Trivial Pursuits (Chicago On Ice Book 2) (5 page)

Be careful, Livy,
I warn myself as I stare at my reflection.
It’s one night. Get to know him. Don’t be stupid.

Right. Getting to know him. That’s the whole reason I’m here.

I refocus and head back into the living room. Landy has cleaned up and I have a new plate at my spot. Perfect for resetting all the way around.

“That’s much better,” I say, sinking back down on to the floor. I pick up my chopsticks and select some sashimi, but I can feel Landy’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “You have a good sense of humor, that’s all. A lot of women wouldn’t have found that funny. But you did.”

Happiness floats down my spine. “First, that was
hilarious.
Second, thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Landy says, keeping his eyes on me for a bit longer before shifting his attention to his food. “Okay. You’ve earned the right to ask me a question. So go for it.”

Chapter 8

TriviaPlayOrPass!

Scott921, DesignerA is waiting for your answer . . .

“All right,” I say slowly, “I have my first question. It’s very important. This isn’t
TriviaPlayOrPass!
You can’t pass. You have to answer.”

Landy takes another sip of his beer. “Do I need to switch to sake to get through this?”

I giggle. “Nope, no sake needed. Nothing will be too painful or serious.”

Yet,
I think.
I’ll save those for Date #2.

“Okay. Go,” Landy says.

I clear my throat. “Tell me something nobody else knows about you.”

He puts down his beer. “Oh, come on. You said not serious!”

“It’s not. You simply have to tell me something nobody else knows about you.”

Landy thinks for a moment. “Okay. I’ve got something. But you can’t tell anyone else.”

“You know I won’t.”

He leans forward across the table, as if he’s going to spill top-secret information.

“I hate being called Landy.”

“What?” I gasp, shocked. “But everyone calls you Landy!”

“I know,” he sighs. “Everyone calls me Landy, and I
hate
that name. I’ve had it since I’ve played junior hockey in Canada. It works, it makes sense, and I can’t stand it. But nobody knows that. Except for you.”

Butterflies shift in my stomach. I’m excited that he shared this with me.

“Then I don’t want to call you Landy,” I say. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Landon,” he says softly. “You can call me Landon.”

“Landon,” I repeat, thinking I like that better.

Because Landy I associate with the flashy, flirty hockey player.

Landon, I associate with me.

“My turn,” Landon says, pausing to select a piece of fish. “Is your first name Olivia?”

I shake my head. “Nope. My parents actually named me Livy. Interesting side note—I don’t have a middle name, either.”

Landon takes a bite and studies me thoughtfully. “So,” he says after he eats, “Livy Adams is it, huh?”

“Yes,” I say, taking a sip of my bottled water. “My mom couldn’t think of a middle name she liked so I’m plain Livy Adams.”

“I wouldn’t say plain,” he says.

Ooooooooooooooooooooh!

DEFCON. I need to assign more levels.

Like DEFCON-100.

“Well, thank you,” I say, trying to contain the heat that is rising in my cheeks. “All right. Next question. Very important one. But not serious.”

Landon grins. “Shoot.”

“What is the one food that grosses you out?”

He stares at me with an amused expression on his face. “You ask the weirdest questions.”

I smile. Once again, I get the sense that he likes this about me.

“I’m an artist. I’m supposed to be weird.”

“Oh, going for the cliché? Come on now, I know you’re smart, I expect better than you grabbing on to some stereotype.”

A happy feeling sweeps over me. I love how smart he is. That this kind of conversation doesn’t bore him. I know he’s not going through the motions to get to the end game, like Troy did. Because Landon wouldn’t be sitting here with me if that’s what he truly wanted. He’d be with some hot girl hooking up instead.

But he chose me,
my heart whispers.
Landon chose this night with me, content to eat dinner and ask getting-to-know-you questions.

I grin at him. “Fine. I could ask you the basic questions: ‘What’s the last book you read?’ or ‘If you could invite five people to dinner in all of history, who would they be?’” I say truthfully. “They aren’t bad questions, but they’re boring. I like unexpected questions better.”

“Do you have a pen?” he suddenly asks.

I furrow my brow. “Um, in my purse, why?”

“I need to scratch those questions off my list,” Landon teases.

“Oh, shut up, you so didn’t have those on your list.”

He cocks an eyebrow at me. “How do you know what is on my list?”

I don’t know what’s on your list,
I think as my heart jumps.
But I think I want to be on it.

I clear my throat. “You’re evading my question. You promised me you wouldn’t do that.”

He smiles. “You’re right. Sorry. Okay, I hate cooked vegetables. I can only eat them raw.”

“What?” I ask. “Not one?”

“Nope.”

“So you don’t know the joy of sautéed kale?” I ask, mystified. “Or mashed potatoes or steamed broccoli?”

“No, no, and no.”

“Landon! That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Good, so you can check my answer is acceptable.”

“How can you not eat cooked vegetables, like ever?”

“Because they’re gross.”

“You must have had them prepared wrong.”

Landon laughs. “No, I did not. Why don’t you believe me?”

“Because it’s unbelievable,” I say.

“There it is again,” Landon says.

“Huh?”

“The crease in your nose. You also do that when you’re perplexed.”

I love how he notices little things about me.

“It
is
perplexing,” I insist. “So you’ve never had a kale chip?”

“No.”

I gasp. “I love kale. I live for kale chips. I can’t believe you haven’t eaten one!”

“Um, you act like I haven’t eaten ice cream,” Landon says, laughing.

“Kale is better than ice cream.”

“
What?
And you’re perplexed by me?”

I laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’ve never met anyone who would eat kale chips over ice cream.”

“Now you have,” I say.

Landon squints at me from behind his sexy glasses. “Yeah, I have.”

“What’s the squint for?” I say, mimicking his expression back to him.

“You’re different.”

I hesitate for a moment.

This could be good, as in I intrigue him.

Or bad, as in I’m entirely too goofy for a sexy cool guy like Landon.

I mentally will him to think I’m intriguing.

“Different can go one of two ways,” I say.

Landon’s eyes light up. “Really? I see three.”

“Three?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Different good. Different bad. Or different as in freakishly weird.”

I see the way his eyes are dancing at me. I can’t resist. I take my napkin, wad it up, and throw it at him. It bounces off his glasses, and he blinks in surprise. Then he laughs loudly, and I join him.

“That’s for thinking I’m freakishly weird.”

“I didn’t say that,” Landon protests, throwing the napkin back at me, hitting me right in the nose.

“Oh, but you thought it,” I insist.

“Let’s see, you claimed I trained my cat to jump on a plate of sushi so it lands in your bra, you get a chance to ask me anything you want and you want to know what food grosses me out, and you prefer
kale chips
over ice cream. Yeah. You’re right. You’re freakishly weird.”

I study him. His gorgeous blue eyes are sparkling, and his face is lit up in a smile.

He likes that I’m different,
I think as I study him.
That I throw the unexpected at him.

We continue our question session, all light and easy, and I learn so much about Landon. The things you can’t find out on Google. The little threads that when woven together, help make the whole of the person.

I learn that he is a night owl, hates getting up in the morning, and has to set three different alarms to make sure he’s not late for practice. He’s grumpy and needs dark-roast coffee with a shot of cream before he’ll even grumble a hello. Landon considers fashion a part of his job—he has some modeling contracts—and spares no expense on his wardrobe. His vision is crap and he wears contacts—the idea of LASIK surgery freaks him out. But he always wears contacts, except when he’s at home. That’s when he puts on his glasses.

All of these kinds of details intrigue me. How he loves kids because they are so accepting and genuine. That he likes scary movies and thinks Alfred Hitchcock was a genius. How hockey has been a part of him since he could walk and he’s seen the world because of it.

And he asks me the same type of questions. How I’m particular about my drink orders at Starbucks: venti iced green tea, less ice, extra sweet or venti passion iced tea lemonade, sweetened with a pump of raspberry. Hot-skinny vanilla latte or skinny flat white with two Splendas. That I love floral prints. That scary movies terrify me and I have to watch with a pillow so I can hide when I get nervous. That I’ve loved art since preschool. That I love the intricate nature of creating jewelry and hope to have my own studio and line someday. How I sell on Etsy now, but in the meantime, teach art classes and supplement my income by working on art for parties.

Time flies by, and when I finally do check my watch, it’s almost midnight.

And we didn’t even open the Trivial Pursuit game.

“Oh, Landon, it’s late,” I say regretfully. “I should go. I have a meeting tomorrow, and you have practice.”

Landon stands, and so do I.

“What is your meeting?” he asks.

I smile. “My friend Collins is a party planner. She has a client who is throwing a party, and she’d like some custom art for it. Decorations, champagne bottle décor, potentially bracelets. But here’s the best part—it’s for her dog.”

“What?”

“Yes. Her puppy is turning one. Big bash shall ensue.”

Now Landon appears perplexed.

“Insanity,” I say.

“Man, Gigi got screwed. I don’t even know when her birthday is.”

“You’re a terrible father.”

Landon grins. “True. Very true.”

I reluctantly slip into my coat, and Landon heads into the kitchen. I watch as he picks up a box of raspberry Zingers and hands them to me.

“Party favor.”

I grin in delight. “I’m so excited. I haven’t had one in forever!”

“They aren’t next to kale at the supermarket?”

“Ha-ha, no,” I say. “But everyone goes off the rails once in a while.”

And I think that’s what I’ve done tonight with him, too.

I tuck the box under my arm, and Landon escorts me down to my car in the garage. I feel this excited anticipation being next to him. Tonight has gone better than I ever dreamed it would. There was flirting. There was some sexual tension.

But most of all, I know I was spending time with the Landon the rest of the world doesn’t get to see. The one who was content to not be at a club with a hot girl. The one who wasn’t making a move on me or putting up with conversation so he could hook up by the end of the night.

I was with the Landon who wanted to talk to me.

And this is the Landon I find myself wanting to discover more about.

I unlock my car and hesitate outside the driver’s door.

“Landon, thank you so much for tonight,” I say quietly. “I had a lot of fun.”

“I did, too,” Landon says.

A silence falls between us. I know I told him no contact, but now I regret that.

Because I’d like nothing more than to see what his lips would feel like against mine.

“Are you going to the game with Aubrey tomorrow night?” he asks.

My heart leaps. “Yeah.”

Landon pauses and rakes his hand through his hair. “Um, would you like to meet up after the game?”

Ahhhhhh!

I need all of Aubrey’s excited emojis to capture the elation I feel at this moment.

“Yes, I would,” I say, smiling at him.

Landon flashes me that sexy smile. “Good.”

Another tension-filled pause falls between us.

He clears his throat. “Will you text me when you get home?”

“Yes, I will,” I say, nodding.

“Good.”

If he doesn’t kiss me, I’ll die.

Landon’s eyes grow serious. He lifts his hands, hesitating before he gently touches my hair. Oh God. Every nerve I have pulsates with heat the second he does.

“Goodnight, Livy,” Landon whispers.

And then he lowers his head toward mine.