Page 82 of Kiss Me Tonight

Put A Ring On Itis nothing if not B-Grade entertainment.

Like I’m privy to an inevitable train wreck, I watch Savannah feel up my buddy Nick. Her nails barely scrape across his stomach—like she’s too nervous to even consider going for a full fondle—before she turns around and announces, “This is Mario!” Slam the buzzer. Throw up the red flag. Both Nick and Mario, a body builder out of Miami, step out of line and retreat to the “loser’s” bench.

Savannah presses a hand to the blindfold. “I got it wrong again, didn’t I?”

The pub erupts with laughter.

I take a pull of my beer and mentally prepare myself for the moment when Savannah reaches me in the lineup. Based on the fantasy-league board sitting beside the bar, there’s going to be an uproar when I “win” the wet abs contest in approximately . . . oh, four minutes and some change, depending on how the producers edited the footage.

Fact is, until tonight I had no idea how much money the Golden Fleece was raking in with this new fantasy league Shawn started. The pot alone is worth more than three-thousand dollars with the buy-in at fifty bucks. Which means sixty Londoners have already joined the bracket—with more tagging along every week.

It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t also absolutely ridiculous.

Maybe I should ask Levi to meet me somewhere else.

A heavy hand on my shoulder dissolves my plans for escape. “DaSilva.”

Spinning on my bar stool, I eye the unfamiliar guy in front of me.Might be a football parent. I force a big smile, hoping it’ll get the job done. “Hey.” I put out my hand for him to shake. “Is your kid on the Wildcats?”

He grips my hand tight enough to cut off blood circulation, pumping it up and down two times over. “Me? Have a kid? Not a chance, man.” His laugh is as boisterous and terrifying as his handshake. “Nah, I came over here because me and the guys”—he jerks his thumb over one shoulder—“are taking thisPut A Ring On Itthing to the next level. Fantasy-league intel.” Like he’s a bookie in need of information, he whips out his phone and types, types, types. Glances up at me, then swings his gaze over to the TV. “I’m trying to wrangle enough of my buddies to join that I can walk away from this thing with a new paint job for my sailboat. Anyway, since you’re sitting here . . . gonna guess you didn’t win.”

We have a new Sherlock in town, ladies and gents.

Biting back a stinging retort, I drop one arm to the bar, my beer dangling from my index finger and thumb. “Sorry to disappoint . . .”

“Oliver,” he supplies eagerly.

“Oliver.” I force his name out from between gritted teeth. “But I signed an NDA when I got on the show. Much as I’d love to give you a leg up, I’m not looking to be sued.” I tilt my head to the side, eyeing him critically. “You feel me?”

Oliver shakes his head, his longish hair flopping every which way. “C’mon, man, all I need is a hint. That’s it.” He holds up his phone, wiggling it side to side. “My bets are on that Greek guy.”

Nick would have a field day with this conversation. I make a mental note to bring it up to him next weekend, when he’s in town to help with some of my house’s much-needed renovation.

Slowly, I drawl, “Stamos is a solid choice.”

“Yeah? You think?” Oliver’s expression brightens. “Everyone else at the table is convinced it’s gonna go to that investment broker out of Kansas.” Almost sheepishly, he amends, “I mean,someof them think you pulled the big win. Hey, could I get your autograph for the wife? She’s a big fan.”

That investment broker out of Kansas didn’t make it past eight ring ceremonies.

Not that it’s my business to divulge that information—I’m not lying about the NDA. The producers may have been selfish idiots in many other respects, but they knew their job inside and out.

Then again, they still managed to let the biggest reality-show scandal hit the media long before airing even began.

It’s always a hot topic when your star bachelorette walks away, single, on a show designed to end with a proposal and a ring.

Grabbing a napkin from the plastic dispenser and a pen from the forgotten receipt, over to my right, I sign my name as I always do:Dom DaSilva. Never settle for the mundane.

Oliver thanks me profusely then scurries off to his table.

Ten bucks says he’s as single as a doorknob and seconds away from bartering off my signature to the highest bidder.

Sure enough, I see wallets coming free of pockets moments later.

“Fucking typical.”

“Hello to you too?” comes a breathless feminine voice off to my right, followed by the thud of weight hitting the bar stool a second later. I catch the delicate aroma of her perfume before I see her face: subtle lavender, and a deeper note of some herb I’ll never know how to pronounce. I’m a football player—not a member of Mensa.

To my surprise, Levi leans in, her nostrils puffing with three successive inhalations. “No brimstone that I can detect.” She lifts her chin, inhaling deeply like she’s starved for me. “I’m almost disappointed.”

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