Page 90 of It Happened on a Sunday
“You okay?” he asks, the fingers of his free hand playing with the tips of my hair.
“I don’t know.” I smile up at him like a cat that just ate an entire flock of canaries. There’s a tiny voice inside me warning me to be careful, that danger lies ahead, but for the first time in a long while, I choose not to listen to it.
Besides, if I’m already fucked, I might as well enjoy the highbefore the inevitable crash. “You tell me.”
His grin is back. “So much better thanokaythat just using the word feels like a sacrilege.”
“I could say the same about you,” I tell him.
“I hope you will. Many times.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my lips just as my stomach grumbles. Loudly.
He pulls back with a laugh. “You hungry?”
I think about it for a second. “Starving, actually. After the tacos in the park, I wasn’t up for dinner, and the three cookies I ate before you got here have definitely worn off.”
“Worn off or worked off?” he asks with a waggle of his brows that makes me laugh as he reaches for his phone. “Let me see what delivers this late.”
I think about telling him we could probably get room service through the hotel, even though it’s after hours. It’s one of the perks the tour company negotiates with whatever hotel we stay at, but I try not to abuse the privilege my fame gives me.
Thankfully, L.A. has several all-night options. Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting cross-legged on the bed—despite there being a perfectly good table in the other room—sharing what I’m half convinced might be the best turkey sandwich ever made.
That or I’m just really, really hungry.
“What time do you have to leave?” I ask as I lean over to steal one of Sly’s chips.
“Is that a clever ploy to kick me out so you can have all my chips?” he asks. “Or are you tired of me already?”
“A little bit of both, actually,” I deadpan, then roll my eyes as I continue. “I just don’t want you to get in trouble for blowing off curfew.”
“It’d be a much bigger problem if we had a game in the morning,” he says with a shrug. “But it’s just that fundraiser I mentioned.”
“What kind of fundraiser is it?” I ask. I’m always looking for agood cause to support.
“It’s a sports clinic and barbecue we host once a year to help raise money for athletic equipment and programs in underfunded communities in the area.” He holds out another chip for me.
I start to take it, but he shakes his head before leaning forward to feed it to me.
I make sure that I nip at his fingers a little before I accept it, and that slow grin I’m beginning to adore takes over his face. “You’re really hot when you do that,” I tell him.
His brows go up. “Feed you potato chips? Here, let me get you a few more, so you can see how sexy I really am.”
He reaches down to do just that, which makes me laugh all over again. What is it about this guy that makes me so happy? “I meant the slow-smile thing.”
“What slow-smile thing?” Now he just looks mystified.
“Oh, no. I’m not buying that you don’t know exactly what you do to people with that grin. I’ve seen you use it to your advantage too many times already to buy the clueless act.”
“Much as I’d like to take credit for my killer moves, I’m pretty sure that’s just what my face does when it sees you.”
His words have my breath catching in my throat and my stomach dropping like I’m on a roller coaster. Or maybe it’s the look in his eyes: warm and soft andin this. I have no doubt I’ve got the same expression onmy face as well.
The thought has me smiling right back at him, and for a second he looks as dazzled as I feel.
“So what’s the ‘long story’ behind how you got this?” I reach out a finger and touch the little star-shaped scar near his eye and watch his amusement die in an instant.
“It was a fight,” he answers with a shrug.
“I kind of figured that when you said someone punched you with their Super Bowl ring on. But what was the fight about?”
