Sly doesn’t raise his voice when he asks the question. He doesn’t even sound particrly invested in my answer. But I can see in his eyes what he wants my answer to be—and why.

    I just don’t know if I can give it to him.

    From the moment I kissed him, I’ve felt off-kilter. Unbnced. Like one wrong move will tip me over and have all of my secrets pouring out.

    It’s thest thing I want, the thing I’ve spent so many years guarding against. No one has evere close to breaching my walls before, so what is it about Sly that makes me feel so threatened and secure, all at the same time?

    The waiter, who hasn’t pried his gaze off me once since we sat down, waits for my answer. And as I nce into his eager eyes, I already know what it’s going to be. I just have to get the words out.

    “No, I really don’t.” I shoot the waiter an apologetic look as Sly lets out a little whoop of triumph.

    He tosses a hundred-dor bill on the table, and then his hand is closing over mine and he’s pulling me up, pulling me away.

    I grab the flowers at thest second before letting Sly propel us through the restaurant. They’re too pretty to be trashed.

    I have one moment of regret—I’m not yet ready to face the paparazzi again—but before it fully registers, Sly veers us off to the right.

    “What are we doing?” I ask, strangely breathless as he steers me onto the back patio.

    “Getting out of here,” he answers with a quick grin that sets my heart to pounding in all the best and scariest ways.

    My eyes widen as I realize what he’s talking about. I smile, because it’s a brilliant solution to the problem…as long as we do it quickly.

    Marco’s going to kill me, but for the first time in a good long while, I’m ready to leave the shallow water for the deep, blue sea—or at least dip a few toes in and see if they get bitten off first. Which is why, when we get to the waist-high ss fence that surrounds the patio, I don’t protest as Sly vaults over it like it’s not even there. And then I let him help me, and my tight dress, over it as well.

    The moment my feetnd on the other side, we start running straight down the grassy knoll that borders the back side of the Willow’s property.

    I only take a few steps before I realize my shoes aren’t going to work. I can dance in six-inch heels all night on a stage, but sprinting across wet grass is another thing altogether. I kick them off and bend to pick them up. But then I realize the media—and the fans—have copped to our escape.

    “Leave them!” Sly orders as he notices our audience, too. Then he’s threading his fingers through mine and we’re racing as fast as we can toward the bottom of the hill.

    Part of me keeps waiting for the part where I trip in this dress and go flying into oing traffic. But Sly has a firm grip on me, and every time I so much as stumble, he uses brute strength to set me right. It’s an amazing thing to be with a man who is sensitive enough to anticipate what’s going to happen before it urs and strong enough to ensure that it never does.

    I nce behind us as we get to the parking lot at the bottom of the hill and realize the others are gaining on us. The paparazzi have their cameras out, snapping pictures while they run. My fans are doing the same with their smartphones. I can’t imagine what all these pics are going to look like on social media, but I’m pretty sure it won’t be good.

    I’m also nearly certain that Bryan may blow a gasket over them, considering none of this was in his very detailed itinerary.

    “They’re getting closer!” I tell Sly as we pound across the pavement.

    “Don’t worry about them,” he answers, ncing down at my bare feet. “Do you need me to carry you?”

    “No!” I can only imagine what the fans will make of that. “Please don’t. I’m good, honest.” Though I do pull my skirt up to right above my knees to make it easier to run.

    Then we’re sprinting through the back parking lot to the street that runs along the side of the building. “Which way?” I ask, a little breathless now because Sly can run fast.

    He doesn’t hesitate. “Left!”

    I follow his lead, trying to ignore how the screams seem to be getting closer. If they catch us, we’re going to get mobbed. Of that, I have no doubt. But I’m going to take a leap here and trust someone other than me and my security team to keep me safe.

    I don’t know much else about Sly yet, but I do know he’ll take care of me. I saw it in the way he treats his grandmother, heard the certainty in his voice the night he told me most beautiful things start out messy.

    More than anything else, it’s the man behind that certainty that’s kept me up every night this week.

    And it’s that man I’m putting my faith in right now.

    If he disappoints me, it won’t be the first time. It’ll be a mess, sure, but Marco and the others can’t be far behind the screaming mob. We’ll figure it out eventually.

    But if Sly doesn’t disappoint me…that would be even messier than I imagined.

    We make it to the corner of the street just as the front runners in our little mob burst out of the parking lot. But they must have called in reinforcements, because a smaller group is closing in from the other side, cameras at the ready.

    “I think we’re fucked,” I tell Sly.

    But he just grins as the door of the SUV on the corner slides open. The in gray, nondescript SUV.

