Page 49 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Hold up the flowers so we can get them in the photo!”
“Are you and Sloane an item now?”
“When’s the last time you talked to Sloane?”
“How about another smile?”
The questions and requests go on and on. I do what I can: I lift the bouquet, smile for the cameras, wave hello to the fans. But then I hightail it inside to make sure there’s a table ready for when Sloane arrives.
Of course, I should have known better. Not only is there a table, but it’s directly in the center of the dining room. Correction, thepackeddining room. Whatever goes down between the people at that table will be in clear view of everyone, and I meaneveryone.
Learning curve, I remind myself as I grit my teeth and smile at the maître d’ who escorts me to our table. I know the whole point of this date is to be seen, but there’s being seen and then there’s beingwatched. This is definitely the latter.
I feel awkward as fuck settling into my chair. I put the flowers and the pastry box near Sloane’s seat before ordering a bottle of sparkling water for the table. The things I read online say Sloane’s a big fan of bourbon, but I have no idea which one to order.
My phone buzzes with a message from Sloane.
Sloane:ETA, 4 minutes
Sloane:Are you there yet?
Me:Yep. At the table
Sloane:Is it right in the middle of the room?
Me:I see you’ve done this before
Sloane:My team asked for something inconspicuous
Me:Looks like the message was lost in translation
Sloane:It usually is. I’m going to do the pap walk, then I’ll be in. Try not to do anything rash in the next fiveminutes
I don’t answer her, partly because I’m already getting up and heading for the front door, and partly because that’s not a promise I’m willing to make.
I know she’s got way more experience doing this than I do. She dated Jarrod Bowers, for fuck’s sake, and negotiated her way through everything that came after he died. But her wealth of experience doesn’t mean I have to leave her on her own. They let me off easy when I got here, and I still feel like I’ve run through a damn gauntlet. I don’t want to think about what they’ve got in store for her.
It’s that thought more than any other that has me pulling my phone back out, tucking my head, and making just-in-case arrangements as I maneuver my way through the crowd. If we don’t need them, I’m out a few hundred bucks. But if we do… If we do, it’ll be the best money I ever spent.
I make it to the street as a black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulls to a stop right where my car did, and a huge guy in a suit gets out of the passenger seat. He moves to open Sloane’s door, but I beat him to it.
Where I’m from, you step in when it matters. It’s about time everybody realizes that I’m not here to play. Sloane included.
“I’ve got her,” I tell the guy, sliding between him and the door. I may be a quarterback, but I do know how to make an interception.
At first it looks like he wants to intervene, but he backs off quickly enough when he recognizes who I am. He smiles what I would be hesitant to call anything but a shit-eating grin.
Which leaves me to pull the car door open and meet Sloane’s surprised eyes with my own.
“Well, hello there, corazón,” I say with a grin. “You’re looking awful pretty today.”
Chapter 21
Sloane
It takes me a few seconds to even register Sly’s words. I’m too blinded by his easy smile and ridiculous cheekbones, by his near-black eyes, warm light-brown skin, and far too bitable jaw—which I didn’t even know was a thing before this moment.
I haven’t seen him since that night at the concert when I agreed to meet his grandma, and though I’ve looked him up online several times, neither my memories of that night nor the pictures I’ve seen do justice to the way he looks in person. And while our phone calls have had me thinking about him in a different light, even they haven’t made my mouth go dry or my stomach flutter quite like this.
