Her pulse skipped into overdrive. She’d sat with Sam so many times like this over the years, that she’d almost—almost—forgotten the reason they were here.
She felt him studying her.
“You’re jumpy,” he said. “For someone who does this for a living …”
“Now hold on there,” she snapped. “I don’t do this for a living. I write about sex for a living, I don’t have sex for a living. There’s a huge difference.”
“Is there?”
You have no idea. “Yes. One’s a journalist and one’s a hooker.”
“You’d make a terrible hooker,” he muttered.
“Taking that as a compliment.”
“Wasn’t meant as one. You’d be an awful prostitute because you’re too mouthy.”
She gave him a hooded look. “Mouthy’s a bad thing?”
Sam merely rolled his eyes. “Leave it to the sex journalist to pounce on double entendres.”
Riley refused to let herself scowl. He wasn’t at all acting like a man overcome with lust. Instead he was acting like a slightly disgruntled friend who’d been asked for a favor. In fact, she’d seen this version of Sam a number of times before. For example, when he’d grudgingly helped her move. Or when he came over to fix her garbage disposal because her landlord was in Russia.
“Tell me something,” she said, turning in her seat to face him.
He grunted and tipped his whisky to his mouth. “I don’t suppose I have the option to pass?”
She ignored this. “What would you normally be doing right now?”
“You mean on an average Friday night when I haven’t been roped into the worst idea in the history of sex?”
“You won’t think it’s such a bad idea when you see my black lacy lingerie.”
He choked. “Seriously?”
She gave a little cat smile. So he wasn’t immune. Good. “I mean what would you be doing right now if you were on a real date with someone else?”
He signaled for another drink. “I’d be doing what most guys do with a hot woman. Trying to get into her pants.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “On the first date?”
“Always worth a shot.”
She was intrigued in spite of herself. “Does it usually work?”
“Sometimes—if the mood’s right. More often it’s laying the groundwork for whatever date she will sleep with me.”
“So it’s all about sex.”
His eyes flicked to hers. “Pretty much.”
“But not with Hannah.”
He groaned. “We are not talking about the ex-wife.”
“You never want to talk about her,” she said, taking a sip of her drink and trying to disguise just how badly she wanted the details on his failed marriage.
“That’s because we were married for all of, like, twelve minutes. I’m surprised you even noticed.”