There’s plenty to talk about and nothing to talk about all at the same time.”
“No offense, Ri, but I’m pretty sure you might be better off having this conversation with your friends or your sisters.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said stubbornly. “Because they can’t have sex with me.”
And there it was.
Riley braced herself.
She’d run through the list of possible reactions. Laughter. Yelling. Swooning, maybe.
In none of her possible scenarios would he calmly take another sip of his drink, and even more calmly deliver a calm, quiet response. “No.”
“Hear me out.”
“No need.”
“Sam.” Her hand found his knee, and they both froze. His eyes went first to her fingers before they moved up to meet hers.
