Page 69 of It Happened on a Sunday
“That was a cruel trick,” I tell her when I can speak.
“After the two of you thoughtIwouldn’t be able to handle the heat?” she asks, brows raised. “I don’t think so.”
“To clarify,shethought you wouldn’t be able to handle it. I never had a doubt.”
“Too little, too late,” she sniffs, right before she reaches across the table and steals a long, slow slip of my drink. Not that I mind. I know she’s messing with me, but I like this playful side of her. I also like the idea of sharing something with Sloane, even if it is just a Jarritos.
As soon as she puts the bottle down, I pick it up and take my own very deliberate sip.
Sloane’s breath hitches in response, and for a second there’s something between us, something dark andgravitational. As the air turns electric, it reminds me of those moments outside the Willow right after she kissed me.
With another woman, I might be tempted to lean forward a little just to see what happens. But this is Sloane, and she matters too much to leave anything up to chance, especially aftereverything she’s been through. Besides, she’s already kissed me once. If she wants to do it again at some point when we both aren’t still internally reeling from the hell that fucker Jarrod put her through, then I’ll be here.
So instead of letting the moment hang between us, I deliberately break it. I reach for another chip and a much more moderate scoop of salsa.
Sloane’s breath stutters out, and the look in her eyes is a mixture of relief and disappointment, which is just proof that we both need more time. Because the next time we kiss—if there is a next time—all I want to see in her eyes is the same need that’s slowly burrowing its way inside me.
A need to hold her. To unfold her. To feel her heart beat in rhythm with mine as we find our way together through whatever comes next.
She shifts awkwardly and runs her hands up and down her arms. I take it as a cue to lighten things up. “What’s your favorite kind of taco?” I ask to fill up the sudden silence as we wait for lunch to come.
She studies me for a second like she’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing. But I’m not running plays in my head right now, looking for an in. Because I’m not playing. Not now and not with her.
“I feel like that’s a trick question,” she says after several more seconds go by.
“No trick,” I shrug. “We’ve already established what flavor of Jarritos is best.”
The look she gives me says she’s not buying it, but she answers, “Breakfast tacos,” anyway.
I grin. “Looks like we’re two for two.”
“Looks like.” She takes another sip of my drink. “Best cookie?”
“Easy. Polvorones, especially the yellow ones.” When she looks blank, I add, “Shortbread cookies. My abuela makes the bestones you’ll ever taste.”
She looks curious. “Why are the yellow ones better?”
“If you talk to my sisters, they aren’t. They like the pink ones.” I shrug. “But on this one, specific thing, they are very wrong.”
“You know what?” she says after thinking about it for a second. “I’m going to go with you on what I’m sure is averycontroversial statement.”
“You have no idea how controversial.” I grab another chip. “Battles have been won and lost.” I grab another chip.
“Who won?”
“I prefer not to talk about it.”
She laughs. “So not you, then.”
“Never me,” I sigh. “There are three of them, and they’re mean. Especially Mariana. She’s the baby. Looks absolutely adorable but knows twenty ways to go for the balls.”
She lifts a brow. “Because you taught them to her?”
“It’s a fucked-up world out there. A woman’s got to know how to protect herself,” I answer mildly.
The second brow joins the first. “Does that mean you’re going to teach me how to go for the balls?”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve got that figured out,” I shoot back with a grin. Then turn half serious. “But, hell, yeah. If you want.”
