Page 4 of Trip Me Up

I grimaced. “I’m going to get him out of here before he sh—before he has gastric distress, I mean.” I wrinkled my nose. “He doesn’t tolerate dairy.”

“Sorry about that. He seemed to like it.” His voice, like his laugh, was low and rich. I didn’t blame Bilbo Baggins for running to him. Hell, I’d snuggle up against this man while he fed me snacks.

A hint of stinky cheese smell wafted into my nose. I scooped Bilbo Baggins into my tote.

“He does like cheese, right up to the moment his little intestines let loose.” Was that too much information? Probably. When I was nervous, my mouth was more unrestrained than Bilbo Baggins’ bowels after eating Muenster.

He winced. “I really am sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’ll give me an excuse to leave early.” But my feet stayed right there in front of the friendly giant who’d rescued my dog.

“I’m Niall Flynn.” He stuck out his right hand.

“Samantha.” My hand disappeared into his much larger one, his fingers so long that they brushed the sensitive skin at my wrist. My heartbeat quickened, and I sucked in a breath.

He grimaced. “Sorry. Rough hands.”

It was true. Calluses roughened his palm and each of the fingers that covered the back of my hand. Most of the men at these things did nothing more strenuous than click a mouse, and their hands were smoother than mine. Niall had to be an athlete. The foundation partnered with a few pro sportsballers.

“It’s okay. I—I like it.” I eyed the way his suit coat sleeves stretched over his biceps. My friend Marlee would tell me to go for it. Flirt. Have a drink with him. But I was no Marlee. I must’ve been in the computer lab when they gave the lessons on hair-tossing and small talk. On the conversational scale of light banter to deadly serious, I generally came off as an eleven—intense.

Realizing he was still gripping my hand, I tugged it out of his grasp. “Well, thanks for saving Bilbo Baggins from being spiked by someone’s heel.”

“Wait.” He was studying me, a slow perusal of my face, like some people looked at art, not like the mental math most people did when they looked at a Jones.

I blinked. “Do I have something on my face?”

He shook his head. “Sorry, I—I guess I was just surprised to find someone like you here.”

“Someone like me?” I wrinkled my nose. “What’s that supposed to mean?” What had he figured out about me in our ten minutes together?

“Someone…real. And yet not. It’s like you’re going to turn into a woodland creature when the sun goes down.” His face went red, even the freckles.

“Like inLadyhawke?”

“Yeah, like—”

“Niall! There you are.” A woman about my height, with curly dark hair and tawny skin, gripped Niall’s sleeve. A volley of clicks behind her told me she’d brought a photographer. I cringed and turned my back to the sound. “What are you doing hiding over here? We need to get you out and circulating.”

“I was talking to Samantha.” He held out his hand toward me. No way was I getting pulled into his photo op. Each click of the shutter added to the cold weight in my belly. How could I have been so wrong again? He was no gentle giant. He was some minor celebrity here to dump cash for publicity.

Or worse, he was like Stephen, luring me into his trap, waiting to spring it. Somehow, he’d connected me to the Jones family even though I hadn’t given him my last name. Blast that ridiculous family portrait they stuck on an easel for these events. I’d been ten with my straight dark hair in a zigzag part, a closed-mouth smile hiding my braces, and eyes too big for my face. Now my hair was back in a low ponytail and the braces were gone, but I still looked like that prepubescent kid too clueless to know she was about to lose her dad.

The woman’s gaze turned on me, even more penetrating than Niall’s had been. “What’s your last name, Samantha?”

“Gabi,” Niall said, “I need another minute with Samantha.” I didn’t usually like my full name, but the way it rolled out in his low voice made me shiver. Or maybe that was a warning tremor from Bilbo Baggins. What could Niall need another minute to do? Brush the dog hair off my suit for a photo? Once, I’d been willing to be a decoration on a man’s arm, smiling for pictures I didn’t want. Never again.

I raised my palms in front of my chest like I could push them both away. “It’s cool. We’re done. Nice meeting you, Niall.” I strode toward the exit, leaving Niall and his entourage in front of the charcuterie.

When we reached a grassy patch outside the museum, Bilbo Baggins leaped from my tote bag to rid himself of the evil cheese, staring at me like I’d betrayed him. “That was your new friend, Niall, who poisoned you,” I said as I cleaned up the mess. “And he totally wasn’t worth it. He’s just like Winford Whatsit. Wants to use me like an ID badge for getting into shitty parties like that.” I shook the plastic bag of dog shit. “I’m no one’s golden ticket. I’m getting my doctorate and getting out of here. Understand?”

Bilbo Baggins cocked his head.

“I know. You get it.” I tossed the bag into the trash and spread sanitizer gel over my hands.

As I clipped the leash to his collar, my phone buzzed from the outside pocket of my tote. Dr. Martell’s pattern. He usually respected my weekends. Maybe he’d forgotten about some tests he needed graded.

“Hi, Dr. Martell.”

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