Page 67 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

As soon as I walk in the house, I hear Sloane playing her guitar.

The last thing I want to do is disturb her if she’s writing, so I fire off a quick text letting her know I’m starting on breakfast. Twenty minutes later, she wanders into the kitchen looking happier than I’ve ever seen her.

And that’s saying something. Her hair’s a mess, her fingers are smudged with ink, and she looks like she walked through the same storm I just got caught in—and stole its thunder on her way out.

I have the feeling I’m seeing Sloane the writer for the very first time, and I have to say it’s a good look on her. Then again, everything is. “If I knew a couple of eggs would make you look like that, I would have cooked for you a long time ago,” I say with a grin.

She smiles back. “I promise it’s more you than the eggs, but I’m not turning them down, either. Or those magnificent-looking croissants over there—where’d you get those?”

“Like I’m going to tell you?” I toss back. “Those are the best croissants this side of France, and if you want them, you’re going to have to keep coming back. They’re my secret weapon.”

I expect her to blow off my words, but instead, Sloane looks me straight in the eye and says, “You don’t need a secret weapon to get me to come back to you, Sly. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

The cautious optimism I’ve felt all morning bursts into something greater, mirroring the happiness Sloane is radiating. It’s not just her words that bring me joy—it’s the way she says them, without hesitation or fear. Like maybe she really has stopped hiding.

From the moment Sloane told me she loved me, I’ve been waiting for the ref to call foul, like I somehow broke the rules just by getting this lucky.

I’ve been waiting for her to get scared or take it back or decide she didn’t really mean it.

But the look on her face right now as she tells me with absolutely no hesitation that my house, and my arms, are where she wants to be chases all those fears away.

It leaves me feeling whole in a way I haven’t in a very long time. Maybe ever, if I’m being honest.

The next few days are the happiest of my life. While I have to work—there’s a ton of stuff that goes into prepping for the conference championship—nothing beats coming home to Sloane.

In the evenings, we swim, cook dinner together, read, watch TV, make love. Be in love. For the first time since she came crashing into my life, I can do more than just imagine a future with Sloane. I believe it.

Thursday night comes too soon, and with it, the intrusion of reality. I’m about to have to share Sloane with the rest of the world again, and while I love to see her shine, I want just a few more days before all our real-world commitments sweep her away.

“Are you sure you want to go to this thing?” I ask as she slips into the sexy black cocktail dress she had Lucinda send over for her this morning. “We could just stay home—”

“It’s a team party and fundraiser celebrating the last playoff game of the year,” she answers as she wiggles the tight minidress over her hips. “I’m pretty sure the attendance of the star quarterback is mandatory.”

I shrug that off as I pull on a black dress shirt to match Sloane. “And I’m pretty sure everyone’s coming tonight to see you, not me. The bigwigs were very excited about your RSVP.”

“Well then, that’s even more of a reason to go, isn’t it?” She shoots me a wicked look as she rolls a pair of stockings up her long, long, long legs. “We can’t disappoint your bosses.”

“Maybe not.” I hook an arm around her waist and pull her close. “We could be late, though…” I slide my hands down to cup her hips.

“If we go there, we’ll never make it to the party,” she tells me, though I notice she makes no attempt to move away.

“That’s what I’m saying.” I bend my neck to kiss my way down the slender column of her throat. “This is our last night together—”

“Just until Sunday after the game,” she corrects, even as she leans back a little to give me better access. “You can last two nights without me.”

“I really don’t think that’s true,” I grumble.

But Sloane just laughs and presses a soft kiss to my mouth before spinning out of my arms and heading for the closet. “I had Lucinda send a little something special along with the dress,” she tells me.

“Oh yeah?” I follow her, interested despite myself. “What did she—”

I break off as Sloane props her foot on the dressing chair the interior designer insisted I needed and that I’ve never touched in the whole time I’ve lived here. Then she oh-so-slowly zips up one of the black leather thigh-high boots she was wearing the night we met.

“Fuck the party. You, me, and those boots should head straight to bed.”

“I knew you’d approve,” she replies as she switches legs. And I definitely owe my interior designer an apology because I’ve never seen anything like Sloane Walker with her foot on my chair zipping up a second, buttery-soft leather boot.

“I really do.”

I wait until she’s finished putting the boots on—don’t want her to lose her balance—then I grab her hand and whirl her around until her back is pressed against the nearest wall.

“Sly!” But she’s holding on to me, pulling me closer, her body arching against mine as I reach under her tight skirt and take hold of the straps on the lace panties she just put on. Thank God for thigh-high stockings.

“Okay?” I ask. But she’s already curling her fingers in my hair and pulling me closer.

“Yes,” she breathes. Then, “The car will be here in fifteen minutes.”

“As if I need that long,” I tell her right before I drop to my knees in front of her.

Turns out it only takes five, so I use the next five to do it all over again. Only when her standing leg gives out do I pull back.

Sloane reaches out, cupping my cheek in her hand as she runs her thumb over my wet lips. “For a golden boy, you can be a very, very bad man.”

“Good thing that’s the way you like me,” I say, nipping at her fingers before I grab an extra pair of panties and help her wriggle them up her hips.

Then I stand and look her over from head to toe—which really isn’t the best idea when I’m trying to get my body under control.

“What do you think?” she asks, still a little breathless from our pregame. “Am I presentable?”

“You’re gorgeous,” I answer. “As always. But there’s definitely something missing.”

Her eyes go wide. “Excuse me?” The shakiness in her voice is definitely gone, replaced with more than a tinge of insult.

“Don’t worry—we can fix it,” I tell her as I head into the bathroom to wash up.

She follows me, her eyes narrowed and dangerous as she stares me down in the bathroom mirror. “Fix it? Maybe if you hadn’t just pawed me—”

Now it’s my turn to look offended. “I think you mean got you off. And with your very enthusiastic participation ,” I add with a raise of my brows. “Twice, if I’m not mistaken. But no, that’s not the problem.”

“So what exactly is the problem, then?” Her hands are on her hips now, and she looks just a little bit riled up—which is fun, but it means it’s probably time to put an end to the game.

I reach into the pocket of my dress pants and pull out a flat box, which I hold out to her. “You’re missing these.”

Her eyes go wide. “What—what’s in there?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?”

She reaches for it hesitantly, then pulls her hand back like she’s afraid the present will disappear if she touches it.

Watching her second-guess herself breaks my heart in a way I wasn’t expecting.

She’s not hesitating because she doesn’t want it.

She’s hesitating because no one has ever made her feel like she’s worth it.

“Do you want me to open it for you?” I ask.

“No.” She licks her lips, sets her shoulders. “I can do it.”

This time she reaches for the box with the same determination she shows when she strides across the stage in the middle of a show—like she dares anyone to get in her way.