My hands are trembling as I escort Sloane into the restaurant. But I figure that’s okay when she justid a kiss on me that knocked off a whole hell of a lot more than just my socks.

    Not to mention the way she’s currently looking up at me, her big, brown eyes filled with a potent mix of confusion and desire. So much desire that it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have not to say to hell with the press, pick her up, and carry her back to my hotel room.

    But doing that will hurt her a lot more than it will hurt me, so I shove the impulse down. “Let’s go eat, corazón,” I tell her, making sure to keep an arm wrapped around her waist as I steer her through the dining room to our table.

    She seems to recover by the time I pull her chair out, and I’ve got to say, I’m impressed by her ability to bounce back. I’m still reeling, my whole body on fire for this woman who has gone from a want to a need in the space of a single kiss.

    As I settle into the chair across from her, I search her face for some sign of what she’s feeling and, more importantly, what she’s thinking. I’ve already figured out that Sloane’s head rules everything about her.

    But if I’d gone through even half of what she has, I’d be leery, too. “You weren’t kidding,” she says as her gaze meets mine across the table.

    She’s got her usual smile in ce, the one that has a lot more to do with hiding than it does any genuine amusement. I’ve seen her use it time after time in photos, videos, onstage, and in interviews. It’s one more piece of armor that keeps us from seeing the woman behind the ck Widow mask.

    I understand why she’s wearing it right now, in the middle of what feels like an actual fishbowl, but that doesn’t stop me from hating it. From wishing it didn’t have to be like this. Of all the candid videos and interviews I’ve watched in thest two weeks, I’ve only seen Sloane’s real smile a handful of times. Most of them years old, before Jarrod and some even before Hayden.

    The only recent one is the pic she took with my abu. In those selfies and the few minutes that came before them, she had an entirely different look on her face. One that invited my abu in instead of keeping her out with a grin that’s the equivalent of a no trespassing sign.

    I’m determined to see that rxed smile and the real Sloane again, though I sure as shit know it won’t be here or now.

    “Weren’t kidding about what?” I ask as she fiddles with the ss of sparkling water I pour for her.

    “It’s hard to miss us at this table.”

    Iugh at that, because even with her guard up, she’s like a supernova. Her beauty and charisma are inescapable, pulling everyone around her straight into her gravitational field.

    “You’re pretty hard to miss anywhere, especially looking like that.”

    She nces down at her formfitting ck slip dress, one strap of which is hanging “casually” off her shoulder. “And here I thought I was being subtle.”

    I smile despite myself. “I rest my case.”

    “You don’t look too bad yourself, you know.”

    I nce down at my own clothes. “Your team said to wear ‘jeans and an unaffiliated T-shirt,’ but still…I feel underdressed.”

    She snorts. “I think you cleaned up all right.”

    “Is that your way of saying I look good?” I lean forward a little, as mesmerized by her as everyone else on the.

    “Like you need me to tell you that.”

    “What? A guy’s not allowed a little insecurity?” I ask.

    “Somehow I doubt that guy is you,” she answers, her eyes lingering on my biceps.

    So she’s an arm girl… Nice to know.

    Before I can think of something else to say, she buries her face in the bouquet I brought her and breathes deeply.

    “The flowers are gorgeous. Thank you.”

    “You’re wee. But they aren’t half as gorgeous as you.”

    She rolls her eyes. “I didn’t realize we were bringing out all the cheesy lines today.”

    “Hey, I’m just doing my part to keep things as superficial as possible,” I reply. “I didn’t think we were supposed to get deep with this many people trying to read our lips.”

    “You forgot about the listening devices.”

    “The what?” I nce around before I can stop myself and mistakenly catch several people’s eyes as they look quickly away—but not quickly enough. “You’re not serious.”

    She lifts a brow. “Wanna bet?”

    “I absolutely do not.”

    “Don’t look so scandalized,” she tells me in azy sort of way. “It’s just the cost of doing business.”

    “Yeah, well, we’re not doing business,” I shoot back.

    She gives me a wry little twist of her lips. “You sure about that?”

    “Actually, I am.”

    It’s her turn to look startled—to let me in—if only for a second. But then the shieldse back up, blocking her thoughts and every other piece of her from the world.

    I’m beginning to hate that look, no matter how much I also understand it. A small, impatient part of me wants to figure out how to scale every single one of those walls, but the part that’s trying so hard to understand her knows that doing so will only hurt us both.

    I have to wait for her to let me in.

    “Would you like something besides water?” I ask. “Maybe something stronger?”

    “I only drink water when I’m working out,” she tosses back. “Otherwise, I’m a bourbon girl—preferably Four Roses.”

    As if by magic, our waiter appears. “On the rocks?” he asks.

    “Neat, please,” Sloane responds in a voice that sounds a lot more slurred than it did just a second ago.

    The waiter, however, doesn’t bat an eye. “And for the gentleman?”

    “I’ll take an iced tea.”

    “Certainly.” He fades away as quietly as he came.

    “So whatever shall we talk about now?” she asks almost mockingly. “The weather? The view? How big your dick is?”

    Well, that’s one way to break the ice. I watch as she wraps herself in barbed wire and dares me to reach in. I don’t know everything she’s been through, but I know enough to understand why trust doesn’te easy for her. And why letting someone close probably feels a hell of a lot more dangerous than standing out there in front of the paparazzi.

