She’d worn lip balm That Night. Peppermint had never been an aphrodisiac but it was now.
Her hair was pinned up, one little almost-black curl escaping at her temple to rest against her cheek. That Night, her hair had been twisted out in tight curls, and the fading light outside the dive bar where they’d met had picked out dark and light brown, and every shade in between, copper and umber and russet.
They’d talked in that bar. Then they’d gone to her place. They’d done more than talk.
How was she here, at an industry conference in Texas? Yes, of course people could cross state lines. But what kind of coincidence would bring the woman he’d shared one perfect night with in a coastal California town to the hotel where he was being introduced as the spokesman for Aunt Belle’s business?
Does it matter? You looked for her, and she’s landed in your lap.
A rush of exultant satisfaction ran through him, the same satisfaction he used to feel when he ran a winning play.
I found her.
The applause distracted him. He only took his eyes off her for a second, but that was enough time. When he swiveled back to the spot she’d stood, his mystery woman had vanished.
Samson was so busy searching the audience, he barely noticed as William took the mic from him, wrapped up the presentation, and led him offstage. Matchmaker’s CEO patted his shoulder. “Nice job. You okay, Lima? You look a little pale. Don’t want you getting sick like your aunt.”
The edge in the words told Samson the man had realized Annabelle Kostas wasn’t exactly sick, and he snapped to attention, braced to defend her. Aunt Belle marched to her own drummer, and sometimes that drummer—or her horoscope—dictated her actions. “I’m fine.” Narrator: He was not fine.
“Good.” William directed him through the crowd. They smiled and nodded at some guests, and then paused at a pretty redhead dressed in a form-fitting blue dress. “Hello, Helena.”
“William.” The woman beamed at Samson, barely glancing at the CEO. “Mr. Lima, my name is Helena Knight. I host Good Night Live.”
“Of course, I’m familiar. Please call me Samson. Nice to meet you.” It took every amount of discipline he had to keep his gaze fixed on hers. He was here for work, for family. He couldn’t shirk those things, not even for That Night.
Helena was important. Television people were important. Not as important as social media influencers, according to the earnest Matchmaker PR guy who had briefed him, but given his internet-light life for the last decade, Samson barely understood what an “influencer” was.
“What an adorable campaign,” Helena said, batting her eyes. She was flirting with him. He needed to flirt back. That was basically what this gig was all about, wasn’t it? Getting paid to flirt with America.
“Thank you” was all he could cobble together.
William cleared his throat in warning, but Helena didn’t seem to take offense to Samson’s stilted reply. “I can’t believe I’m meeting the Lima Charm.”
Samson’s smile tightened, but he relaxed it. That nickname. With his emergence into the public eye, he’d been prepared to hear it again, of course, but it was still a shock. The locals in the sleepy coastal town he’d grown up in and lived in for the past nine years had been so used to the Lima family, they hadn’t called him anything but Sam or Samson or “the Lima boy.”
Better this nickname than the other one, though.
“I’m a huge fan, and your father and uncle were my heroes.” Helena waved her wineglass. “I’m sure you hear this all the time.”
“I don’t get tired of it. Thank you. They were my heroes as well.” It was an automatic, harmless half lie. So many people had grown up watching his father and uncle on the field any given Sunday. Aleki and Iosefa “Joe” Lima were immortal legends in the minds of football fans of a certain age. No need to tarnish their memories with an explanation of his complicated feelings about his father.
“Will you be at the Matchmaker open house tomorrow?” Helena asked.
“I will, yes. As well as a panel discussion in the morning on modern dating.” A topic on which he planned to stay mostly silent. He’d prepped for this gig, and could spout all sorts of information about Matchmaker, but theoretical knowledge was one thing. He’d been single and entirely celibate for almost five years before That Night. A modern Lothario, he was not.
“Well, I’m interviewing Annabelle in the afternoon, so hopefully I’ll see you around. I’d love to talk to you more.” Helena gave William a concerned look. “Annabelle will be well enough for the interview, won’t she? I know this was a last-minute addition to her schedule.”
“I’ll make sure of it. Can you both excuse me for a second? I have to catch someone before they leave.” William smiled at him and Helena and walked away.
Helena took a step closer and Samson knew what was coming after the second word. People had a very specific careful tone of voice they used when addressing the grieving. “I was so sorry to hear about your uncle. Please accept my condolences.”
The shaft of pain was fresh. Uncle Joe had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s nine years ago, and Samson had moved in with him. The older man had been hit with another diagnosis, ALS, five years ago, and Samson had officially become his full-time caretaker.
He’d known that his uncle would one day die, that there was no cure for what he’d had. But the end had still stunned Samson. “Thank you for your sympathy. I appreciate—” A flash of black and red in the corner of his eye had him swiveling his head, hope and desire brimming up inside him, his resolve to focus on business vanishing.
The woman had her back to him as she walked briskly toward a door with a neon Exit sign above it, but he knew it was her.
“Can you excuse me?” he murmured to Helena, his body already turning away.
“Of course. See you tomorrow.”
As if she felt him stalking her, the woman glanced over her shoulder when she got to the exit, and though the ballroom was crowded, he could see no one but her. He smiled at her, so thrilled and relieved, but then he stopped dead in his tracks. Her lovely face was no longer expressionless.
Oh, no. Here was an expression.
Fury.
She was mad. Wildly, incandescently mad.
Guilt rammed into him with all the force of a Mack truck. Yeah, she was mad. She had every right to be, didn’t she?
He’d only been on Crush for a day when they’d matched. His well-meaning friends had pressured him to sign up, and her sunlit bikini-clad body in her profile picture had dissolved his wariness. She’d made it clear when she’d sat down across from him in that bar what she wanted. I’m in town for a couple days. You’re hot. We can have fun for a night.
It had been more than fun. Sliding inside her had been damned near a religious experience. He could still hear her moans and sighs in his ear as he’d stripped her jeans and sweatshirt and faded Metallica T-shirt off. And beyond the sex, he’d been intrigued. By her beauty, her secrets, her clear intelligence and subtle arrogance.
So he’d dared to ask for another night, got her to agree. He’d left her place that morning feeling a connection that he’d missed for so long, that bone-deep comfort that came from holding another human close.