Page 68 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sloane

I have no idea what to expect when I reach for the box, and my hands tremble just a little as I lift the lid and find the most beautiful pair of earrings I’ve ever seen.

Part of me was expecting spiders—something to go with the Black Widow moniker that controls so much of my life. But I should have known Sly would never do that, not when he’s always been able to see through the bullshit to the woman below.

“The song,” I whisper as I pick up one of the ornate chandelier earrings for a closer look. It’s made entirely of diamonds—white and canary yellow—and while the design is abstract, there’s just enough structure to hint at three birds in flight. “You remembered the song.”

“It’s the first thing you ever sang just for me. I’ll remember that moment until I die.”

Just like that, I’m back in the hotel room, holding Sly as he tells me about his sister. It’s the moment I realized he and I have more in common than I ever imagined.

“I love them,” I whisper, and my hands are shaking so badly I can’t unscrew the bearing back from the post. “Thank you.”

“Want me to do that for you?” he asks, nodding to where I’m still fumbling.

“Yes, please.”

His eyes—his beautiful, too-perceptive brown eyes—stay on mine as he slowly unscrews the earring backs and then steps forward to put them on me. As he does, I breathe him in, and it feels like home.

He feels like home—warm and worn and full of songs I didn’t know I remembered.

For the first time since I met him, the feeling doesn’t scare me. It comforts me. So much so that I find myself singing Bob Marley again, and this time I truly believe it. Everything really is going to be all right.

Sly’s eyes well up as I finish, and he pulls me close, murmuring, “I’ve got you, Sloane. I’ll always have you.”

“I know you do,” I whisper back, because I believe him. I really, truly do.

I carry that belief with me into the Twisters’ party. I pose with him on the red carpet before walking into the venue, where everyone is either staring at us or jockeying to meet me.

“Told you we should have stayed home,” Sly mutters after an especially tedious conversation with the team owner and his wife.

“But then I would’ve had nowhere to wear these earrings,” I murmur back, gently shaking my head just so I can feel them brush my cheeks.

“You could have worn them in bed,” he replies, making me giggle.

The sound has Sly’s whole face lighting up, and he leans down to kiss me just as someone behind us says, “Well look who the cat dragged in.”

“Oh, don’t you start,” Sly says as he turns around.

“Don’t start what?” Marquis answers with a grin, rather catlike himself.

Like Sly, he’s wearing a gorgeous black suit.

But instead of a black shirt, his is a vivid turquoise that flatters his dark-brown skin and dancing brown eyes.

“I’m just saying hello to the gorgeous couple I’m responsible for getting together. ”

“You’re going to ride that high forever, aren’t you?” Sly groans, and Marquis nods emphatically.

“That’s it? Your official career high? You’re goin’ out on Jumbotron Guy ?” I ask, all mock innocence and wide smiles.

“I would have said Cupid,” Marquis answers with a charming grin. “But Jumbotron Guy works, too.”

“That’s because a jumbotron is the only thing in the stadium as big as your ego,” another guy tells him as he passes by with a woman I presume to be his wife—on account of the matching wedding bands—at his side, her long blond hair nearly the same color as her gold dress.

“Glass houses, Tyson,” Marquis calls after him. “Glass fucking houses.”

I start laughing because Marquis really is as ridiculous as Sly has described, but in the most adorable way imaginable. I can totally see him being Sly’s best friend.

Before I can say anything else, though, several other players—some with their partners, some without—surround us. Apparently, Marquis broke the ice and now everyone wants to meet me.

“Tell me everything,” says a woman with long black hair and a gorgeous red Versace gown. “I’ve been on team Sloaney since the jumbotron.”

“This is Maria,” her date tells me. “And she’s not exaggerating. She’s had me bugging Sly practically every day since your date in L.A.”

“That kiss outside the Willow?” Maria tells me, fanning herself. “Muuuuy caliente.”

“Mmmmmmhmmm.” Another woman nods. “I damn near jumped Drew after I saw it.”

“Sorry to be of service?” Sly tells his teammate dryly.

“Oh, please.” Light glints off the woman’s long gold-and-black nails as she waves her hand with a flourish. “Drew doesn’t care what revs the engine so long as he’s the one doing the driving.”

That startles a laugh out of me, but Drew just shrugs. “Truth, baby.”

The ribbing goes on for several minutes, each guy trying to outdo the other.

I find myself relaxing and even joining in to tease Sly a time or two, because these people are fun.

I mean, sure, they’ve got egos, but most of the time they don’t take themselves—or each other—too seriously.

It’s a nice break from the music and Hollywood parties I’m used to, where everyone is more concerned with being seen than actually having a good time.

I’m on my second drink of the evening when Vivian shows up. She heads right for us, placing a hand on Sly’s arm as she works her way into the conversation.

He barely seems to notice, engaged as he is with an offensive-line coach and her wife. As they start talking strategy for the upcoming playoff game, I hand Sly my drink for safekeeping and make an escape to the ladies’ room.

When I come back a few minutes later, it’s to find Sly and Vivian deep in conversation with the team owner’s sons, who I met when we first got here.

I do a quick scan of the room—I don’t want to interrupt business—but it turns out Sly’s been watching for me, because the moment I get close to him, he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close.

“I missed you,” he whispers in my ear.

“You’re ridiculous,” I whisper back.

Vivian watches our exchange, and something in her eyes makes me nervous—or at least cautious. But then, as the conversation lags, she holds her drink up in a toast.

“Here’s to the Super Bowl!” she crows. “And getting Austin another ring!”

We all drink to that. I finish my margarita in one long swallow. If I have to deal with Vivian all night, being a little socially lubricated certainly can’t hurt. Sadly, it doesn’t taste nearly as good warm as it did cold.

