Page 373 of The Doctors Will See You Now

He set his bottle on the table, coughing and laughing at the same time. “Way to put the pressure on, Charlotte.”

“Oh, c’mon,” I teased. “You’re a fucking neurosurgeon. I’m pretty sure you can handle the pressure of trivia night. No way this is more stressful than dissecting someone’s brain.”

He grinned. “In the name of Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants, I hope they ask medical questions.”

“That’s highly doubtful.” I giggled. His eyebrows went up as they followed the wild crescendo of my laugh. It’d always been crazy, for as long as I could remember. As a kid, I’d tried to harness it—turn it into something delicate. As an adult, I’d realized ain’t no one got time for that. If a man couldn’t handle my laugh, he definitely wouldn’t be able to handle my propensity for leaving random pairs of socks all over the apartment until I ran out and had to buy new ones. “We’ll probably be running the gamut of sports, celebrities, and Britney Spears.”

“Who is Britney Spears?”

My eyes rounded in shock as my trivia life flashed before my eyes. Fortunately, his sexy little smirk was telling. The lying liar.

“I’m kidding,” he confirmed.

“Oh my God.” With a hand to my chest, I pointed an accusing index finger toward his face. “Don’t joke around like that. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“A heart attack?” he questioned through a laugh. “What kind of trivia night is this?”

Hands spread on the table in front of me, I lowered my voice in an attempt to make it sound grave and wiped the smile off my face. “High-stakes trivia.”

“What happens if we lose?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“Damn.” Nick grinned again. “Are we going to make it out of here alive?”

“It depends.” I shrugged. “But don’t worry, I have faith in you.”

“I’ll do my best to make Fleetwood Mac’s Sex Pants proud,” he said as he reached his hand out to my shoulder and eased a strand of my hair from its unconventional place under my bra strap. I shivered ever so slightly from the delicious feel of his fingers brushing across my skin.

“Sorry,” he apologized for some godforsaken reason. I wasn’t sure which I enjoyed the most, his dry sense of humor and quick wit, his gorgeous fucking lips, or the delicious feel of his touch. “It was stuck.”

“Grab your pencils, buffs. First question of the night,” the MC announced without actually pausing to give anyone any time to get their shit together. That wasn’t surprising, though. I came every week, and he was one of my favorite things about the whole ordeal. He had no time for bullshit. “How many seasons did Derek Shepherd appear on Grey’s Anatomy?”

I picked up our pencil and stared at the number one spot on our answer sheet. “Okay…okay… I think it was ten seasons, but it might have been nine. Nine, ten, nine, ten. Shit, Charlotte,” I muttered to myself manically, and then looked at Nick. “What do you think?”

“Well, considering I’ve never actually watched Grey’s Anatomy, I think it’s safe to say I have no fucking clue.”

“What?” I asked on a near shout. “How have you never seen Grey’s Anatomy? It’s a show about goddamn doctors!”

He laughed. “Probably because I’ve spent the last fifteen years of my life actually in the OR.”

“Holy moly.” I sighed. “You need to get out more.”

The tilt of his head was mocking. “You mean, stay in more.”

“Now isn’t the time to be a smartass,” I snapped, and he just grinned in response.

“Fifteen seconds!” the MC shouted.

“Shit,” I muttered and wracked my brain. I mean, pretty much everyone in Grey’s Anatomy eventually dies, obviously, but I just needed to remember what season Dr. Shepherd bit Shonda Rhimes’s death bullet. “Okay…I think it was nine…yeah, it was nine. Okay, yeah, I’m putting ten,” I rambled and quickly jotted down my final answer.

“Time’s up! Pencils down!”

As I set my pencil beside our answer sheet, Nick whispered, “Are you sure it wasn’t eleven?”

“Shut up.” I playfully slapped his shoulder, and he chuckled.

“Question number two! A little bit of sports trivia!”