Page 127 of It Happened on a Sunday
Especially since it turns out that Vivian pours even more vinegar on Sly than she does me. Maybe sarcasm is her love language, because the two of them are hilarious.
“Told ya it wasn’t just you,” abuela Ximena whispers to me with a wiggle of her brows and a raise of her margarita.
“You did,” I agree, clinking my own glass against hers. The fact that it’s my second when I rarely allow myself a first says everything about how much fun I’m having. And how safe I feel here.
After we eat what feels like our weight in brisket, macaroni and cheese, and homemade potato salad, and I hear more than a few stories about Sly’s younger, wilder years, we split to go our separate ways. Abuela Ximena and Sly’s sisters head home together, while Vivian insists on taking an Uber back to her hotel. Which leaves Sly, Marco, G, and me to head back to hishouse—Sly and me in his truck, my guards trailing behind us in their SUV.
But when we pull into the driveway of a beautiful, Mediterranean-style villa, my stomach sinks as I realize it’s crawling with sports and entertainment reporters.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him, feeling sick. How long is it going to take him to get tired of this mess? And the fact that I bring it wherever I go?
“Why?” Sly looks genuinely baffled as he pauses to give the reporters currently crowding his driveway a chance to scramble out of the way. “I want you to see my house. Surely you’re not planning on letting a few reporters scare you away?”
“There are more than a few—” I start, then break off as Sly reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out a small bag of pecan pralines.
“Do you mind if I—” He gestures toward the window.
I realize he’s asking permission to let them take a few shots of us, and I nod, more because I want to see what he’s up to than because I’m dying to have my photo taken.
Seconds later, he rolls down the window of his truck. “Hey, Rita,” he calls to one of the reporters closest to the car. “I got these for your daughter when I was in New Orleans last weekend. Tell her happy birthday from me.”
I’m not sure who looks more surprised—the reporters, including Rita, or me as he hands the bag through the open window.
It’s the only unadulterated view they’ll get of us together—Sly’s windows are heavily tinted—and cameras go crazy even as a woman leans in and takes the candy from him. “I can’t believe you remembered,” she says with a grin. “Thanks, Sly. She’ll really appreciate it.”
He gives her a smile and a little two-finger salute to acknowledge her gratitude, then rolls the window up and keepson driving forward while I just stare at him, wide-eyed.
“What?” he asks when we finally make it up the driveway without any reporters or paparazzi on our asses.
“You buy candy for the children of the reporters who stake out your house?” I ask, brow raised.
Sly gives me that grin of his, the crooked one that makes my toes curl and everything inside of me blossom. “I’ll buy you candy, too, if you want it.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” Though I’d be lying if I said a praline didn’t sound exceptionally good right now. “Didn’t abuela Ximena ever teach you not to feed the pests or they’ll just keep coming around?”
“She also taught me you catch more flies with honey.” He pulls the truck into a four-car garage, right next to a sleek black sports car and a bright-red Mach-E, before immediately pushing the button to close it again.
“And the pralines are the honey?” I ask, earning myself a reproachful look when I climb out of the vehicle before he can come around and open the door for me.
“The shots of us together are the honey,” he tells me as he closes the car door behind me. “The candy was just a little added sugar on top. Once we get in, look outside. Everyone’s probably leaving now that they’ve gotten their money shot.”
He grabs my overnight bag and guitar case in one hand, then wraps his free arm around my waist as he starts guiding me toward the door that presumably leads into his house.
“You think the two of us in a car together is their money shot?” I ask in a tone that tells him just how naive I think he is. “And here I thought it was catching us with our pants down.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not going to happen and they know it. Now that they’ve got something to sell, they’ll head on home.”
The moment we enter a small hallway next to the kitchen and the garage door closes behind us, Sly sets the alarm, then pullsme into his arms. “Though I am more than happy to help you pull those pants of yours down any time you want.”
“Are you really?” I ask, all wide-eyed innocence. “That’s soverykind of you.”
“What can I say?” He gives a wicked little shrug. “I’m a nice guy.”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” I ask with a snort.
“It’s what I’m calling it.”
I start to give him another smart-ass reply, but before I can, he pulls out his phone and calls Marco to let him know we’re safely locked down for the night and he can head home.
