Maya is perched beside us, nursing a drink pink enough to sue Barbie for copyright infringement. She sits back on her barstool, surveying the room as though she’s placing bets. Pretty sure her money isn’t on us.
Jeremy and I are elbow-to-elbow at a high-top under a large tv screen that reads:
BOY BAND BLOODBATH:
TRIVIA NIGHT OF
TEARS, TUNES & TRAGIC FROSTED TIPS
“Welcome to Thursday Night Trivia,” says the bartender-slash-quizmaster, whose Hawaiian shirt is louder than the crowd. “Tonight’s winners receive a free round and the honor of hoisting our sacred trophy, handcrafted from broken friendship bracelets and laminated boy band headshots!”
Jeremy registers our team name with the quizmaster.
“You’re going with... CTRL+ALT+DEFEAT?”
“Obviously,” he says. “It’s intimidating.”
“It’s a cry for help.”
He places his phone between us, buzzer ready and waiting. “Use your overachiever energy for good, Adams.”
I’m about to snark back when two shadows fall over our table.
“Well, what are the odds.” Smooth. Cocky. Rishi.
Jeremy groans. “Seriously?”
I turn. Nolan“Rate-Cutting Rat Bastard”Rhodes stands there in a white tee and dark jeans that do unsettling things to my focus. And glasses?
Thin black frames, casually perched on his nose like he doesn’t know they could single-handedly collapse a woman’s will to fight.
Next to him, Rishi grins. Mischief practically radiates off him.
Nolan’s gaze flicks to mine. Brief. Bladed. It doesn’t linger, doesn’t soften—just slices through the air between us before cutting away like I’m nothing worth looking at twice.
Good.
Let him be cold. Let him be clipped and clinical. I don’t need softness from him. He’s the enemy.
I square my shoulders. Raise my chin.
I want to be defiant. Untouchable. The woman who doesn’t care. But the truth is—his distance stings more than I want to admit. And I don’t know why.
So, I wrap myself in pride and push everything else down deep.
Because fuck that guy. Even though I still feel like shit for making that comment.
“Didn’t take you Big Stream boys for trivia types,” I say, sipping my spiked cider. “Or I mean, types who enjoy public humiliation.”
Rishi slides into the seat across from Jeremy. “Humiliation builds character. You should know a little bit about that.”
I sneer at him. “Funny.”
“We heard the burgers here come with a side of shame,” Rishi says.
“Perfect,” I say. “You can choke on those right after we mop the floor with your egos.”
“Hey,” Rishi says brightly, “how about we pretend we’re not allenemies for the next thirty minutes and just dominate trivia like the functioning adults we are?”
