“Maybe.”

Dammit. That is not what I wanted to say. Thankfully, I’m given a few seconds to recover when the dark-haired woman Mason was with comes over.

“I go to the bathroom and come back to you all gone,” she says, and Mason turns, wrapping an arm around her. “I knew you were a sore loser.”

“I am not,” Mason says back, pulling her hips to his. He doesn’t introduce us, and I get the feeling it’s because he’s not sure what this woman’s name is. “Come on, let’s play another round.”

The dark-haired woman nods and shifts her gaze to Lauren, waiting for her and Sam to follow.

“Go without me,” Sam says.

“Get us a table,” Mason tells him, whisking both the dark-haired woman and Lauren away, but not before Lauren can give me a final scowl. They leave, and the sounds of the bar wash over me again. Has it always been this loud?

“You’re here alone?” Sam closes the distance between us, leaning on the bar. I’m sitting on the barstool again, nervously stirring my drink. Why do his eyes have to sparkle like that? And why couldn’t he have shaved this morning? That stubble on his face only draws my attention to his perfectly sharp jawline.

“Does that surprise you?” I ask coyly, surprising myself a bit. Who is this girl being all flirty with Sam fucking Harris?

“It does,” he goes on, leaning a little closer, making my heart speed up. “I didn’t think you’d be the type to go to bars alone.”

“The type?” I put my straw between my lips and take a drink—successfully, I should add. I don’t choke or dribble anything down my face this time. “And what type is that?”

Sam smirks. “The type who arrives alone but has no intention of leaving the same way.”

One-night stands aren’t my thing. The closest I’ve had to one is sleeping with Martin Miller, a film producer, after our third date. A lot of tequila was involved, and sloppy sex was finished with Martin crying about how much he missed his ex. Such a memorable night, that’s for sure.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“I didn’t come here alone.”

I wrinkle my nose. “You came with Lauren?”

Sam doesn’t so much as flinch at the mention of her name. “I came with Mason.”

“And you intend to leave with him, don’t you?”

“It’s always been my fantasy,” he says seriously, and we laugh, slipping back into that comfortable friendship too easily. I need to claw my way back out to being awkward so I remember not to get ahead of myself.

Sam’s eyes are on me, looking at me like I’m a snack and he hasn’t eaten in days. I take another drink and put the glass down. I should order something to eat before I sit here, nervously sucking down drink after drink. I’m prone to poor decision making on a daily basis, but my chances of doing something I regret go up one hundred percent when I’ve been drinking.

“That table will be empty soon,” I blurt, right as Sam opens his mouth to say something.

“A table?” he questions, following my gaze to the table where Mrs. Clemmons and her friends were sitting. They just paid their bill and are getting ready to get up to leave.

“Mason asked you to get a table.”

“Oh, right. You want to join?”

“Um,” I start and grind my teeth together. I want to get something to eat, so it makes sense to go to a table where there’s a menu stashed behind the salt and pepper shakers. “Maybe. I am kind of hungry, but I also have the best seat in the house by the bartender.”

Sam looks at Sahil. “That’s Farisha’s brother, isn’t it?”

I’m a little surprised he remembered her that easily. “Yeah. Sahil.”

“Are you and Farisha still friends?”

“Best friends,” I say with a nod. There was a time I considered Sam a best friend too… “She’s a professor at Berkeley and has a kid now, so I actually don’t see her very often, but we talk all the time.” I take another sip of my drink. “Are you getting anything to eat?” I ask him, thinking ordering something to-go will be a good idea. Then I can get out of here before I give into temptation.

“Yeah, I’m always hungry after surgery.”

“Has the menu changed much?” The Cantina’s dining section is open from four to eight PM, and then limits customers to twenty-one and up after that. “I haven’t been here in…gosh…probably six years.”

“It’s been a while for me too,” Sam says. “But I’m going to assume no, other than adding some allergy-friendly options.”

I nod and then remember he said he’s always hungry after surgery. “You were in surgery? Here?”

“Kind of,” he chuckles. “We were over at Jacob’s and he had a dog come in after being hit by a car. I helped until the vet techs showed up.”

“Oh, well, that was really nice of you. How’s the dog?”

“Stable and expected to recover.”

“Good.” I risk meeting his eyes again and my stomach flip-flops the moment we lock gazes. “So…other than working what else have you been up to?” I bite my lip, a bad nervous habit Karina yells at me for during interviews. I bite hard enough that the pain temporarily distracts me from whatever is making me nervous, but it looks too sexual, Karina says.

“That’s pretty much it,” he admits. “The trauma center and the gym are more home to me than my actual home.”

Which you share with…I wish I could will the words right out of his head. His phone rings, and he takes it from his pocket. Looking at the name on the screen, he sends the call to voicemail and puts the phone on the bar counter, face down.

“Not important?” I ask.

“No.” He meets my eye again. “What about you? Other than writing and hanging out with celebrities, what do you do?”

“That pretty much sums me up, but with more emphasis on the writing than having a social life.” I still consider myself an introvert, but I have fellow introvert friends and we like to hang out hermit-style together. “I have a horse,” I add, having to remind myself not to be the crazy cat lady of the horse world. “His name is Spartan.”

“You always did like horses.”

“I have. So, I spend a lot of my free time at the barn.”

“Speaking of horses,” Sam starts, lowering his voice. “Here comes a cowboy.”

“What?”

He leans in even more. “You should join us before it’s too late.”

“I just…I don’t know. Wait, too late?” I’m sputtering once again. Having drinks with Sam is a terrible idea. He’s too gorgeous to be real, and if I didn’t see him go through his awkward teenage years—which lasted like ten minutes, by the way—I might think he’s a very well-made robot or something.

“What? You don’t want to have drinks with me?” He flashes that cocky grin again, knowing the exact effect it has on women. I’m able to get my head to move back and forth, but the words aren’t coming out. “It looks like it’s either me or him,” Sam quips. “I’d say you could talk about horses, but I don’t think he’s even stepped foot on a farm.”