“You don’t remember.” She crosses her arms and leans back.

“Sorry.” I’ve never been more embarrassed to have gotten memory fog drunk. “I drank a lot before you got there and then I took that Everclear shot… it’s fuzzy after we went upstairs.”

She laughs, taking me by surprise and earning a few annoyed stares from nearby tables. “Oh my God. That’s so…” She stares up as if she’s searching for the right word. “Serendipitous.”

“How’s that?”

“You’ve been trying to get me to hang out with you for months and I finally do, and you don’t even remember it.”

I run a thumb at my temple. “I remember.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

“I remember I was glad to see you and we had a good time – I think. I remember kissing you was nice.”

She smiles sweetly. “Except that weird thing you did with your tongue.” Then glances down to her crotch and cringes like she’s remembering the worst oral sex of her life.

The hand at my face goes still and I swear to God my heart stops. Did this girl just call my oral skills weird? And damn, I really wish I remembered going down on her.

“I’m totally messing with you.”

“So, we didn’t…”

She motions between us with the pen in her hand. “We didn’t have sex.”

I nod.

“Of any kind,” she adds.

Relief and disappointment shoot through me. I want her, but damn I want to remember it too.

Amusement twinkles in her eyes.

“Wanna tell me what we did do?”

“You mean did I let you get further than first base?”

“Wrong sport, Kitty.”

She thinks for a moment. “What’s the equivalent to first base in basketball lingo?”

“In basketball, it’s all or nothing. You score or you don’t.”

Her lips part and cheeks pink. When she speaks her voice is tight. “No one scored.”

“Damn shame. Although, probably for the best.”

She arches a brow in question.

I lean in. “When I score with you, I’m going to be stone cold sober and I’m going to remember every second.”

Letting out a breath, she breaks eye contact. “Ooookay. Maybe we should get back to the questions.”

“Wait. First, I want to know what I agreed to. You writing some tell-all piece on the Moreno family?”

“Would people read that?” She looks disbelieving.

“Damn straight they would.”

They would.

“No. I wrote a play that takes place in Mexico in the early 1900s.” She stops and pulls out a couple of books that look like they might have been printed in that timeframe. “I got these Mexican history books but honestly history is not my jam and I think, or I’m hoping, that learning more about your parents will help me understand a little about what it would be like growing up in Mexico.”

As she finishes explaining, disappointment mars her face like she’s just realized it’s a long shot. It is, but I have an idea.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” she asks hopefully.