Page 68 of It Happened on a Sunday
“That’s like…fourteen different things,” I tell him, eyes wide.
“Hmm, you’re right.” He flashes me a grin before turning back to the woman. “Better make thatdoscarne asada tacos, too. It’s practically dinner, and I don’t want my girl to go hungry.”
My heart skips a beat, maybe two. I tell myself to calm down, but it doesn’t matter.
He called mehis girl.I know I should laugh, toss it back, brush it off, because he doesn’t mean anything by it. But instead, I freeze. Not because I mind but because it feels good to imagine it. Too good.
My stomach twists, and a shiver runs down my spine. Becausefeeling good is dangerous. Feeling good means I’ve let my guard down too much. It means I’ve got something to lose.
I dig my feet into the gravel, forcing myself to keep my face neutral and my body relaxed even though the hyper-vigilant part of my brain is screaming at me to retreat.
But Sly sees it anyway. He pauses in the middle of pulling out a worn, brown leather wallet, and though he doesn’t say anything, there’s a question in his eyes as he waits to see what I’m going to do next.
Part of me wants to turn around and flee—this is getting too real. I’m starting to want it too much. But if I run now, I know Sly won’t chase me. He’ll let me go if he thinks it’s what I want.
Which begs the question… WhatdoI want?
The easy answer is peace. But the not-so-easy answer is standing right in front of me, a careful look in his eyes.
The smart thing to do would be to back away, to channel the Black Widow and put some distance between us, literally and figuratively.
But that would also be the cowardly thing, too, and I’m no coward. So instead of retreating, I take a step forward and say, “Can you add a Jarritos to that order?”
Chapter 30
Sly
I didn’t realize how tense I was until Sloane’s words knock it out of me and have my shoulders relaxing for the first time since she jumped out of that damn car.
It’s not just her words that make me relax, either. It’s the way she’s leaning toward me, another one of those rare, real smiles on her lips.
It’s small and a little uncertain, but it’s there as she asks me to add a drink to our order. I’d buy her a hundred drinks—a thousand diamonds—if it meant she keeps looking at me like that.
Since I’m pretty sure offering either of those things will have her running for the Hollywood Hills, I tamp that shit down and settle for asking, “Any particular flavor?”
“Mandarin, obviously.” She shoots me a disbelieving look. “Is there any other kind?”
Jesus, could she be more perfect? “Not in my world,” I agree as I order two, along with “a couple of bottles of water, por favor.”
After I pay and grab the basket of chips and salsa, we head to one of the picnic tables set up under the trees. It’s afternoon, so the lights strung through the branches aren’t lit, but it’s still a nice place. And since the lunch rush is long gone, it’s secluded, too.
“Which side do you want?” I ask when we reach the table.
She shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.”
I plop our drinks down, then gesture for her to sit on the cleaner bench before I slide in across from her. She grabs a water bottle and rinses her hands before holding it out to me.
I do a quick wash and flick, then grab a chip and scoop up a generous amount of salsa before holding it out to Sloane.
She pauses then, her gaze going from the chip to me and back again. I wait patiently—I’m in no hurry—and eventually she takes it.
“How is it?” I ask as she swallows.
She shrugs. “A tad mild for salsa, but good.”
A bit surprised because little homegrown places like this usually make the best, I grab another chip and load it up before shoveling the whole thing into my mouth. And nearly choke from the heat of it.
My abuela makes a solid five-alarm salsa, but this beats the hell out of it. Eyes watering, I grab for the open water bottle and drain it dry as Sloane looks on in amusement.
