Page 56 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sloane

“Have a good night, Sloane,” Jaime from security tells me as he closes the door of my hotel suite behind me several hours later.

The moment I hear the click of the lock, I pull out my phone and read the texts Sly sent while I was onstage. I’d noticed in the car that he’d texted, but I didn’t want to read them until I was alone. Just in case they made me blush…among other things.

Sly: Back at hotel

Sly: All tucked in with seventeen minutes to spare

Sly: Kick ass tonight

Looks like they were nothing to worry about after all. I’m glad he made curfew, even though his pre-curfew activities made my legs so shaky that I had trouble sticking the landing during my entrance tonight.

Figuring he’ll be asleep, I shoot a couple of quick texts back as I head to the shower.

Me: Back at hotel. Hope you’re sleeping

Me: Concert went great

Me: Apparently the key to beating stage fright is to have so many orgasms you don’t have the energy to spare

Sly: I could have told you that

Me: You’re awake

Sly: Waiting for you

Me: Go to sleep. I need to take a shower

Me: I’m starving

Sly: Dinner’s on the way

Me: :O

Me: You don’t have to do that

Sly: Too late. I’ve got to feed my girl

A shiver works its way down my spine at his words. I try to decide if it’s a good shiver or a bad one, but the truth is it’s probably a little bit of both.

What are you doing, Sloane? I ask myself as I pull off my typical after-concert uniform of sweats and a hoodie. This is a terrible idea. A truly, absolutely, no-doubt-about-it horrible idea. Like setting gasoline on fire and calling it aromatherapy.

Too bad knowing that doesn’t keep me from texting Sly back.

Me: Is that what I am? Your girl?

My breath lodges in my throat as I wait for his answer. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long.

Sly: Only if you want to be

My phone burns in my hand even as his words blaze through me. How does he always know the right thing to say? This would be a whole lot easier if he was just another pushy asshole. I could cut him with a word or two and go on my not-so-merry way.

Then again, if he was an asshole, we’d never be having this conversation. And I’d never be having these feelings.

I know I should run, know I should tell him right now that what he wants is impossible. The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue. But my trembling fingers have a mind of their own as they type out a response.

Me: I think I do

I hit send and throw the phone down before diving into the shower.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. What am I doing? Why am I taking such a foolish, awful risk when I know it could blow up in my face at any moment?

I lean my head back to wet my hair, and the second I close my eyes, Sly’s face—with its kind eyes and crooked grin—superimposes itself on my eyelids.

That’s why I’m taking the risk. Because I’ve met someone who’s good and kind and funny and smart, all wrapped up in one super-hot package. Sly makes me want things I shouldn’t want. Worse, he makes me hope that just once I can have someone for myself without it turning into a complete disaster.

Someone who knows all the bad shit and can somehow, someday, maybe love me anyway.

A loud knock on the door has me turning the water off and grabbing for my robe.

I shrug into it, then yell, “Come in!” as I bend over and wrap my wet hair in a towel.

“Delivery,” Jaime calls from the living room. “I’ll put it on your table here, Sloane.”

“Thanks!” I call back, refusing to acknowledge the teeny, tiny part of me that wanted it to be Sly at my door, which I know is ridiculous.

Just because I want him to hold me right now doesn’t mean it’s not way better that he’s across town in his hotel, observing curfew.

The only way this thing between us even has a chance is if we both continue to do exactly what we’re supposed to.

But the ache in my chest tells a different story—a story that ends with his arms around me and the rest of the world fading away.

When I’m dried off, I grab my phone and wander into the living room to find a bag from my favorite fish taco place.

How did he know?

I don’t have an answer, but something tells me I’m going to be asking myself that question about Sly a lot.

I’ve deliberately avoided looking at my texts since I sent that last one, but I need to at least thank him, so I bite the bullet and tap on his name. Only to find this message waiting for me:

Sly: I promise I won’t hurt you

He can’t promise that. No one can. The world doesn’t work that way—not mine, anyway. But God, I want to believe him. Just for tonight. Just long enough to let myself dream…if I even remember how.

