“Leaving already?”
“I see nothing escapes you,” I drawled flatly.
“Apparently, you escape me. Is trivia not your strong suit, Mr. Miller?”
Smirking, I tilted my head down to whisper in her ear. “Everything is my strong suit, Ms. Roth. You’d be wise to remember that.”
Straightening, I noticed there was a flicker of something in her face. Recognition? Confusion? Did she remember me? Whatever it was, it vanished, replaced by a frosty smile.
“Actually, your media management could use a few tweaks. I happen to be here with my business partner, Jillian, and our dream team, Hailey and Whitley. Give us a call after our case is over. We’ll give you some pointers.” Arya produced a black business card with rose-gold cursive lettering, shoving it into my hand. I caught the words Brand Brigade. Well, well. She had her own company. Then again, she also had a daddy who’d buy her a spaceship if she wanted to play astronaut.
“Thank you, Ms. Roth, but I’d rather get advice from the street person on the corner of Broadway and Canal, who shouts into a megaphone that aliens kidnapped him and he is now immortal.” I flicked her card straight to the trash can behind the bar.
“Good idea, Mr. Miller. He still understands more than you do about media management.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but I could tell by the glint in her eyes she wasn’t used to men looking at her like she was less than solid gold.
“You’re still here,” I sighed, when she made no move to stop blocking my way. “Please enlighten me as to why.”
“Did you see they assigned Judge Lopez to the lawsuit?” Arya’s eyelashes fluttered.
“I’m not discussing the case with you.”
I sidestepped her. At the last minute, she slipped her hand out to touch my bicep. The touch shot an arrow of heat straight to my groin. My body always had a way of betraying me where she was concerned.
“Stay,” she demanded, just as the reality TV dropout announced into the microphone that all groups needed to be registered and take a seat before the game began. “Let’s see what you’re worth.”
I stuffed my fists into my front pockets. “Whatever I’m worth, you can’t afford it.”
“Good. Show me what I’m missing.”
“I doubt you’ll be graceful in defeat.”
“I’m a pretty honorable person,” she argued.
I snorted. “Sweetheart, you and the word honor shouldn’t even be in the same zip code, let alone sentence.”
Arya turned around and walked away, her minions wobbling behind on stiletto heels.
“Riggs, sign us up, we’re staying,” I barked out. My eyes were still on Arya. Riggs moved toward the stage. I was sure whatever name he chose for our team was both offensive and at least a little sexually demeaning to women.
Reality TV Douche, who identified himself as Dr. Italian Stud (credentials unconfirmed), announced there were eight teams, including the S Team D, as Riggs had dubbed us.
Leave it to Riggs to associate me with genital herpes in front of someone I was supposed to see in court next week.
“I’d call you an idiot, but then idiots all over the world would take offense.” I turned to Riggs, resisting the urge to bash his head against the colonial table. I tried not to look at Arya, but it was hard. She was right there. Beautiful, shiny, and destructive. Like a human red button.
By the time the first few rounds were up, only four teams were left. There were Team Quizzitch, a group of tech bros in round reading glasses and trendy haircuts; Girl Squad, a bunch of college girls; the Sherlock Holmesgirls—that was Arya’s team—and Arsène, Riggs, and I.
The warm-up questions for the second round required the IQ of a beer sleeve. From naming the capital of the US to how many points a snowflake traditionally had. Despite the questions barely requiring two functioning brain cells, Girl Squad got kicked out next for not knowing which country The Sound of Music took place in, confusing Austria with Australia.
“Reminds me of that time you told a chick you had a BA in astronomy and she told you she was a Taurus and asked if it’s really true that they’re perfectionists,” Riggs ribbed Arsène, cackling.
Begrudgingly, and only to myself, I had to admit the Sherlock Holmesgirls were good. Arya and Jillian especially. Unfortunately for them, between Arsène and myself, they stood no chance. During holidays, when Arya had been working on her tan in Maui or skiing in Saint Moritz, Arsène would drag Riggs and me to the library at the academy, and we would read entire encyclopedias to burn time.
Forty minutes after the evening had begun, Team Quizzitch fell apart for getting the month Russians celebrated the October Revolution wrong (the answer was November), leaving us and the Sherlock Holmesgirls to go head-to-head.
“Things are heating up over here.” Dr. Italian Stud rubbed his palms together excitedly, speaking too close to the microphone onstage. He had enough hair wax to sculpt a life-size statue of LeBron James and teeth as big and white as piano keys. It didn’t help that he had the whole ripped-jeans-and-tacky-branded-designer-shirt look going on, his top clinging to a body that had seen more steroids than an ICU unit. I was still surprised he was literate enough to read the questions. “Holmesgirls, who do you think is going to win?” He turned to Arya, who sat all the way across the room.
She tucked flyaways of her chestnut hair behind her ears, and again, I found myself ogling. “We’ll win, no question about it.”
“What about you guys?” Dr. Stud forced himself to rip his gaze from Arya. Arsène shot him a pitying look.
“I’m not even going to grace that with an answer.”
By the look on Dr. Italian Stud’s face, I could tell his heart was firmly with the Holmesgirls, and so were other parts.
“All right, someone here is competitive. We’re entering the final round. Remember—one strike and you’re out. This is the money time. Or to be exact, the Denny’s voucher time! One hundred bucks, y’all!”