then let out a stuttering sigh.
Ryan reached for her hand. “Hey, don’t freak out on me, it’s going to be okay.”
She yanked her hand away. “Did you plan this?”
“Whoa, Samantha, you give me way to much credit. Besides, do you real y think I would risk our lives for some alone time with you?”
“Wel , no… with al the pranks you and your buddies pul …wel it’s the first thing that came to my mind.” She calmed herself with a slow breath.
“What happened?”
“Could be broken, or maybe a blackout.” Frustrated, he ran his hand through what little hair he had. “Hel , I don’t know.”
Samantha pul ed out her cel phone and flipped it open. “No service.”
“Me too.” Ryan shoved his phone into the front pocket of his tight black jeans.
She wanted very much to be that cel phone and put herself on vibrate. The elevator lights flashed back on, but the car didn’t budge. The phone rang and Ryan quickly picked it up before Samantha could. She heard him ask how long and heard him say a lot of okays, and I sees. He mentioned her name and then his. He hung up, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Wel ?”
“There was a power outage. The elevators are stil down, but the repair company is on the way. It could be an hour. Or more.”
“That’s it?”
He pointed to the phone. “They apologize for any inconvenience.”
Being trapped in a six-foot by six-foot space with Ryan wasn’t an inconvenience. It was a temptation of biblical proportions. This was how Adam and Eve got into trouble. Ryan was Adam and the apple al rol ed into one hot apple pie package. The thought of spraying a can of whip cream over his body had Samantha sliding to the floor in defeat.
How was she ever going to get through the next hour – or more? She needed a distraction. She rummaged through her purse for the deck of cards she always carried. She could get a game going anywhere. A snowed in flight in Denver resulted in an al night Gin Rummy playoff, and another al nighter in Poker at the Al Rashid in Baghdad. More importantly, her skil broke the ice with foreigners, which sometimes led to news tips.
Mostly, though, she played Solitaire. She pul ed the cards from the case and deftly shuffled, doing a few tricks to show off.
Ryan slid down beside her. “Impressive.”
Picturing him playing a round of her favorite childhood game brought a smile to her face. She wondered if he would play. “Have you ever played Go Fish?”
“Not since the third grade. How about a friendly game of Strip Poker?” He winked and then his mouth curved into a sinful smile.
“Dream on.”
He held up the Gatorade and wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “Spin the Bottle?”
“Men,” she grumbled.
“Or how about a game of Old Maid?”
Samantha gave him a sharp look and saw the amusement in his expression. “That was uncal ed for.”
“I could change your status.”
“What, from Old Maid to Ryan’s Flavor of the Month? No thanks.”
“What if I want more?”
“There’s no bluffing in Go Fish.” Samantha shuffled the deck one more time and dealt them seven cards each. As they played she wondered what his game real y was. Did he think she would believe a line like that and fal into his arms? His quickie affairs were legendary and while she was no expert on long-term relationships, hers lasted more than one night.
Besides, he’d dated super-models and actresses, how could she compete with that? She couldn’t. Samantha didn’t even know why she was having this conversation with herself. She was a sportswriter and he was an athlete who played on the team she covered. She mental y beat the phrase ‘conflict of interest’ into her mind.
An hour later she had won seven out of ten. “You wouldn’t have a stitch of clothing on if we had played Strip Poker,” she teased.
“If we were playing that, you can bet I’d be the one up six to ten. I have more to gain. It’s not like you haven’t already seen me without my
Ryan reached for her hand. “Hey, don’t freak out on me, it’s going to be okay.”
She yanked her hand away. “Did you plan this?”
“Whoa, Samantha, you give me way to much credit. Besides, do you real y think I would risk our lives for some alone time with you?”
“Wel , no… with al the pranks you and your buddies pul …wel it’s the first thing that came to my mind.” She calmed herself with a slow breath.
“What happened?”
“Could be broken, or maybe a blackout.” Frustrated, he ran his hand through what little hair he had. “Hel , I don’t know.”
Samantha pul ed out her cel phone and flipped it open. “No service.”
“Me too.” Ryan shoved his phone into the front pocket of his tight black jeans.
She wanted very much to be that cel phone and put herself on vibrate. The elevator lights flashed back on, but the car didn’t budge. The phone rang and Ryan quickly picked it up before Samantha could. She heard him ask how long and heard him say a lot of okays, and I sees. He mentioned her name and then his. He hung up, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Wel ?”
“There was a power outage. The elevators are stil down, but the repair company is on the way. It could be an hour. Or more.”
“That’s it?”
He pointed to the phone. “They apologize for any inconvenience.”
Being trapped in a six-foot by six-foot space with Ryan wasn’t an inconvenience. It was a temptation of biblical proportions. This was how Adam and Eve got into trouble. Ryan was Adam and the apple al rol ed into one hot apple pie package. The thought of spraying a can of whip cream over his body had Samantha sliding to the floor in defeat.
How was she ever going to get through the next hour – or more? She needed a distraction. She rummaged through her purse for the deck of cards she always carried. She could get a game going anywhere. A snowed in flight in Denver resulted in an al night Gin Rummy playoff, and another al nighter in Poker at the Al Rashid in Baghdad. More importantly, her skil broke the ice with foreigners, which sometimes led to news tips.
Mostly, though, she played Solitaire. She pul ed the cards from the case and deftly shuffled, doing a few tricks to show off.
Ryan slid down beside her. “Impressive.”
Picturing him playing a round of her favorite childhood game brought a smile to her face. She wondered if he would play. “Have you ever played Go Fish?”
“Not since the third grade. How about a friendly game of Strip Poker?” He winked and then his mouth curved into a sinful smile.
“Dream on.”
He held up the Gatorade and wiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx. “Spin the Bottle?”
“Men,” she grumbled.
“Or how about a game of Old Maid?”
Samantha gave him a sharp look and saw the amusement in his expression. “That was uncal ed for.”
“I could change your status.”
“What, from Old Maid to Ryan’s Flavor of the Month? No thanks.”
“What if I want more?”
“There’s no bluffing in Go Fish.” Samantha shuffled the deck one more time and dealt them seven cards each. As they played she wondered what his game real y was. Did he think she would believe a line like that and fal into his arms? His quickie affairs were legendary and while she was no expert on long-term relationships, hers lasted more than one night.
Besides, he’d dated super-models and actresses, how could she compete with that? She couldn’t. Samantha didn’t even know why she was having this conversation with herself. She was a sportswriter and he was an athlete who played on the team she covered. She mental y beat the phrase ‘conflict of interest’ into her mind.
An hour later she had won seven out of ten. “You wouldn’t have a stitch of clothing on if we had played Strip Poker,” she teased.
“If we were playing that, you can bet I’d be the one up six to ten. I have more to gain. It’s not like you haven’t already seen me without my
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