    He holds a hand out to me. “Need a ride?”

    “When did you get this?” I ask as I take his hand and jump into the back.

    “Does it matter?” Sly answers as he ms the door and the vehicle pulls into traffic. “Just know I’m not the kind of guy who would get you into something I couldn’t get you out of.”

    Then, because I’m struggling with the seat belt, he leans over and helps me slide the buckle home before doing up his own.

    I feel something inside me give a little.

    How am I supposed to resist this guy? Any questionable moves he and/or Marquis made in the past are totally getting buried beneath all the right ones he’s making now.

    As if to underscore the unfamiliar feelings stirring inside of me, Pink’s “TRUSTFALL”es on the radio. For a second I want nothing more than to rip the door back open and jump out of the car. Who cares if it’s right into traffic? Getting run over has to hurt less than wherever this is heading.

    But since I can see the headlines already, I stay where I am as we skate through one yellow light after another, finally leaving the media far behind as the song continues to y. I don’t say anything for a few minutes, and neither does Sly.

    Instead, I focus straight ahead, watching the other cars go by and pretending not to notice that the only thing Sly is watching is me.

    But with every second that passes, the tension inside me ratchets higher. Until, finally, Miley Cyrus’s “Flowers”es on.

    As the opening lyrics fill the car, Sly nces down at the flowers I’m somehow still holding. And I crack up. I can’t help it.

    Heughs, too, and then we’re taking turns belting out the lyrics at the top of our lungs. It’s all fun and games, until he changes the post-chorus to say “you” instead of “me,” and my heart all but explodes.

    “What are we doing?” I whisper.

    “Whatever you want,” he whispers back, his gaze never wavering from mine.

    “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

    “That’s okay.” He smiles. “I can wait.”

    And then he goes back to belting out the lyrics just the way Miley wrote them. I sing right along with him until the song finally ends and one of my ownes on.

    Apparently, our driver has an affinity for pop stars. “Where are we going?” I ask, trying to drown out my own voice—and more importantly, the lyrics I wrote for another man—before Sly notices.

    He gives me a look that says he knows exactly what I’m up to but also that he’s willing to go along with it if that’s what I want.

    Which I do, very much.

    “Should we go back to my hotel?” I all but shout.

    “What kind of man do you think I am?” Sly pretends to be scandalized. “It’s going to take a lot more than one little paparazzi run to get me into bed.”

    “However will I handle the disappointment?” I take the lifeline he’s thrown me and continue. “I’m just saying, our choices are limited, considering I left my shoes somewhere around the halfway mark of that hill you just had us run down.”

    “In the hands of a lesser date nner, that might be a problem,” he agrees.

    “But not for you?”

    He just smiles mysteriously. And though I try, I can’t help but smile back.

    “I think that’s the first real smile you’ve ever given me.” His grin widens. “I like it.”

    “Yeah, well, don’t get too used to it.” I try for a scowl, but my damn lips won’t cooperate. They just keep turning upward at the corners.

    “I promise not to.” He nods like he’s actually giving my words serious consideration. “But you should probably stop smiling if you don’t want me getting the impression that you enjoy spending time together.”

    I shrug. “I could say the same to you.”

    “Yes, but I do enjoy yourpany, and I don’t care who knows it.”

    “Why?” For some reason I’ll never understand, the word slips past my barriers, past all the years of refusing to give a fuck. Of course, the second it’s out, I want to pull it back. It makes me feel vulnerable when I’m never vulnerable, needy when I’m not supposed to need.

    “Don’t answer that,” I order, shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

    “It matters,” he says softly. “And I’ll answer it when we’re alone.”

    He casts a significant look at the back of the driver’s head, which makes me feel even more foolish than I did before. Just because the guy has the radio on doesn’t mean he isn’t listening to every word we’re saying.

    I’ve spent thest five years making sure no one has any ammunition to use against me except what I give them, and in one day—one minute—I’ve blown all that work to smithereens.

    My song finally ends, and I take a few deep breaths. At least until I recognize the opening of the next song.

    I freeze for a moment as the lyrics hook sharp and deep, dragging blood from a wound I thought had long since scabbed over.

    No. Just fucking no.

    “Stop the car.” I want to shout the words, but my throat is so tight, theye out as little more than a croak.

    “What’s wrong?” Sly asks, eyes wide.

    But all I can hear is Jarrod’s voice and that goddamn song. “Stop the car!” I say again.

    Sly turns toward the driver. “Can you please pull over?”

    “There’s a lot of traffic. I need a minute,” the driver replies. “Is she going to puke?”

    The choruses on, and that’s it.

