back to her jeans and black sweatshirt, though it was zipped up, so he couldn’t tell if she had a vintage band tee on under it.
Her hair was loose again. Under the indoor lights, all the shades of black and brown that made up the curls were more muted.
“Call me Samson,” he murmured.
She didn’t tell him to call her Rhiannon, he noticed, but he could say it in his head. Replace the name he’d thought belonged to her.
She dipped her head and slipped her hand out from his.
He flexed the fingers she’d touched. He wanted to touch her again, but of course, he couldn’t do that. It was apparent she didn’t want anyone to know they’d met. Neither did he, really. His persona at Matchmaker didn’t mesh with short hookups.
“You weren’t at the party last night, were you, Rhiannon? Matchmaker’s doing an adorable campaign,” Helena prattled as she and Rhiannon got mics. “Basically chances to date Samson.”
“Sounds like you’re a prize bull.” Rhiannon pushed her hair aside so the tech could access her collar.
“Hardly a prize.”
Her eye twitched.
“I’m thrilled to meet you,” he said gently, hoping she’d get the hint. He wasn’t about to reveal their past in a professional setting.
She dipped her head. Was that a flash of relief? “Very nice to meet you as well.”
Helena gestured to the stage. “Shall we take our seats? There’s a curtain, so we can chill up there while the crowd is still settling in.”
That crowd sounded enormous to Samson’s ears as they walked onto the stage, directed by staffers. Crowds didn’t intimidate him, but then again, he’d never tried to do an interview for his aunt’s struggling international business while sitting across from a woman he’d slept with and then flaked on in front of such a crowd.
He’d spent the whole night thinking about her, what he’d say if he ran into her again, how he’d apologize or grovel or say nothing. The scenarios he’d run through in his brain hadn’t come close to this.
They settled into the white club chairs, Helena’s seat in between theirs. When Helena was pulled away for a makeup fix, Samson saw his chance. “Rhiannon.”
She ignored his whisper, examining her unpainted nails.
“Rhiannon.”
Nothing. He braced his palms on the arms of the chair and leaned forward, slightly annoyed at this childish game. “Claire.”
Her eyes snapped to his. Ah, yeah. There was an emotion, but probably not a good one. “Don’t.” The single word was delivered between gritted teeth. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”
A surreptitious glance told him Helena was still occupied. “That’s fine. I won’t say anything about us.”
“Good, because there’s no us.”
Before he could answer, Helena dropped into the chair between them. “Now, I understand you two are competitors, so feel free to engage in some friendly banter, but I won’t have any blood drawn here. Keep it clean.”
“No blood.” Rhiannon cracked open a water bottle from the side table. “Got it.”
“No blood,” he echoed.
“One minute,” a stagehand hissed. An announcer’s voice boomed out, quieting the crowd.
“Samson, I know you were briefed on the questions, but I also know this isn’t your usual scene.” Helena’s smile was sympathetic. “If you get confused or overwhelmed, don’t worry too much. I’m sure Rhiannon will be happy to jump in, and I’ll moderate. Right, Rhiannon?”
Rhiannon capped the water bottle. If he was gauging her level of fury correctly, he was pretty sure she wouldn’t toss the contents of it on him if he were on fire, but her mild expression didn’t give that away. “Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll be fine.” He didn’t take offense to Helena’s doubt. People were inclined to believe football players were stupid, and he hadn’t been in the public eye for a long time. For all she knew, he wouldn’t be able to handle himself.
Public appearances had never bothered him, though. One of his first memories was sitting on his father’s shoulders after a Super Bowl win, the deafening roar of the crowd piercing through the giant headphones his parents had slapped over his ears. Being a famous man’s son had taught him how to play to the public; being a pro athlete had taught him that his face and body were a tool. He hadn’t minded doing endorsements. Until he’d retired, and they’d vanished.
“Here we go.” Helena straightened up.
The curtain split open, and Samson was abruptly glad he had been able to step in for Annabelle. This big of a crowd, plus a recording? He didn’t know if his aunt could have done this,