was, or his memories had built her up to be more than she was, but no. Her long, lean body was all dressed up in a trendy siren-red number, a cropped jacket highlighting her nipped-in waist and curved hips, the vee of her neckline giving him a glimpse of shadowy cleavage. Her lips were painted red to match her outfit.
She’d worn lip balm That Night. Peppermint had never been an aphrodisiac but it was now.
Her hair was pinned up, one little almost-black curl escaping at her temple to rest against her cheek. That Night, her hair had been twisted out in tight curls, and the fading light outside the dive bar where they’d met had picked out dark and light brown, and every shade in between, copper and umber and russet.
They’d talked in that bar. Then they’d gone to her place. They’d done more than talk.
How was she here, at an industry conference in Texas? Yes, of course people could cross state lines. But what kind of coincidence would bring the woman he’d shared one perfect night with in a coastal California town to the hotel where he was being introduced as the spokesman for Aunt Belle’s business?
Does it matter? You looked for her, and she’s landed in your lap.
A rush of exultant satisfaction ran through him, the same satisfaction he used to feel when he ran a winning play.
I found her.
The applause distracted him. He only took his eyes off her for a second, but that was enough time. When he swiveled back to the spot she’d stood, his mystery woman had vanished.
Samson was so busy searching the audience, he barely noticed as William took the mic from him, wrapped up the presentation, and led him offstage. Matchmaker’s CEO patted his shoulder. “Nice job. You okay, Lima? You look a little pale. Don’t want you getting sick like your aunt.”
The edge in the words told Samson the man had realized Annabelle Kostas wasn’t exactly sick, and he snapped to attention, braced to defend her. Aunt Belle marched to her own drummer, and sometimes that drummer—or her horoscope—dictated her actions. “I’m fine.” Narrator: He was not fine.
“Good.” William directed him through the crowd. They smiled and nodded at some guests, and then paused at a pretty redhead dressed in a form-fitting blue dress. “Hello, Helena.”
“William.” The woman beamed at Samson, barely glancing at the CEO. “Mr. Lima, my name is Helena Knight. I host Good Night Live.”
“Of course, I’m familiar. Please call me Samson. Nice to meet you.” It took every amount of discipline he had to keep his gaze fixed on hers. He was here for work, for family. He couldn’t shirk those things, not even for That Night.
Helena was important. Television people were important. Not as important as social media influencers, according to the earnest Matchmaker PR guy who had briefed him, but given his internet-light life for the last decade, Samson barely understood what an “influencer” was.
“What an adorable campaign,” Helena said, batting her eyes. She was flirting with him. He needed to flirt back. That was basically what this gig was all about, wasn’t it? Getting paid to flirt with America.
“Thank you” was all he could cobble together.
William cleared his throat in warning, but Helena didn’t seem to take offense to Samson’s stilted reply. “I can’t believe I’m meeting the Lima Charm.”
Samson’s smile tightened, but he relaxed it. That nickname. With his emergence into the public eye, he’d been prepared to hear it again, of course, but it was still a shock. The locals in the sleepy coastal town he’d grown up in and lived in for the past nine years had been so used to the Lima family, they hadn’t called him anything but Sam or Samson or “the Lima boy.”
Better this nickname than the other one, though.
“I’m a huge fan, and your father and uncle were my heroes.” Helena waved her wineglass. “I’m sure you hear this all the time.”
“I don’t get tired of it. Thank you. They were my heroes as well.” It was an automatic, harmless half lie. So many people had grown up watching his father and uncle on the field any given Sunday. Aleki and Iosefa “Joe” Lima were immortal legends in the minds of football fans of a certain age. No need to tarnish their memories with an explanation of his complicated feelings about his father.
“Will you be at the Matchmaker open house tomorrow?” Helena asked.
“I will, yes. As well as a panel discussion in the morning on modern