Page 16 of It Happened on a Sunday
So instead of making small talk or—God forbid—a good impression, I pull out my phone and start scrolling without actually looking at anything.
It’s just a ploy, a chance to put her on the defensive. But the message thread with Olivia is right there at the top. And just a quick scroll down is a number I haven’t added to my contacts yet.
Right now, it’s just ten little digits and a whole lot of possibilities. I stare at it for several long seconds, my thumb hovering over the number like it might decide for me.
But then I look away. Because what would I even say?
Vittoria finishes pouring her coffee before settling into the chair across from me. I expect her to immediately launch into questions once she sets up her phone to record, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just sits there sipping her coffee and watching me over the cup’s rim.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who subscribes to Pauline’s strategy.
Well played.
Bryan, who’s standing behind Vittoria, is looking more agitated by the second. He’s not making any big facial expressions or gestures—he’s as aware as I am of thephotographer in the room—but he’s definitely using his eyes and a pained smile to urge me to saysomething. Anything.
I ignore him, much to his increasing annoyance.
The silence continues, right up until Bryan reaches his breaking point. “Is there anything else I can get you?” he asks the reporter.
She gives him a quiet smile. “No, I’m great, thanks. This coffee is delicious.”
“Well, then, let’s get started, shall we?” He all but claps his hands like an elf at Santa’s Workshop, arranging things exactly the way he wants them. “Sloane does have a busy day ahead of her.”
“Of course. I just didn’t want to interrupt her in case it was important,” she tells him, gesturing to my phone—even though we both know that’s bullshit. Not that I care, because she’s finally forced to ask, “Are you ready, Sloane?”
Sloane one,Vanity Fairzero.
But gloating is rude, so I keep the triumph to myself. Instead, I drop my phone on the table, grab my drink, and answer, “Absolutely. I’m an open book.” One with half the pages ripped out, but no need to advertise that fact.
“I’m so glad to hear it.” Vittoria settles back in her chair, and I can’t help thinking I’ve got this on lock. At least until she asks, “So, how long have you been dating Mateo Sylvester?”
Chapter 8
Sloane
Only years of practice schooling my face and my emotions keeps me from spitting my drink all over myself.
I do choke on it, though. Apparently, you can’t gasp and swallow at the same time. Who knew?
It takes every ounce of willpower I’ve got to keep the cough locked deep inside. Somehow I manage, mainly because there’s no way I’m giving her that satisfaction.
Of course, tea in the lungs makes it more than a little difficult to breathe, let alone talk. Not that I could if I wanted to. My voice—like the rest of me—is frozen as Sly’s way-too-sexy face flashes before my eyes.
Thankfully, Bryan steps in. The fact that he looks absolutely mystified only helps sell the story. “Mateo Sylvester? The football player? I don’t think Sloane’s ever evenmetSly.”
“Really?” Vittoria turns back to me, and there’s a calculating look in her eyes that tells me she’s got something. I just hope she’s not a mind reader, because there’s not a lot I can do to combat the fact that Sly’s been on my mind significantly more than he should be. “Is that true, Sloane?”
“Actually, no.” I start to take a casual sip of my drink to show I’m fine, but I’m still not recovered from the last one and it goes down roughly. Still, I persevere. “I met him for a few minutes the other day, when I was performing in Austin. His grandmother’s a big fan.”
“Is that who’s in this photo with the two of you?” she asks. “His grandmother?”
She swipes something open on her phone, then extends it tome as Bryan crowds around to look.
It’s the selfie I let abuela Ximena take of the two of us in my dressing room for her Instagram account. I didn’t think anything of it—my fans post pics of us together whenever they can catch me out in public somewhere. What I didn’t account for at the time is that Sly is clearly in the photo, too. He’s leaning a shoulder against the wall of my dressing room, looking hot as hell and like he totally belongs there.
More, the intense look on his face as he stares at me—not his grandmother,me—speaks volumes. So much so that it has my heart kicking up and my mouth drying out despite myself.
Click.Her photographer chooses this moment to zero in and take a series of close-ups of my face.
