Page 17 of It Happened on a Sunday

“You’re telling me you sent them to the hotel I’m at right now?” she asks, sounding skeptical. “Do you even know which one it is?”

“I know how to google,” I answer dryly as I change lanes again. “The last time I sent them was to the Venetian yesterday.”

“Hold on,” she tells me, then a few seconds later asks, “What do the flowers look like?”

“One set is purple calla lilies—”

“Calla lilies?” she repeats a little breathlessly. “How’d you figure…”

She breaks off, and then, at the same time, we both say, “Abuela Ximena.”

I’ve always known my abuela was worth her weight in glitter, but it turns out she’s one hell of a wing woman, too. I’ll have to make sure to thank her the next time I see her.

“The other is a black-and-red arrangement,” I add. “For obvious reasons.”

She laughs, and there’s some rustling on the other line, followed by, “Oh! I found them both. They were buried behind a giant arrangement of roses.”

Not going to lie, that stings the pride a little bit. Note to self, send a gargantuan arrangement next time. Apparently five dozen flowers isn’t enough to stand out in the world Sloane Walker inhabits.

“They’re pretty,” she says after a minute. “Thank you.”

Okay, that more than stings. “I’m pretty sure it’s my turn to say ‘damned by faint praise.’”

She laughs again. “They’re very pretty. Sincerely.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense. You’ve got to read at least one of the cards.”

“Oh? Hold on a minute.” This time, she actually puts me on hold. And she keeps me there so long I keep checking to make sure the call hasn’t dropped.

By the time she comes back, I’m pulling off the highway and heading up the hill that leads to my house, while a whole host of news and paparazzi vehicles follows behind me.

“Sorry. My publicist collects them and writes thank-you notes. If nothing else, you would have gotten one of those…probably.” She pauses, and I can hear the rustling of an envelope opening. “‘How do you cut the Roman Empire?’ That’s it?” she asks, sounding bewildered. “That’s your big move?”

“I used my big move on the first bouquet I sent to the venue, thank you very much. The card you’ve got there is technically move number four.” I stop at the main gate to the neighborhood and click it open. “Look on the back.”

I sit there for several seconds, waiting to cross just as the gate starts to close. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t take pleasure in watching it slide shut before any of the news vans can make it through behind me.

I know it won’t hold them for long. It never does. But for now, I’ll take it.

“‘If you want to know the answer, call the number below. Also, break a leg tonight. And if you do, also call this number. I know a great orthopedic surgeon.’” She sounds amused, which is a win in my book. I wait for her to say something else, but there’s only silence on the line.

I’m starting to wonder if the card annoyed her when she finally says, “Well?”

“Well what?” I ask, baffled.

“I called the number. I’m pretty sure you owe me a punchline.”

“Oh, right.” I grin. Looks like move number four is doing better than expected. “With a pair of Caesars.”

More silence, and then a reluctant chuckle, followed by a full-blown laugh that’s as seductive as it is sweet. It’s a warm, full sound that fills up a bunch of the empty places inside me. “That’s really bad, Sly.”

“You’re laughing, aren’t you? And you haven’t hung up yet.” I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt as I turn onto the street that takes me up to my house, but I don’t give a shit. I made Sloane smile. Moreover, I made her laugh. “I count that as a win.”

“I’m sure you do.” She’s quiet, and I can hear her inhale like she’s trying to smell the flowers.

Which is strange, considering…

“I know they don’t have a scent,” she admits after a few seconds. “But I can’t resist checking. I guess I just assume they should smell as pretty as they look.”

It’s my turn to laugh, and even though it’s corny, I can’t resist asking, “Is that your way of telling me you smell?”

“Is that your way of telling me I’m pretty?” she fires back.

“You’ve got a mirror and about a billion adoring fans who say it every chance they get. I don’t think you need me to tell you that.”

She clears her throat and then says softly, “What do I need you to tell me?”

Her tone is light, but there’s an underlying thread of seriousness that lets me know she’s listening. “Nothing, probably. But if you’re asking—”

“I am.” She takes a breath, then holds on to it, almost like she’s afraid she’ll mess something up if she blows it back out.

I know the feeling. But if being a quarterback has taught me anything through the years, it’s that the best time to take a risk is when you’re down a couple of touchdowns and the clock is running out.

“You’re gorgeous,” I tell her softly. “But there’s so much more than that.”

“How would you know?” Her voice is little more than a whisper now. “You met me once.”

“Sometimes once is all it takes.” I can still picture her standing in the middle of that gigantic stage, fighting her way through the darkness to the light. “I think I see you, Sloane. And I think you see me, too.”

I pull up to my house to find another slew of reporters camped at the end of my driveway. Surprise, surprise. I’m not about to tell her that, though.

So instead of cursing, which I kind of feel like doing, I wait for her to say something—anything—that matters as I carefully attempt to make my way up the drive without running anyone over.

But in the end, all I get is: “Thank you for the flowers. They’re really lovely.”

“You’re very welcome, corazón.” The endearment slips out, but it feels strangely right.

“You have no idea what it’s like, Sly.” Her tone is almost pleading now. “This is just the beginning. If I say yes—”

“Say yes,” I plead right back. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

“I already regret making this phone call.” I can hear the eyeroll from here.

“That’s just because you’re over there and I’m over here.” I understand her reticence, so I ignore the sting that comes with her words. Instead, I do the same thing I do on the field and focus on the end zone. “Once we’re in L.A. together, you won’t regret anything. I promise.”

“Don’t promise things you can’t deliver.” Her voice is sharper this time, and I can almost see her standing in the center of some fancy hotel room, rubbing her hands up and down her arms in that way she does when she gets nervous.

She did it in her dressing room right after my abuela hugged her, and I’ve seen her do it several times in videos I’ve watched of her in the last few days. Right before she won her first Grammy, for example.

“Oh, I plan to deliver,” I tell her, as delighted by her sour as I am her sweet. “Just say the word and I’ll prove it to you. I can be there by this time tomorrow.”

She laughs then, long and low and sexy as all fuck. “For the first time in a while, I really wish I could say yes.”

“So go ahead and say it,” I pitch my case. “One date. If you hate it, I promise I’ll never put your name on a jumbotron ever again.”

“I’m not afraid I’ll hate it,” she whispers, so low I have to strain to hear her. “I’m afraid I won’t.”

I let the teasing note drop from my voice. “I’m sorry, Sloane. About the jumbotron and the reporters and all the extra attention. But”—I try to infuse every bit of truth into my words—“I swear you can trust me. I’d keep you safe, if you gave me the chance.”

It’s more than a promise. It’s an oath, because letting something happen to her because of me is not an option.

She sighs. “Goodbye, Sly. It was nice talking to you. And good luck with the next girl you put on the jumbotron.”

Damn it! “Sloane, wait—” But she’s already gone.

Which sucks for so many reasons, chief among them that I’m pretty sure she just took a little piece of my heart with her.