When I was in my last year of primary school, I became captain of my school's quiz team. My reign as Queen Cleverclogs was short-lived, as we were knocked out after the second round of the only quiz we were actually participating in. But I remember how nervous I was before that quiz. Palms sweating, heart racing, body trembling. I didn't want to let my team or my school down.

Nearly 20 years later, and I'm reacting very similarly to the very idea of meeting Ric's friends . . . And hoping that my general knowledge will stand me in good stead for the actual pub quiz.

It doesn't help though that I'm now imagining Ric with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.

Because when I'd walked into the flat earlier this evening, that had been the first sight I'd encountered.

"Oh, sorry," he had said carelessly, stopping short as he exited the kitchen, and spotted me. He ruffled up his still wet hair. "I was just throwing my gym things in the washing machine after my shower. I didn't think you'd be home yet."

"Um . . . there was a train pulling in right as I got to the subway," I'd stammered, realising I was staring . . . Again. It was practically a re-enactment of our first meeting. "Usually I time it wrong and have to wait at least five minutes."

Today I had timed it correctly. Oh-so-very correctly.

My fists were tightly clenched. We were only a couple of steps apart, and my fingers itched to trace their way down that chest. Moisture from the shower still glistened on his skin, and I found myself jealous of those miniscule beads of water.

You're just horny, Abigail, I told myself. You'd be reacting like that to any hot guy right now. It's not because it's Ric.

It can't be Ric.

Involuntarily, I licked my lips. It definitely wasn't on purpose. Trust me, I don't work that way. I can't do the Seductive Goddess thing. I've tried and failed. Repeatedly.

And let's not forget that this dude had actually told me that he wasn't into me. I'm not a complete masochist!

But, despite this, I know I wasn't imagining that his eyes briefly darkened as he looked back at me. It wasn't delusion on my part that his gaze lingered on my lips, then momentarily moved lower. There was a definite change in atmosphere.

Then he seemed to shake himself out of whatever the hell that teensy moment had been. "I'd- uh- better go get dressed," he said. "See you in five!" He was on the other side of his bedroom door before I could even get one last look at the abs. Damn it.

Anyway, by the time he reappeared in the living room, fully dressed, today's episode of The Chase had started, and normal service had resumed.

But, as we walk towards the pub, I'm still thinking about his abs. And it's throwing me off my game, big-time.

"So who is in your quiz team then?" I prompt him now, trying to shake that pesky memory.

"Oh it depends," he shrugs. "There's a core group of about six of us, but usually at least one or two can't make it on any given week."

"Right." I nod. Although I'm feeling anxious about it, I'm also quite keen to properly meet some of Ric's friends. It's a part of unlocking him - finding out what makes Ric tick. He intrigues me, and for whatever reason I'm eager to get to know him better. Through some general small talk during TV ads over the past week, I've gleaned some small pieces of information about him, such as:

*He was actually born in Rome; his mum is Italian and his dad Scottish, and they moved to Glasgow when he was a toddler.

*He's not long turned 30 - he refused to celebrate it though because, in his words, "well, it's all a bit of a cliché, isn't it?"

*He was also on a primary school quiz team, and we suspect there's a possibility we could have crossed paths . . . Had my team made it past that second round! Of course, his team won. (He wasn't captain though, ha!)

I want to know more, but I don't want to fire questions at him, interrogation-style. I somehow suspect he wouldn't enjoy that.

"What would be your specialist subject on Mastermind?" I ask him now, as we wait to cross a junction. That should hold a clue to at least one thing that he's interested in, surely? (Sneaky, right?)

"That's . . . random," he laughs. He tilts his face up towards the sky as he thinks, and I use this opportunity to give him a sneaky once-over. He's wearing faded jeans and a pale grey t-shirt tonight; the slogan emblazoned across the front reads It's not sarcasm; it's an allergic reaction to your stupidity. Unsurprisingly, he hasn't bothered to shave, but he's definitely put some sort of product in his hair, as it seems to be behaving itself. The light colour of the t-shirt brings out his tan and, not for the first time, my eyes are drawn to his arm muscles. I'm weirdly tempted to squeeze the bicep poking out of the bottom of his left sleeve.

He catches the end of my assessment, and I quickly glance away and lean forward, pretending to see if the road is clear to cross yet. It's quite obviously not, given it's quarter past six on a Thursday night on Great Western Road, so it doesn't really pass the muster as a suitable cover. Oh well.

"Do you think they'd let me have beers of the world as my specialist subject?" That cheeky grin lights up his face again. His smile really is quite something.

It's my turn to shrug. "I'm not sure to be honest. I was reading an article about it, and it seems like they can be quite picky on your choice."

Yes, I like to research TV quiz shows. Maybe one day I will get around to actually applying!

"I know a lot about sitcoms?" he muses, as we finally manage to cross the road. "Friends. Brooklyn Nine-Nine. Father Ted. Maybe one of those?"

I file these interests away in my brain. "Okay, let's test your knowledge," I say. We're still a couple of minutes walk away from the pub, and my small talk supply is now running on empty. "In Father Ted, what was the name of the incredibly sarcastic priest?"

"Father Jessup," he fires back, without hesitation. "You could at least have given me a challenge!"

"Well, excuse me, I don't seem to have my Father Ted trivia book on me right now," I say waspishly, pretending to pat at my invisible pockets, and he chuckles. I ask him a few more sitcom-related questions to fill the rest of the walk, but don't manage to flummox him at all, much to my chagrin. He nails every single one.

"You never told me what your specialist subject would be," he says suddenly, as we reach the pub.

"I haven't quite figured it out yet," I admit. "I'll let you know when I do."

It probably should be capital cities of the world, if they allow it, I reflect briefly as he holds the door open for me.

Right now though, I find myself briefly wishing that my expert knowledge was of what exactly is going on inside Ricardo Parker's brain . . .