Page 34 of The Thing About My Rival

“I’ll gettwowine lists.” The server’s knowing smile says it all.

It’s not like I haven’t seen those veined, muscular forearms lately. He wears T-shirts all the time. But there’s something somehow a bit more…stirring…about them being slowly revealed below the folded-back cuffs of a dress shirt.

The stirring is only further encouraged by the way he grabs the back of the chair to pull it out with one hand, while pushing the fingers of the other through his hair—hair that looks like he’s spent some time arranging, as opposed to the just-out-of-bed look he sports at work. And by the way his khakis hug his thighs and sit snugly around his…area.

My brain must not put Hugo and beds andareasin the same thought again. Never.

He sits down and hitches the chair closer to the table. “Were you about to order without me?” he asks with the irritatingly dazzling smile that has graced a thousand newsstands.

The couple two tables over look at him, then give each other a yes-it’s-him nod.

“I’d given up on you,” I tell him, now unsure whether it’s better or worse that he’s shown up.

“We might as well make the best of it, right?” He takes the wine list from the reappearing server.

“Exactly what I thought. But now you’ve arrived and ruined it.”

He ignores me and flips the wine list open. “Red or white?”

“Red.”

“We’ll have a bottle of the Laughing Penguin Cabernet, please,” he tells the server.

“Excellent choice, sir,” the server replies. Presumably he says the same to everyone no matter what they choose.

“You’ll like it, Wilcox,” he says. “Promise.”

“You’re a wine expert?”

“Nope. I’m ayouexpert.”

“Hardly,” I scoff. “We’ve barely known each other a week. And it seems like neither of us likes what we’ve found.”

The server returns and pours a glug of wine into Hugo’s glass.

“Actually, I know nothing about wine. But a friend of a friend owns this vineyard. So I always support them when I see their name on a wine list.” He picks up the glass and rests the rim between his lips.

Lips that I have kissed.

A tremor blooms in my chest at the memories.

Why did I have to kiss him?

Because I was tipsy, and happy, and having a great night, and I thought kissing the ridiculously good-looking celebrity soccer dude with the shoulders and the arms and the butt and the legs and the face…oh my God, the face…would be fun. And it was.

Until he tumbled out of the closet and instantly passed out on the floor.

And clearly groping strangers in closets is such an everyday occurrence in the life of Hugo Powers that he doesn’t even remember.

Or if he does remember, it’s so insignificant to him that he doesn’t think it needs to be addressed.

It’s hard to believe all that actually happened with the person sitting opposite me who’s telling the server that the wine is good and he can pour.

Hugo holds up his glass toward me as soon as the server leaves. “Cheers.”

I raise mine and give it a reluctant tap against his.

He takes a sip, then tips his head toward the wine, nodding to acknowledge his fine choice.

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