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e sake of a story, or the fact that you chose me?”
“Oh, I’m used to the first one,” she said cheekily, clinking her glass against his. “Occupational hazard.”
“That’s what hookers say about STDs.”
She tilted her head. “Well, great news, Compton. It’s about to become not your problem.”
Sam studied her carefully, obviously searching for her angle. He got a little crease between his eyebrows that told her he couldn’t figure it out.
“Why are you really here, Ri? Was your tactic to apologize first to wrangle a corresponding apology out of me? Fine. I’ll apologize for leaving you in that hotel room like I did. But we both know it’s best that I did. It never should have gotten that far in the first place.”
It took all of Riley’s self-control not to smirk. The horse was being led right to the water, and he had no idea.
“Exactly.” She reached forward and pressed her fingers to the back of his hand briefly, pulling back before he had a chance to suspect the touch was anything other than friendly and instinctive.
This entire plan depended on him believing that she wasn’t the least bit attuned to him.
“It’s weird, isn’t it?” she mused. “That after so long of having that weird simmering-tension thing between us, when we were on the verge of actually doing something about it we realized it was all smoke and mirrors.”
Sam blinked. Blinked again. “Wait. What?”
“You know,” she said, wrinkling her nose and waving her hand. “The awkwardness of that whole evening. I was so sure it would be explosive, and instead it was just weird.”
He recovered quickly. She’d known he would. “Right. It was …”
“Kind of like kissing your sister?” she supplied.
His eyes fell on her mouth for just a split second before looking away. “Sure. Aren’t you glad now that I stopped it? Even under bad circumstances?”
“So glad. Which is why I hate to be in this awkward situation of asking for another favor …”
She winced as though dreading the question she had to ask next.
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “Another favor? I don’t have to get naked for this one, do I?”
“Not unless you want to.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“So every year, the company that owns Stiletto likes to make believe that it isn’t located in the middle of the country’s urban center and hosts this nightmare known as the annual softball tournament.”
He frowned. “Softball? In Manhattan?”
“Central Park. Anyway, this year, Stiletto is paired up against Oxford.”
“The guy magazine with all the stupid advice?”
“Right. So all the employees are strongly encouraged to bring a plus-one to ensure enough players for each team.”
“Well, I guess it’s a damn good thing you’ve got an older brother who played baseball in high school and college.”
“See, usually that is a good thing. Except when said brother is out of the country, and the game is on Saturday.”
Sam swore softly. “Right. That damn Amsterdam thing.”
“Yup.”
“What about Patrick?”