    So I don’t push her. I do, however, lean back in my chair and prop my elbow up behind me in as rxed a pose as I can manage in the middle of this damn ce. “Pretty sure the answers to all three of those are obvious. But I’m more than happy to discuss whichever one you prefer.”

    Her eyes narrow dangerously. “Does that usually work for you?”

    “My willingness to go with the flow?” I rify.

    “Your ‘aw shucks, I’m just a small-town boy’ act,” she snaps back. “The guileless eyes, the rxed posture, the open-book attitude. Does it usually get you whatever you want?”

    “I guess that depends on what I want.”

    “I’m not so sure it does,” she says, her brown eyes boring into mine. “But it’s a good act. I’ll give you that.”

    Her questions are starting to get under my skin, and so is the tone she’s using to ask them. I know she’s in defense mode, know she’s trying to push me away after what happened outside, but still. She may want to sit here and pretend that kiss was all an act for the cameras, but I felt it. And so did she.

    But because I’m still very aware of the stares and, apparently, the eavesdropping, I don’t call her on it. Just because we’re jockeying for position right now doesn’t mean I’m willing to do something that will make her ufortable.

    When she doesn’t borate, I don’t push. Instead, I watch her steadily and wait for some cue as to what I should do next. A little voice at the back of my head keeps trying to convince me that I’m blowing it with her, but the rest of me isn’t so sure.

    Sloane may want the world to believe she doesn’t give a shit, but something tells me she won’t appreciate a man she can walk all over, either. If I’m wrong, then we have a bigger problem than I think.

    I can be a lot of things, bend a lot of ways to make her feel morefortable, but I won’t break for anyone.

    So we wait, eyes locked as the tension stretches like a tightrope between us. It doesn’t stop me from noticing the gold and amber specks that spread out like a sunburst from her left pupil. Or the tiny pattern of freckles that dance like magic along her cor bone.

    Sloane reaches for her water and takes a long, slow sip, all without dropping her gaze from mine. When she finally lowers the ss, her tongue darts out to catch an errant drop of water, and all I can think is that I wish it was my tongue catching that drop instead.

    I don’t know if she sees it in my eyes, but all of a sudden she breaks the silence as well as the idental staring contest. “How did you get that star-shaped scar next to your eye?”

    “It’s a long story.” And not a nice one.

    Both her brows go up. A question instead of a challenge. “We haven’t even ordered yet, so I’d say we’ve got time.”

    It’s my turn to reach for my water. “I got punched by a guy wearing a Super Bowl ring.”

    “So, not that long of a story,” she teases until her gaze collides with mine again. I don’t know what she sees reflected there, but her eyes narrow just a little as she continues. “Was it someone on your team? Or a different one?”

    “A different team.” I take a quick gulp of water and try not to think about the circumstances that led to that fight. But the guilt and the outrage are already welling up inside me, just like they always do.

    “Well, now it definitely sounds like a story to be told.”

    “It probably does.” I punch the guilt back, shove it down deep. “Ask me another time, and I promise I’ll give you the details.” I won’t enjoy it, but I’ll do it.

    For a second, I think she’s going to protest, but then it’s like she remembers where we are, because she just nods and takes another sip of her water.

    “Bourbon neat for thedy,” the waiter says as he gingerly ces Sloane’s ss on the table in front of her. “And iced tea for the gentleman.” He plunks mine down without so much as ncing my way, which seems fair. I can’t take my eyes off of Sloane right now, either. “I’ll give you a few minutes to start on those, then be back to tell you about the specials.”

    “Thank you,” she tells him in the husky voice that gives me chills.

    He nods and starts to back away. But it takes another ten seconds for him to rip his eyes away from Sloane. I can’t help grinning into my tea. She may be known as the ck Widow, but there’s no shortage of men willing to be her meal.

    She seems oblivious, but I recognize the look on his face.

    Probably because I’ve been wearing a simr one for almost two weeks now.

    “My turn to ask a question,” I say when he finally walks away.

    “Ask me anything you want.” She palms the ss of bourbon, slowly spinning it between her hands. “Whether or not I answer is a different story.”

    “What are we doing here?”

    For the second time today, she looks startled. And just like the first, the expression disappears as quickly as it came. “I thought we were on a date,” she replies, finally lifting the bourbon to her mouth and taking the daintiest of sips before lowering it back down again. “That is what you asked for, isn’t it?”

    “It’s what Marquis asked for,” I answer.

    She looks half amused, half insulted when she replies, “Are you saying you don’t want to be here?”

    “I want to be anywhere you are, Sloane. Even if this isn’t quite what I had in mind.”

    She pauses, lips parted just a little, like she wants to respond. But before she can, the damn waiter shows up again. “May I share our specials for the afternoon?” he asks, once more addressing only Sloane in a voice that’s all pomp and no circumstance.

    Which, in my book, is just one more reason to leave. I hate ces like this, where the waitstaff is often just as snobby as the clientele, if not more so.

    She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she stares at me like she’s trying to figure out the answer to a really difficult question.

    I know the answer I want from her, but I don’t have a clue if she even understands what I’m asking. So I throw the waiter’s question back at her, this time with an inflection of my own. “You tell me, Sloane. Do we want to hear the specials?”