Me: How’d you know Rubio’s was the way to my heart?

Me: Thank you, by the way

Sly: Lucky guess. And it’s one of my faves, too

Sly: Guess we have that in common

I don’t want to think about what we have in common. That’s dangerous territory. Then again, this is all dangerous territory, and I have no idea how I got sucked into it.

Because you want him , a tiny voice inside me says. And for a lot more than sex.

I hate that it’s right. Almost as much as I hate the way my fingers fly over my phone’s keyboard, even as my stomach tightens and I wait for his response.

Me: Go to sleep. Don’t QBs need their beauty rest?

Sly: I’m already beautiful lol

Me: And so modest too

Sly: Tell me something about the concert

Me: I think they like you more than me. They threw so many teddy bears with your jersey on them that the stage looked like a toy shop at one point

Sly: We already knew your fans had good taste

Me: I think you planted them

Sly: Damn. You’ve figured me out

Sly: I didn’t know you got stage fright

Damn. I’ve really been hoping he missed that. Letting him in on my biggest weakness was a terrible idea. Especially since it seems like Sly doesn’t forget anything.

Me: I don’t exactly advertise it

Me: It’s hard not to be nervous when you don’t know how people are going to react at any given moment

Sly: You always say that, but your fans love you

Me: Some of them do. But most just want to be near someone whose life is a bigger train wreck than theirs lol

Sly: Oh, Sloane. You don’t really believe that, do you?

Of course I believe it. I’ve seen the signs at the concerts, been the punching bag for reporters, had drinks and worse thrown at me, fought off the stranglers and the stalkers. It’s hard not to believe something when you’re shown it over and over again.

But Sly doesn’t need to know about any of that right now. Our stages may be different, but we both need to perform tomorrow. Having stuff like that in our heads only makes it harder to do the job right.

Me: It’s late. You need to go to sleep

Sly: And you need to understand that you’re not the villain

Me: But I look so good in black

Sly: I hate that you can’t see yourself the way I see you

His words turn my throat dry, make my heart pump like a piston.

Part of me wants to know exactly how he does see me.

But the bigger part—the smarter part—knows that only pain and destruction lie in wait.

My walls are precariously stacked. If I let Sly start pulling at the blocks, I’m terrified they’ll all come tumbling down.

Better to deflect and pray like hell he lets it go.

Me: Okay, not the villain. Maybe the villain-hero

Me: Just do me a favor and try not to die in your sleep, all right? My reputation can’t take the hit

Sly: WOW

Sly: That’s one way to say good night

Me: I figure not dying qualifies as at least an adequate good night

Sly: I’ll remember that. Good night, corazón

Relief flows through me when he lets me get away with the deflection. But so does guilt. Because Sly’s been forthcoming with me from the minute we met, and I…haven’t been. The imbalance—the unfairness—it bugs me.

I start to put my phone down without answering.

After all, that’s what the Black Widow would do.

But then I stop myself. Because I don’t want to be her.

Not right now, and not with Sly. I can’t give him everything, but I can give him something.

I can give him this one piece of the real me, stripped of armor and artifice.

My whole body revolts at the thought, but I ignore it as I force myself to do something I wouldn’t have imagined even a couple of days ago. I snap a quick picture of me with my hair in a towel and absolutely no makeup on my face.

And then I send it to him.

Me: Sweet dreams

Several seconds pass before my phone buzzes again.

Sly: You’re so beautiful it breaks my heart

He follows the text with a pic of himself—in bed, his dark hair tousled and eyes sleepy.

Me: Back atcha

And then I toss the phone to the other side of the couch, just out of reach.

Because this scares the hell out of me. Sly scares the hell out of me.

But maybe for the first time ever, the idea of missing what happens next scares me even more.

And maybe that’s what hope feels like—fragile, trembling, and impossible to ignore.