Sly leans down to ask me something, but before he can, one of the team owner’s sons—Bradley, I believe—jumps onto the stage in the front of the room and grabs the mic.

“Hello, Twisters family!” he shouts, words slurring around the edges.

Apparently, he doesn’t have the same two-drink limit I do.

“I want to start the entertainment portion of our evening by saying how grateful my family and I are for every person in this room. Together, you make this team the incredible powerhouse that it is. As a thank-you, we’ve arranged an intimate concert for tonight.”

All around us, people start turning to look at me. Even Sly glances down, eyebrow raised, but I just shake my head. I would have sung tonight if they’d asked me to, but no one did.

“Everyone, please take a seat.” He gestures to the black-draped tables scattered around the room. “And join us for the amazing, the incredible, the one, the only…Ms. Pauline Vargus.”

The room erupts as the curtain lifts to reveal Pauline and her band in all their glory.

The band is wearing black, while Pauline’s color of the day is bright, unapologetic crimson.

Red wig, red lips, red nails, red heels, long, red-sequined dress.

She looks breathtaking, not to mention sexy as hell—a fact that isn’t lost on this crowd, judging by the number of wolf whistles punctuating the applause.

Pauline waves to the crowd, and though it looks like she wants to say something, the cheering is too loud for her to even try right now. So she gives a signal to the band, and they launch into one of her biggest, hottest hits, “Me and You.”

“Did you know about this?” Sly asks without so much as dropping his eyes from Pauline for a second.

“I didn’t,” I tell him. “She must have wanted to surprise me.”

She starts to sing, and within three bars, the entire room is curled up in the palm of her hand. A glance at Sly shows me he’s right there with everyone else, and the fact that he’s so completely smitten with her fills me with joy.

I don’t know how it happened, but after all this time, I somehow managed to pick a really great guy.

After “Me and You,” Pauline launches into two more songs before finally stopping for some patter with the audience.

“Well, hello, Austin Twisters. I’ve got to say, you are the most welcoming crowd I’ve played to since…well…yesterday.”

The room erupts with laughter. “But I’ll be happy to revise that opinion in your favor if one of the big, strong men in the room wants to meet me for a little one-on-one greeting later tonight.” She makes a deliberately coquettish face as she says it, and the crowd roars with approval.

Except for Marquis, who yells, “Just tell me where to go.”

“Oh my!” Pauline makes a show of clutching her diamonds. Pearls are for soft girls, Sloane. Diamonds are for girls who won’t be broken . “Tell you what, grab a bottle of pink champagne and meet me backstage. We’ll see who comes and who flows.”

As the crowd laughs and cheers, the band plays the intro to “Come and Flow,” one of my favorite songs by Pauline.

“He’s totally showing up backstage,” Sly whispers in my ear.

“Like you wouldn’t.” I laugh as he gives me a touché sort of look.

My mentor’s in incredible form tonight, her rich, dark voice filling up every nook and cranny of the room. It’s been a long time since I’ve been on this side of a performance, and the energy is dizzying. I lean into Sly, who moves so his chest is to my back and wraps his arms around me.

I float through the next couple of songs, dizziness turning into a sweet stupor that makes everything around me feel like it’s moving in thick, syrupy motion.

Pauline finishes two more songs, then turns her attention back to the crowd.

“Hold on to those bubbles a little longer for me, will you?” she says to Marquis.

“Because I might have a surprise of my own for you lovely people here tonight. As most of you know, my very beloved Sloane Walker is here tonight, on the arm of your very charming, very talented Mateo Sylvester. Where are you, Sloane, baby?”

I’m feeling too relaxed to give her a shout, so Sly does it for me.

“She’s the reason I accepted your owner’s generous invitation to this party, and I’m so glad I did. But as I stand here, I realize it’s been nearly two years since the two of us have shared a stage, and I would very much like to remedy that tonight.”

She bats her long red lashes at the audience. “What do you think? You want Sloane to come up on here and sing a couple of songs with me?”

I only thought the crowd was excited before. The cheers and stomps this time around have the walls shaking and the chandeliers over our heads rattling precariously.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Pauline tells them as she holds out a hand to me. “Come on up here, baby, and let’s give the people what they want.”

“Hell yes!” Sly says as he looks down at me with a huge grin. “You up for it?”

“Of course!” I never turn Pauline down—I love performing with her too much. And she knows it.

Sly comes with me, his hand against my lower back as he guides me through the enthusiastic crowd. I stumble a little on the first step up to the stage, but he’s right there to keep me steady.

“You okay?” He looks a little concerned.

“I’m good,” I tell him, even though the room is spinning just a little. I definitely should have slowed down on that second margarita. “I’m just excited.”

“Come on, Sloane! Hurry those six-inch heels of yours up here, will you!” Pauline calls down to me.

“On my way!” I yell. The words feel fuzzy in my mouth, but before I can figure out why, I’m onstage and Pauline is shoving a microphone in my hand.

“What do you say we sing ‘Shame’?” she asks, naming the song we recorded together two years ago.

“Yeah, of course,” I tell her as I take hold of the microphone.

She shoots me a puzzled look as the crowd cheers around us, but then the music is starting and we both lock in.

The lights are really bright, and I have a hard time focusing on anything—Pauline’s voice as she leads off; Sly, who is still standing next to the stairs; the people crowding around the front of the stage. It all feels strange to me, like everything is out of focus. Or maybe I am?

Pauline sings the last line of her verse, and I know I have to join her in the chorus.

But the room is spinning faster now and I’m struggling to catch my breath.

Still, the show must go on, even when my legs are shaking and my web feels like it’s coming undone.

So I take a deep breath and dive into the first line of the chorus.

“Shame is all arou—”