I pause, drawing out the suspense. “I want to kill you at F?R?I?E?N?D?S Trivial Pursuit.”
There’s a beat of silence before a shocked laugh bursts from his chest. “Is that right? Well, I have to warn you—I’m not the type who’ll let you win just because you’re a girl.”
Aww, his overconfidence is cute. Misguided, but cute. “And I’m not the type who’ll let a guy win just to boost his ego.”
His eyes glimmer with amusement. “The wager?”
I think for a minute before a light bulb blinks on. “If I win, Brawler has to print something complimentary about Siren.”
He lets out a low whistle, nodding approvingly as if to say, Well played. “Ruthless. And if I win . . .”
“You won’t.”
The corner of his mouth hooks up. “When I win,” he amends, and when he reaches out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear, it takes all my willpower not to shiver. “You let me kiss you.”
This time I’m the one letting out a strangled laugh. “Jack, come on.”
“What? That kiss is happening and you know it. Third date, remember?” he says and wags his brows, like I need to be reminded of this looming disaster.
I narrow my eyes. “Sounds like a waste of a wager, then.”
“Call it insurance.”
Our gazes lock and he lifts his chin, a determined glint in his eye. He’s daring me to back down, even as his lips curve into the confident smirk of a man who knows he’s irresistible. And I’m sure history’s on his side, because what woman could ever resist those eyes, that face, these lips?
I break eye contact first, sighing dramatically. “Fine. This whole thing is moot anyway, because when it comes to Friends trivia, I can’t be beat.”
“And by that, I assume you mean it’s a ‘moo point.’ Also known as a cow’s opinion.”
Shit, I may have underestimated him. “I see what you did there, but I’m still not afraid of you.” I follow him back into the living room while he pulls the game box from the cabinet.
“?‘There’s such a thing as too cocky,’?” he tosses over his shoulder, using my own words against me.
“So you watched a lot of Friends growing up?” I ask him, kicking off my kitten heels and getting comfortable on his couch—and holy moly, is this thing comfortable. It’s not cold or stiff like the leather couches I’m used to, but soft and supple and beautifully broken in. I sink into it like a cloud and suppress the urge to yawn. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness never met this couch.
“Actually, no. I probably caught an episode or two growing up, but I really hadn’t seen it much until college, when Tom got me into it. I guess his sisters were obsessed with it, so he always had it on, said it reminded him of home. Did you know he has three sisters?” He takes a seat next to me on the couch and starts pulling out the game pieces.
“He does?” I exclaim much too loudly, and Jack casts me a funny look. “I mean, no.”
How can a guy with three sisters be so crude and sexist? Make it make sense!
“Huh,” I comment blandly. I don’t get it. When it comes to Tom, I have more questions than answers.
Once we’ve picked our game pieces (Chandler’s vest for me, Monica’s turkey head for him) and gotten our cheese wedges ready, Jack hands me the dice.
“Ladies first,” he offers generously.
I roll the special dice and it lands on blue, which apparently corresponds to Seasons 7–8, and I shake out my neck. I’ve got this.
Jack draws a card. “In the episode where Rachel is pregnant and feeling ‘erotically charged,’ she goes to a doctor’s appointment and flirts with her OB-GYN. What is the doctor’s name?”
I blanch. “Are you serious? How is anyone supposed to know that? He was a minor side character! Does he even have a name?”
He smiles condescendingly. “Do you need to forfeit?”
Grr. “No. Um, let’s see, he had brown hair. I can picture him, that cute guy. It’s the Evander Holyfield episode.” Jack pointedly checks his watch. “Uh, Dr. . . .” I hem and haw, hoping for a lightning strike, but I’m coming up empty.
“Dr. Cute Guy?” he says seriously.
“Oh, shut up. I don’t know, Dr. . . . Smith?” I toss out uselessly. Pathetic.
“Wrong, but you’re actually not too far off. It’s Dr. Schiff.”
I throw up my hands, huffing in frustration. Jack smirks and takes his turn to roll while I grab a card.
“Okay, yellow. Your question is: Where did Chandler claim to be moving so he wouldn’t have to get back together with Janice?” I slam the card down on the coffee table. “Are you kidding me with this? That’s so easy! Did you rig these?”
“Yemen,” Jack says immediately, grabbing a yellow wedge for his cheese wheel.
“These are stupid, unfair questions,” I grumble as he goes to roll again.
“Hey, don’t blame the questions,” Jack mimics in a spot-on Ross impression, and I laugh in spite of myself.
Our back-and-forth continues in this vein, and I succeed in learning something new about Jack: He’s a competitive trash talker. Not exactly useful for my article, but entertaining all the same. He also knows way more Friends trivia than I thought he would. I have the edge, but it ain’t by much. Once it becomes clear that I’ll be coming out the victor (to my relief and his chagrin), I prepare to make my move.
I select a card and pretend to read. “What is Jack Bradford’s biggest regret?”
His brows draw together. “That can’t possibly be what it says.”
I exhale loudly and flick the card at him like a Frisbee. “I’m ready for some Jack trivia,” I tell him, and he makes a face. “What? I feel like you know all this stuff about me—heck, you’ve already met my family—and I only know superficial things about you. I’ve learned more from Google than the horse’s mouth.”
He looks disturbed. “Please do not google me.”
“Fine, I won’t . . . again.”
He groans and lets his head fall back against the couch.
“I don’t know what you’re so worried about, it’s not like there’s anything to find. Anything real, anyway.”
He peeks one eye open, lolling his head toward me.
“Come on, spill it. Every time I ask you a personal question, you . . . well, you pivot.” I smirk and lean over to grab my glass of wine from the coffee table.
“Do I? I don’t mean to. I guess I’ve spent so long trying to protect my privacy and stay out of the news that I don’t always realize when it’s doing more harm than good.” He sits up and rolls his shoulders, like a runner limbering up. “I’m an open book. For you, at least.” He flashes me an easygoing grin and I feel that familiar pang again: guilt. “What do you want to know?”