Page 134 of It Happened on a Sunday
I spend a long while in that room, fascinated by the eclectic mix of titles on Sly’s shelves. Everything from politics to thrillers, horror novels to literary fiction are arranged in stacks and rows. There are even a few fantasies, heavy on the vampire element, and some well-worn contemporary romances that I can’t help thinking belong to one of his sisters.
I consider grabbing one to read while I wait, but the melody in my head is too strong. I head back to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee and my guitar, then set myself up in the corner of one of Sly’s big, comfortable couches in the study. It doesn’t take long before I’m lost in the melody. In my hotel room after the park all those weeks ago, I nailed the chorus. And here, now, in the quiet peace of Sly’s house, the music pours out of me.
The verses, the pre-chorus, the bridge—they all come to me so fast I can barely take note. The lyrics are still smoke and shadows, but that’s okay. Because this is more music than I’ve had in close to eighteen months. I can live on it for a while.
I love you, Sloane. I love you so much.
Sly’s words from last night come back to me as I continue to refine the bridge, and gratitude flows through me. Happy tears fill my eyes. I forget my stalker, forget the press, even forget Pauline’s warnings. Because no matter where my relationship with Sly goes from here—whether we last six months or sixty years—I’ll always be grateful to him for helping the music find its way back to me. For showing me that no matter how bad it gets, I still have my art, and I still have me.
It’s more than I ever expected to find.
I take a deep breath, savoring this moment. And then, for thefirst time in longer than I can remember, I let the music take me where I need to go.
Chapter 58
Sly
As soon as I walk in the house, I hear Sloane playing her guitar. The last thing I want to do is disturb her if she’s writing, so I fire off a quick text letting her know I’m starting on breakfast. Twenty minutes later, she wanders into the kitchen looking happier than I’ve ever seen her. And that’s saying something. Her hair’s a mess, her fingers are smudged with ink, and she looks like she walked through the same storm I just got caught in—and stole its thunder on her way out.
I have the feeling I’m seeing Sloane the writer for the very first time, and I have to say it’s a good look on her. Then again, everything is. “If I knew a couple of eggs would make you look like that, I would have cooked for you a long time ago,” I say with a grin.
She smiles back. “I promise it’s more you than the eggs, but I’m not turning them down, either. Or those magnificent-looking croissants over there—where’d you get those?”
“Like I’m going to tell you?” I toss back. “Those are the best croissants this side of France, and if you want them, you’re going to have to keep coming back. They’re my secret weapon.”
I expect her to blow off my words, but instead, Sloane looks me straight in the eye and says, “You don’t need a secret weapon to get me to come back to you, Sly. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The cautious optimism I’ve felt all morning bursts into something greater, mirroring the happiness Sloane is radiating. It’s not just her words that bring me joy—it’s the way she says them, without hesitation or fear. Like maybe she really hasstopped hiding.
From the moment Sloane told me she loved me, I’ve been waiting for the ref to call foul, like I somehow broke the rules just by getting this lucky.
I’ve been waiting for her to get scared or take it back or decide she didn’t really mean it. But the look on her face right now as she tells me with absolutely no hesitation that my house, and my arms, are where she wants to be chases all those fears away. It leaves me feeling whole in a way I haven’t in a very long time. Maybe ever, if I’m being honest.
The next few days are the happiest of my life. While I have to work—there’s a ton of stuff that goes into prepping for the conference championship—nothing beats coming home to Sloane.
In the evenings, we swim, cook dinner together, read, watch TV, make love. Beinlove. For the first time since she came crashing into my life, I can do more than just imagine a future with Sloane. I believe it.
Thursday night comes too soon, and with it, the intrusion of reality. I’m about to have to share Sloane with the rest of the world again, and while I love to see her shine, I want just a few more days before all our real-world commitments sweep her away.
“Are you sure you want to go to this thing?” I ask as she slips into the sexy black cocktail dress she had Lucinda send over for her this morning. “We could just stay home—”
“It’s a team party and fundraiser celebrating the last playoff game of the year,” she answers as she wiggles the tight minidress over her hips. “I’m pretty sure the attendance of the star quarterback is mandatory.”
I shrug that off as I pull on a black dress shirt to match Sloane. “And I’m pretty sure everyone’s coming tonight to see you, not me. The bigwigs wereveryexcited about your RSVP.”
“Well then, that’s even more of a reason to go, isn’t it?” She shoots me a wicked look as she rolls a pair of stockings up her long, long, long legs. “We can’t disappoint your bosses.”
“Maybe not.” I hook an arm around her waist and pull her close. “We could be late, though…” I slide my hands down to cup her hips.
“If we go there, we’ll never make it to the party,” she tells me, though I notice she makes no attempt to move away.
“That’s what I’m saying.” I bend my neck to kiss my way down the slender column of her throat. “This is our last night together—”
“Just until Sunday after the game,” she corrects, even as she leans back a little to give me better access. “You can last two nights without me.”
“I really don’t think that’s true,” I grumble.
But Sloane just laughs and presses a soft kiss to my mouth before spinning out of my arms and heading for the closet. “I had Lucinda send a little something special along with the dress,” she tells me.