    I reach for the door and start yanking at it, desperate to escape.

    Desperate to make it stop.

    “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” the driver yelps. “The door won’t open until the car stops!”

    “So stop the damn car!” Sly orders.

    Secondster, the driver ms on the brakes.

    The moment he stops, I throw off my seat belt and lunge for the door, leaving the flowers behind. It’s still locked, but I keep pulling the handle, keep pushing against it so hard that when the driver finally unlocks it I nearly fall out, right into oing traffic.

    Sly catches my arm with a muttered curse, holding me in ce for several seconds as cars whiz by. The moment it clears, he jumps out and pulls me tight against him.

    All around us, cars are honking—L.A. traffic is a bitch even when a car doesn’t stop randomly in the middle of the road—but Sly ignores all of it. Instead, he sweeps me into his arms and carries me across twones of very pissed-off traffic.

    “I can walk,” I tell him as soon as we get to the sidewalk. But he just shoots me a look and keeps moving.

    “You can’t carry me forever,” I protest, and this time I wiggle against him in an effort to be put down.

    He still doesn’t say anything.

    “Damn it, Sly! What are you—”

    He shushes me, a reaction I’ve never heard from him before. I’m not one to shut up for any man, let alone one who refuses to tell me what’s going on. But there’s something in Sly’s eyes that has me snapping my mouth shut. It has a lot less to do with mycking shoes than it does my wanting to stay in his arms. Because being carried bridal style has a whole lot of my body pushed up against a whole lot of his.

    I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t feel good. His strong arms around me. The way his hard chest feels against my side. How his too-good-looking face is so close to mine. Most of all, I like how it feels to be held so carefully, and so close to his heart, like it takes no effort at all.

    It’s been a long time since I’ve felt safe with a man. Even longer since I’ve felt protected. It’s an odd and wonderful and dangerous feeling. Too dangerous.

    “You know you have to put me down eventually, right?” I ask when I finally find my voice again. “You can’t carry me through L.A.”

    “I’m not nning on carrying you through all of L.A.”

    “Well, then, maybe you should—”

    “Can you trust me?” he asks, his wild brown eyes finding mine even as he continues walking. “Two more minutes, that’s all I ask.”

    He says it like it’s the easiest thing in the world when it’s very definitely not. I’ve only trusted three men in my life: my father, Hayden, and Jarrod. And every single one of them let me down. In the most hurtful, spectacr ways possible.

    I’ve been alone for five years not because I have to but because I’ve chosen to be. Life’s a lot safer when you have no expectations of people and they have none of you.

    And I’ve been doing fine by myself, thank you very much. Living my life. Doing my concerts. Connecting with fans all over the world. It was enough.

    More than enough.

    At least until Sly came along and shook everything up sopletely that I have no idea how to get back to that version of myself. Or worse, if I even want to.

    That’s the scariest thought of all. I worked so hard to get to a ce where I was okay. If one afternoon with Sly manages to strip this much of it away, what am I going to be left with if I let myself fall?

    What am I supposed to do?

    Unwittingly, I make a sound of distress deep in my throat. I clench my teeth together as soon as ites out, but it’s a case of too little, toote, because Sly definitely heard it.

    His arms tighten around me, though his voice softens even more. “We’re almost there.”

    I nod, because I can’t trust my voice at this point. And then I do the most embarrassing thing yet: I bury my face in his chest and let him do whatever he wants as I breathe in the warm whiskey-sunshine scent of him.

    “I mean it when I say I’ve got you, Sloane,” he whispers against my temple. “Just let me take care of us for a little while.”

    Because I don’t know what else to do at this point, I whisper “Okay” and rx against his chest.

    It feels good to let my aching muscles rest as he walks me another couple of blocks down the busy, treelined street. Right in front of a tourist merch booth,plete with Hollywood hats, T-shirts, keychains, and flip-flops.

    “They’re not Louboutins,” Sly admits, “but they’ll do in a pinch. What color do you want?”

    Five minutester, I’m the proud owner of a pair of hot pink L.A. is Paradise flip-flops with white flowers stenciled all over them, plus a cream bucket hat that matches Sly’s own.

    It’s not a fantastic disguise, but it’s better than nothing. “Thank you,” I tell him as we walk along the edges of Griffith Park near the observatory.

    Sly nods, but he doesn’t say anything else until we get into a deeper, more secluded area of the park, far away from prying eyes. Only then does he turn to me and say, “I know I said I wouldn’t push you. I even told myself I’d let this be as easy as you needed it to be. But you can’t nearly jump out of a moving vehicle and almost get run over without me having to ask… What the fuck happened back there?”