Page 32 of It Happened on a Sunday
And they say this business doesn’t have to be toxic. Wow.
Then she does what she has for every problem I’ve had for the last ten years: she breaks it down and gives me a choice. There’s a reason she’s the best manager a girl could ask for.
“Before we can do anything, you have to make a decision about Sly,” she explains. “If you’re interested in dating, we’ll do one thing. If you don’t want anything to do with him, we’ll do another. And if you’re somewhere in the middle—currently annoyed but also a little intrigued—we’ll do a third. But until you decide, we’re stuck in a holding pattern.”
For a normal person, even for a normal pop star, this would probably be fine, no matter how it ends. But for the woman half the world already holds responsible for the deaths of two of its best and brightest, it’s an entirely different story.
Hayden was brilliant and adorable, funny and a little goofy. And a total asshole, though most of the world doesn’t have a clue. They only remember the sweet kid who died too soon.
As for Jarrod… Jarrod was everything and nothing. Charming, witty, wonderful one moment and a vicious, desperate riptidethe next—the kind you don’t see coming until he’s dragging you down with him.
Just like with Hayden, none of Jarrod’s worshippers ever saw that side of him. No one did. He reserved that special torment for me.
For a moment, I’m right back there on that patio.
Glass shattering.
Water splashing.
Jarrod’s twisted face screaming into mine.
No, no, no.I block the memories out. I’m not going there. Not today, not when I need to decide if I’m masochistic enough to even think about opening myself up again.
But how can I, when he’s too good-looking, too charming, and according to the Google search I allowed myself last night, entirely too golden? Dating him would be like going from the frying pan straight into hell.
No, thank you. Not when I still have the scars from the first two times around. And I always will.
“What about the public? How are they reacting?”
“Actually, your fans areloving it.Most of them seem thrilled that you’re finally getting past your grief over Jarrod’s unfortunate death.” Bryan’s voice is as dry as the toast he eats for breakfast. “They are, of course, also fascinated with the man who has finally caught your attention after all these years.”
“He hasn’t caught my attention,” I protest.
“Yes, well, they don’t know that,” Bianca tells me. “They’ve even given you two a ship name. Sloaney.”
I remember seeing the signs at my concert and then again at Sly’s game. “Trust me, I know,” I complain as I flop back on the bed.
“It’s time to cut through the bullshit,” Bianca says as she pulls a chair next to me, her blue eyes boring into mine. “Be straight with us, Sloane. How do you feel about this guy? Because Oliviahas been vetting him all morning and nothing bad has popped up yet. He got in a fight with another player several years ago, but nothing since. For a twenty-seven-year-old pro ball player with his looks and talent, he’s almost scary clean.”
She pauses to shrug out of her blazer, draping it carefully over the back of the chair before continuing. “Of course, we’ll keep digging before we make any final decisions, but he passes the first level of background checks.”
“You’re doing background checks?” I demand, horrified all over again.
“He just asked you out in front of the entire world without so much as a heads-up,” Bianca shoots back, her voice gentle but firm. “Of course we are. I was careless when it came to vetting your last partner, and you’re still paying for it years later, personally and professionally. None of us is going to make that mistake again.”
“We’ve got you,” Bryan says seriously, and it’s so unlike our usual antagonistic relationship that tears spring to my eyes.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“We’veallgot you,” Olivia emphasizes. “And whatever you decide to do, we’ll get through it.”
For a moment, I let myself think about Sly. Not the media. Not my past. Not his too-pretty face and too-perfect body. Just him. The real him.
The guy who goes all in on taking his grandmother to a concert, who lets his sister paint his nails for practice, and who sends hundred-dollar ice cream sundaes to get my attention.
“The public really doesn’t seem to mind?” I ask, because it seems unlikely.
“Oh, some of them mind a lot,” Bryan responds with a frown.
