Page 133 of It Happened on a Sunday
Sloane
It’s an hour or so later before I try to roll out of bed again. This time, Sly lets me.
“I’m going to take a shower, and then maybe we can make breakfast?” I suggest. “I’m starving.”
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He grins. “What’s your favorite breakfast food?”
“Jalapeño sausage and fresh-squeezed orange juice.” When his face falls a little, I bend down to kiss him. “You asked for my favorites. But I’m good with anything except oatmeal. I hate it almost as much as I hate waiting in the wings.”
“I didn’t realize you hated that, either.” He looks half surprised, half impressed.
“Oh, yeah, with the passion of a thousand backup dancers without a tour. Nothing worse for a performer than getting yourself psyched up to go on and then getting stuck waiting because something’s gone wrong. Messes with the mojo for the whole night.”
“Like when there’s a game delay and I have to keep myself loose even though my stomach is getting tighter and tighter.” He nods.
“Exactly.”
“I’m actually a fan of oatmeal,” he says with a rueful grin, “but I’m willing to give it up as long as I get to stay off the list of things you hate.”
I give him awe’ll seelook as I start toward the bathroom, but before I can do much more than take a step, he reaches out and grabs my hand. Before I know it, I’m back on the bed. Or, to bemore accurate, back on top of Sly, my legs straddling his hips.
“Getting between me and a shower is not the way to stay in my good graces,” I tell him as I try to climb off.
“I love you,” he whispers as he reels me back in and presses hot kisses to my lips, my cheeks, the corners of my eyes.
“I love you, too.” I laugh, squirming under his lavish affections.
Love like this is new to me, and I can’t get enough of it. Can’t get enough of Sly. He doesn’t strip me bare; he wraps me in light and dares me to dream bigger than survival.
I pull him in for a real kiss, but as I do, our stomachs rumble in tandem.
Sly laughs through it, then rolls over and sets me on my feet. “Go take a shower while I make breakfast.”
My lower lip pokes out involuntarily in what very well might be the first real pout of my entire life. “You aren’t going to join me?”
He leans forward and nips at my lower lip, which turns into a kiss that has my toes curling and my knees trembling all over again. At least until Sly pulls away. “If I do, we’ll never eat. And you’re hungry. Go!” he says as he gently herds me toward the bathroom door. I let him, because I really am starving.
Once in the bathroom and away from whatever love haze he’s had me in, I decide to take my time in a way I normally don’t in hotel rooms. It helps that he’s got one of the most luxurious bathrooms I’ve ever been in. Multiple showerheads, brand new his-and-her bath products and lotions in my favorite scent, heated floors, fluffy robes, and an unopened extra toothbrush right next to the sink.
When I finally make it out of the bathroom, wrapped in a bathrobe and hair up in a towel, it’s to find that Sly has left me. According to the note next to my phone, it’s not forever—just for as long as it takes to grab a few things at the store. He’s also put the code for the alarm system on the note, but since I don’t plan on disarming it any time soon, I leave it where it is.
It doesn’t take a genius to guess what things he’s buying—namely fresh-squeezed orange juice and jalapeño sausage—because that’s who Sly is. He’s also the guy who retrieved my small suitcase from the kitchen and tucked it next to the nightstand on my side of the bed.
After all the shit I’ve been through, never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined ending up like this. But I can’t say I’m sorry that I have. Not when loving him and being loved by him feels better than anything—better thaneverything—that’s come before.
I rifle through my bag before pulling on shorts and a tank top. Then I text Marco to let him know I’m doing fine and am planning to stay in the house with Sly for the next couple of days, so he reallycantake the day off, despite his previous objections.
He responds with a quickNot gonna happen, but I had to try. It seems wrong for my security detail to be sitting outside in the heat while I’m in here having fun. And lots of sex.
While I wait for my guy to get back, I grab my guitar—which he also carried into his room—and wander down to the kitchen, hoping against hope that Sly isn’t one of those don’t-need-coffee-to-live kind of people. According to those who know and tolerate me, I’m a much less pleasant person to be around on the days when I try to pretend I’m one of them.
It turns out Sly has already got a pot brewing—more proof that he actually is the guy of my dreams—so I take a few minutes to do what I was too distracted to do last night.
Check out his place.
I don’t snoop through his cabinets or open random drawers, because I understand better than most just how important even the smallest modicum of privacy can be when you don’t have a lot of it. But I do check out his main living areas, including one of the coolest walls of books I have ever seen.
The whole house is done in shades of black and gray with warmmaple wood and a few subtle white accents. The giant black sofa in the main entertaining area is a particular favorite of mine—and his, judging by the throw pillows piled on the ground next to it. As are the huge, overstuffed chairs in the study that all but beg me to curl up with a good book.
