It takes me a few seconds to even register Sly’s words. I’m too blinded by his easy smile and ridiculous cheekbones, by his near-ck eyes, warm light-brown skin, and far too bitable jaw—which I didn’t even know was a thing before this moment.

    I haven’t seen him since that night at the concert when I agreed to meet his grandma, and though I’ve looked him up online several times, neither my memories of that night nor the pictures I’ve seen do justice to the way he looks in person. And while our phone calls have had me thinking about him in a different light, even they haven’t made my mouth go dry or my stomach flutter quite like this.

    “You look pretty good yourself,” I tell him when I can finally find the words. And he does. Dress jeans hug strong legs, and the simple ck T-shirt he’s wearing shows off his incredible arms—and eyes—to their best advantage. With biceps like that, it’s easy to believe he can throw a ball nearly the length of a football field.

    Sly holds a hand out to help me from the car, and I take it gingerly, knowing that as soon as I leave the protection of the SUV, it’s open season. The fact that I asked for this date as a stopgap measure—demanded it, really—doesn’t matter. Not when Bryan has spent thest two hours reminding me of how to look, how to act, how to breathe. And definitely not when I know the media and paparazzi are going to be out for blood.

    My blood.

    But the sooner we start, the sooner it will all be over.

    I take a deep breath, school my face into its practiced look of amused disdain, then slowly slide out of the car. As I do, Sly puts his free hand on my back and turns me gently so that I’m almost pressed against him.

    Then he leans down and—in a husky voice that sends shivers down my spine—murmurs in my ear, “Sorry about all this. But I’ve got us.”

    For a second, I almost let myself believe him.

    It’s hard not to when I can feel the warmth radiating off his hand against my back and smell the fresh, sandalwood-and-sunshine scent of him. He feels so good, looks and sounds and smells so good, that it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to burrow into him and let the chips fall where they may.

    But then the paps start yelling my name, ordering me to turn around, demanding that I give them the picture they came for, and I deliberately straighten my spine as I push the memories away. But the second I tighten up, Sly’s gaze turnsser sharp.

    Amazingly, he doesn’t fight me on the retreat.

    Instead, he lets his hand drop from my back. I know it’s what I want—what I asked for—but I feel immediately bereft. Until it hits me that he’s still holding my hand, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the backs of my fingers.

    Despite myself, I hold on tight as I turn toward the screaming throng of camerapeople and let them do their worst. Five minutes, I tell myself. Five minutes and it will all be over. Until the next time.

    “Lean in, Sly. Give her a kiss.”

    “Smile, Sloane.”

    “Smile bigger, Sloane.”

    “Can we get a hug?”

    “How about a cuddle? Can we get a cuddle?”

    “Where are the flowers, Sly?”

    Beneath the questions is another wholeyer of noise—screams and shouts and celebrationsing from the fans cordoned off toward the far side of the drive. I can see a couple of Marco’s guys holding the line, making sure they don’t rush forward and swallow us whole.

    Sly doesn’t lean into me like the paps request, so I lean into him. Give him a teasing smile for the camera, even pucker up like I’m going to blow him a slow, seductive kiss.

    He lifts a brow at that, and the fans go wild, screaming and cheering even more loudly.

    The paps go wild, too, but in a different way. Their cameras whirr and click, and the entertainment reporters take over, firing questions at us so fast I can’t even hear all of them, let alone try to formte answers.

    “Sly, are you nervous about dating the famed ck Widow? Her bites are known to be venomous.”

    “What is it about men at the top of their game that you find so attractive, Sloane?”

    “Why do you work so hard to bring them down? Are you jealous of their sess?”

    “How do you feel about being the next Hayden Jeffries, Sly? What about the next Jarrod Bowers?”

    The questions go on and on, and the fact that we’re not answering them only makes the people asking more rabid. On the inside, I can feel myself shrinking, trying to shrivel up as the humiliating questionsnd like poison-tipped arrows.

    I thought I was ready for this, thought I was used to it. But there’s something about having Sly here when they try to take a piece of me that makes it so much worse—so much more degrading. I know he knows the public stories of what happened between Hayden and me, between Jarrod and me. But knowing he knows them and standing here, a fake smile on my face, as he faces the reality of it all is something very different. It’s like being stripped naked from the inside out, all my ws on full disy for him and everyone to see.

    Bryan warned me this would happen and coached me to ignore it. They’re vultures. They don’t want truth. They want a soundbite to twist, a picture to create buzz, a little bit of blood to satiate the masses.

    But it’s impossible to ignore when they’re shouting at me from all directions. Even more impossible not to feel it deep inside as Sly stiffens against me more with each second that passes.

    “Sloane’s not known for keeping her guys around long, Sly. How do you feel about that?” someone yells.

    He starts to say something back—something I’m afraid will only make the situation a million times worse—so I squeeze his hand to get his attention and to let him know it doesn’t matter.

    Even though it does.

    He shifts his gaze back to mine, and his brown irises are now storm-dark. His whole face is turning into a thundercloud before my very eyes, and I know him getting worked up is the worst thing that can happen. The pics will speak volumes to people around the globe, especially with the lurid headlines I know will apany them. Headlines that are practically writing themselves the longer he stands here looking upset.

    “Let’s go insi—” I start to say softly.

    But before I can even finish, another reporter yells, “Aren’t you afraid she’s going to kill you, too, Sly?”

    I squeeze his hand even more tightly, desperate to stop what I have no doubt is about to be yet another PR nightmare. But this time, Sly doesn’t say anything. He just steps forward, like a predator zeroing in on a threat. He’s still holding my hand, but everything else in him is focused on the target.

    Because thest thing he needs is for the entire world—including the NFL and the LAPD—to watch him take down some lowlife paparazzi. I do the only thing I can think of to distract him, the thing that’s been on my mind since the moment he opened that door.

    I step forward, putting myself between the photographers and Sly before rising up on my tiptoes and leaning into him. I stop, lips hovering a fraction of an inch from his, and wait for him to decide whether to close the distance between us.

    Does he ever.