Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
“Cute,” he says again, shaking his head.
“Shhh,” I focus as the questions start coming. Number one: what’s the longest continuously held running sporting event in the US? Kentucky Derby. “And away we go…”
We fall into a rhythm, me writing, him watching over my shoulder and downing his beer. First round is all sports questions, second is television. I thank my grandma for all those afternoons she babysat me by setting me in front of her old TV and putting on reruns.
“You are good at this,” Caleb murmurs, squeezing the back of my neck. Proving, once again, that he’s not intimidated by my brains or competitive nature. I flash him a smile.
“You drinking this?” He holds up my untouched beer.
I shake my head and keep scribing. I get the name of Charles Darwin’s pet turtle (Harriet), the color of giraffe’s tongue (black), the location of the world’s largest pyramid (not Egypt, Mexico).
“You sure about that, babe?” Caleb asks after the last one.
“Yeah.” I duck close to whisper in his ear. “Most people don’t know it’s the largest because it’s buried in a mountain.”
“Gotcha.” He turns his head, touches my chin to keep me still, and kisses me. He tastes like Coors. Luckily I like beer-flavored macho man just fine. The kiss deepens, and tingles shoot through my body, all the way to my toes.
Caleb breaks the kiss. I keep my neck outstretched, lips parted.
“Which South American desert is one of the driest places on Earth?” he asks.
“What?” I ask in a daze.
“Miranda, focus.”
I blink but his smile is all I see.
The host repeats the question and I return to reality.
“Right.” I write down Attacama Desert and glare at Caleb. “Distracting,” I mouth at him.
“Right,” he stands. “I see you got this.” Caleb grabs the empty beers and goes for refills while I answer a few more questions. Amazon.com’s first website address (Relentless.com), the town where mayors are chosen by picking names out of a hat (Dorset, Minnesota), and the fear of crossing bridges (gephyrophobia).
Caleb returns and peruses my work, pursing his lips at the last answer.
“Don’t ask me to pronounce it,” I tell him.
At my elbow is a glass of white wine.
“Caleb.” I poke him in the side and point. “I thought they didn’t have it .”
“They didn’t, but the owner heard you asking for it and ran out and got some.”
“Awww, so nice.” I toast the grizzled guy behind the bar. “I shouldn’t drink white wine in the cold months, but I love it.”
“I’ll keep you warm.” He drapes an arm around me. Um, nice.
“And now for a lightning bonus round,” the host announces. “Put together by our own Joe of Joes’ Bar.” The grizzled man takes a bow.
“They should do a round on correct punctuation,” I grumble to myself.
“The category is collective nouns,” the host continues.
“What the fuck are those?” someone asks, but I surreptitiously pump my fist.
“You got this?” Caleb asks.
“Oh yeah.”
“What’s the collective noun for buffalo?”
“Herd,” I scribble. “That was easy,” I mouth to Caleb. He toasts me with a grin.
“Collective noun for chickens.”
“Fuck.” The table next to us isn’t doing well at all. I smile to myself and fill in, “Clutch.”
“A collective noun for fish.”
“School,” I write, and turn to Caleb and add, “Or shoal.”
“Lions.” Easy. “Pride.”
“Dolphins.”
“Pod,” Caleb whispers to me.
I nod and grin and scribe.
“Bears.”
“Bears are solitary animals.” I frown at Caleb.
He sets down his beer with a thunk. “A group of bears is called a sloth,” he murmurs and taps the scorecard. “Write it.”
I do, my mouth hanging open. “How did you know that?”
“I was bored and looked it up.” He taps the scorecard again and I bend my head to get to it.
“Have you ever seen a group of bears?”
“No. We’re solitary animals.” He winks.
“A group of crows” is next. The scribe at the table beside us throws down his pencil. I write ‘murder’ and whisper to Caleb, “I learned that from a Sting song.”
“Final. Buzzards.”
“Yes,” I hiss. I write ‘committee’, but second-guess myself.
“What is it?” Caleb leans close.
“This is the answer,” I tap the paper, “Unless they’re in flight—then they’re called a kettle. When eating, they’re called a wake.” I gnaw my lip. “What should I put?”
“Go with your gut,” Caleb advises.
“When you’re ready, turn in your scorecards,” the host says and I race up to drop mine off. We’re the first to turn our card in, which gives us a ten point lead.
Caleb’s eyes crinkle when I return to him. He throws an arm around me, pulling me deep into his hard body and giving me another beer-flavored kiss. The tables next to us hoot and I tap out to gasp and come up for air.
“Proud of you,” Caleb says, tagging my wine and handing it to me.
“Really?” I suppress a thrill. I’m sitting in a hunky man’s arms, one who went out of his way to give me a great night. He’s sexy, and he’s not intimidated by me.