Page 54 of It Happened on a Sunday
So I don’t push her. I do, however, lean back in my chair and prop my elbow up behind me in as relaxed a pose as I can manage in the middle of this damn place. “Pretty sure the answers to all three of those are obvious. But I’m more than happy to discuss whichever one you prefer.”
Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Does that usually work for you?”
“My willingness to go with the flow?” I clarify.
“Your ‘aw shucks, I’m just a small-town boy’ act,” she snaps back. “The guileless eyes, the relaxed posture, the open-book attitude. Does it usually get you whatever you want?”
“I guess that depends on what I want.”
“I’m not so sure it does,” she says, her brown eyes boring intomine. “But it’s a good act. I’ll give you that.”
Her questions are starting to get under my skin, and so is the tone she’s using to ask them. I know she’s in defense mode, know she’s trying to push me away after what happened outside, but still. She may want to sit here and pretend that kiss was all an act for the cameras, but I felt it. And so did she.
But because I’m still very aware of the stares and, apparently, theeavesdropping, I don’t call her on it. Just because we’re jockeying for position right now doesn’t mean I’m willing to do something that will make her uncomfortable.
When she doesn’t elaborate, I don’t push. Instead, I watch her steadily and wait for some cue as to what I should do next. A little voice at the back of my head keeps trying to convince me that I’m blowing it with her, but the rest of me isn’t so sure.
Sloane may want the world to believe she doesn’t give a shit, but something tells me she won’t appreciate a man she can walk all over, either. If I’m wrong, then we have a bigger problem than I think.
I can be a lot of things, bend a lot of ways to make her feel more comfortable, but I won’t break for anyone.
So we wait, eyes locked as the tension stretches like a tightrope between us. It doesn’t stop me from noticing the gold and amber specks that spread out like a sunburst from her left pupil. Or the tiny pattern of freckles that dance like magic along her collar bone.
Sloane reaches for her water and takes a long, slow sip, all without dropping her gaze from mine. When she finally lowers the glass, her tongue darts out to catch an errant drop of water, and all I can think is that I wish it was my tongue catching that drop instead.
I don’t know if she sees it in my eyes, but all of a sudden she breaks the silence as well as the accidental staring contest. “How did you get that star-shaped scar next to your eye?”
“It’s a long story.” And not a nice one.
Both her brows go up. A question instead of a challenge. “We haven’t even ordered yet, so I’d say we’ve got time.”
It’s my turn to reach for my water. “I got punched by a guy wearing a Super Bowl ring.”
“So, not that long of a story,” she teases until her gaze collides with mine again. I don’t know what she sees reflected there, but her eyes narrow just a little as she continues. “Was it someone on your team? Or a different one?”
“A different team.” I take a quick gulp of water and try not to think about the circumstances that led to that fight. But the guilt and the outrage are already welling up inside me, just like they always do.
“Well, now it definitely sounds like a story to be told.”
“It probably does.” I punch the guilt back, shove it down deep. “Ask me another time, and I promise I’ll give you the details.” I won’t enjoy it, but I’ll do it.
For a second, I think she’s going to protest, but then it’s like she remembers where we are, because she just nods and takes another sip of her water.
“Bourbon neat for the lady,” the waiter says as he gingerly places Sloane’s glass on the table in front of her. “And iced tea for the gentleman.” He plunks mine down without so much as glancing my way, which seems fair. I can’t take my eyes off of Sloane right now, either. “I’ll give you a few minutes to start on those, then be back to tell you about the specials.”
“Thank you,” she tells him in the husky voice that gives me chills.
He nods and starts to back away. But it takes another ten seconds for him to rip his eyes away from Sloane. I can’t help grinning into my tea. She may be known as the Black Widow, but there’s no shortage of men willing to be her meal.
She seems oblivious, but I recognize the look on his face.
Probably because I’ve been wearing a similar one for almost two weeks now.
“My turn to ask a question,” I say when he finally walks away.
“Ask me anything you want.” She palms the glass of bourbon, slowly spinning it between her hands. “Whether or not I answer is a different story.”
“What are we doing here?”
