Page 55 of It Happened on a Sunday
For the second time today, she looks startled. And just like the first, the expression disappears as quickly as it came. “I thought we were on a date,” she replies, finally lifting the bourbon to her mouth and taking the daintiest of sips before lowering it back down again. “That is what you asked for, isn’t it?”
“It’s what Marquis asked for,” I answer.
She looks half amused, half insulted when she replies, “Are you saying youdon’twant to be here?”
“I want to be anywhere you are, Sloane. Even if this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”
She pauses, lips parted just a little, like she wants to respond. But before she can, the damn waiter shows up again. “May I share our specials for the afternoon?” he asks, once more addressing only Sloane in a voice that’s all pomp and no circumstance.
Which, in my book, is just one more reason to leave. I hate places like this, where the waitstaff is often just as snobby as the clientele, if not more so.
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stares at me like she’s trying to figure out the answer to a really difficult question.
I know the answer I want from her, but I don’t have a clue if she even understands what I’m asking. So I throw the waiter’s question back at her, this time with an inflection of my own. “You tell me, Sloane. Do we want to hear the specials?”
Chapter 24
Sloane
Sly doesn’t raise his voice when he asks the question. He doesn’t even sound particularly invested in my answer. But I can see in his eyes what he wants my answer to be—and why.
I just don’t know if I can give it to him.
From the moment I kissed him, I’ve felt off-kilter. Unbalanced. Like one wrong move will tip me over and have all of my secrets pouring out.
It’s the last thing I want, the thing I’ve spent so many years guarding against. No one has ever come close to breaching my walls before, so what is it about Sly that makes me feel so threatened and secure, all at the same time?
The waiter, who hasn’t pried his gaze off me once since we sat down, waits for my answer. And as I glance into his eager eyes, I already know what it’s going to be. I just have to get the words out.
“No, I really don’t.” I shoot the waiter an apologetic look as Sly lets out a little whoop of triumph.
He tosses a hundred-dollar bill on the table, and then his hand is closing over mine and he’s pulling me up, pulling me away.
I grab the flowers at the last second before letting Sly propel us through the restaurant. They’re too pretty to be trashed.
I have one moment of regret—I’m not yet ready to face the paparazzi again—but before it fully registers, Sly veers us off to the right.
“What are we doing?” I ask, strangely breathless as he steers me onto the back patio.
“Getting out of here,” he answers with a quick grin that sets myheart to pounding in all the best and scariest ways.
My eyes widen as I realize what he’s talking about. I smile, because it’s a brilliant solution to the problem…as long as we do it quickly.
Marco’s going to kill me, but for the first time in a good long while, I’m ready to leave the shallow water for the deep, blue sea—or at least dip a few toes in and see if they get bitten off first. Which is why, when we get to the waist-high glass fence that surrounds the patio, I don’t protest as Sly vaults over it like it’s not even there. And then I let him help me, and my tight dress, over it as well.
The moment my feet land on the other side, we start running straight down the grassy knoll that borders the back side of the Willow’s property.
I only take a few steps before I realize my shoes aren’t going to work. I can dance in six-inch heels all night on a stage, but sprinting across wet grass is another thing altogether. I kick them off and bend to pick them up. But then I realize the media—and the fans—have copped to our escape.
“Leave them!” Sly orders as he notices our audience, too. Then he’s threading his fingers through mine and we’re racing as fast as we can toward the bottom of the hill.
Part of me keeps waiting for the part where I trip in this dress and go flying into oncoming traffic. But Sly has a firm grip on me, and every time I so much as stumble, he uses brute strength to set me right. It’s an amazing thing to be with a man who is sensitive enough to anticipate what’s going to happen before it occurs and strong enough to ensure that it never does.
I glance behind us as we get to the parking lot at the bottom of the hill and realize the others are gaining on us. The paparazzi have their cameras out, snapping pictures while they run. My fans are doing the same with their smartphones. I can’t imagine what all these pics are going to look like on social media, but I’mpretty sure it won’t be good.
I’m also nearly certain that Bryan may blow a gasket over them, considering none of this was in his very detailed itinerary.
“They’re getting closer!” I tell Sly as we pound across the pavement.
