Jarrod Bowers is lucky he’s dead. Because if he wasn’t, I’d fucking kill the selfish bastard myself.

    Sloane is looking up at me with those big, brown eyes, waiting for me to say something. But I don’t have a fucking clue what I’m supposed to tell her. Not when there’s a bloodred haze filling my brain. And not when every thought I have right now starts and ends with what I would do to that piece of shit if he was still alive.

    I’ve never been a let’s settle this with our fists kind of guy, but some things require more than a “fuck you.” And trying to drown the woman I’m pretty sure I’m falling in love with is definitely one of them. Not to mention everything Sloane went through before that moment and the hell she’s been put through since. All because this selfish prick wanted to do whatever the hell he wanted without a thought to who the hell else’s life he destroyed in the process.

    De Mgro ya está muerto… Porque si no, ya sabría lo que es el verdadero infierno.

    If he wasn’t dead already…

    Because I don’t think I can say any of that without hurting her, I do the only thing I can think of. I reach for her. But I stop myself just as quickly, hand raised, because she’s had enough taken from her against her will.

    “It’s okay,” she tells me, though there’s a distinct shine to her eyes that tells me it’s anything but. “You don’t have to hug me. I understand if you just want to go hom—”

    “I don’t want to go anywhere,” I say, confident. “I just didn’t want to touch you more without permission. Sounds like you’ve had more than enough of that in your life.”

    “You can hug me.” She slowly unwraps her arms from around her waist. “I’m not fragile.”

    I don’t contradict her, don’t tell her just how wounded she appears to me right now. Instead, I pull her into my arms and hold her as tightly as I can.

    “That much is clear,” I say as I open my arms to wee her. “Even in flip-flops.” She’s the most impressive person I’ve ever met.

    The fact that she’s even here with me right now feels like a miracle. I knew she had the nickname ck Widow, but that was pretty much it. It kills me that it happened to her and kills me even more that I didn’t know about it. And, in not knowing, I brought it all crashing right back down on her where she couldn’t escape—in the SUV.

    The worst part is that I can’t take it back. Just like I can’t take the burdens and tragedies of Sloane’s past from her. No matter how much I wish I could.

    There’s so much I want to do for her and so little I can do without making things worse. So right now I do the only thing I can think of. I hold her and stroke her hair and whisper that everything is going to be okay, promising myself that I’ll make the words true.

    The fact that Sloane lets me hold her this way tells me more about her feelings for me than her words ever would. She doesn’t argue at all. And that tears me up all over again.

    I don’t know how long we stand there in the protective canopy of the trees, but it’s long enough for the Santa Anas to set the leaves to whispering all around us.

    Long enough for me to fall into the softvender-and-vani scent of her.

    And definitely long enough for me to realize that I never want to let her go.

    “I’m sorry,” she whispers against my chest, and the fact that she feels the need to do so breaks my heart.

    “I’m pretty sure it’s me and the rest of the world who should be apologizing to you,” I tell her, “and not the other way around.”

    “This”—she pulls back just far enough to throw up her hands in an all-epassing gesture—“mess isn’t what we agreed to when I made you sign all those contracts. We were supposed to calm the press down, not rile them up.”

    “I signed those contracts because I thought they were what you needed to feel safe after Marquis’s bullshit stunt, and I’ll sign a million more of them if I have to. As for the press…I don’t give two shits about them, and I never have. They can say whatever they want about me as long as they leave you alone.”

    Sheughs, but there’s no amusement in the sound. “Yeah, that’s not exactly how this works.”

    “Have they been bad?” I ask. “I mean, besides swarming the restaurant and chasing us down a hill? I hired a PR firm to keep an eye out for anything ugly about you in thest week—”

    “You did what?” she asks, looking surprised. “Why would you do that?”

    I hate that she has to ask, but considering thest guy she dated, I can see why she doesn’t understand what I’m about, especially when ites to her. And while there are a million ways I could answer that question, I settle for the simplest. “I got you into this mess. There’s no way I’m going to just leave you in it alone.”

    For long seconds, she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she stares at me with wide, shocked eyes. Finally, she whispers, “They’re not going to back off.”

    “I’ll make sure they do,” I tell her, jaw clenched at the idea. “You’re big news. I get that. Just like I’m beginning to get that us together is even bigger—at least for now. They want to chase us down a hill, fine. I can live with that. But I’m not okay with theming after you with whatever bullshit Jarrod’s rep sold them in order to keep him and his music relevant. That needs to stop.”

    “Getting into it again only makes it worse,” she says. “The more you fight, the more you give them a reason to keeping after you, the worse it gets.”

    “Better to just let them do whatever they want from the start? Say whatever they want, no matter how untrue or how hurtful?” I ask, furious at the thought of her having to take any of their shit.

    “Better to make yourself bulletproof. Let them think you’re as bad as they want you to be,” she shoots back. “And then seed anyway. It doesn’t matter as long as you know the truth.”

    And just that easily, I get another glimpse behind Sloane’s walls. “Is that what you do? Is that what all this…” I wave my hand to broadly epass the smoky eye, wild hair, and all-ck ensemble. “Is about? Living down to expectations?”

    Even as I ask the question, I watch the walls slide back into ce. “I’m just being me,” she says with a shrug.

    I’m not so sure that’s true. Because the Sloane I’m getting to know is wry and charming and maybe even a little squishy, beneath all that armor.

    The ck Widow is a lot of things, but soft and squishy aren’t among them.

    Still, I’m not about to push her on it right now. She looks wiped out, and thest thing I want to do is add to it. If I say something about it, she’ll justugh and tell me she can handle whatever I or anyone else can dish out. With everything I’ve learned about her, I know that’s more than true. But all that poweres with a cost, and I won’t be another one asking her to pay it. Just because she’s strong enough to handle something doesn’t mean she should have to.

    So I pack away the multitude of questions I’ve got for her and force myself to ask instead, “Do you want me to take you back to the hotel?”

    It’s thest thing I’d like to do right now, but I also don’t want her to feel like she has to stay here when she’s already been through so much today. “Is that what you want?” she asks, her gaze watchful again.

    “I already told you what I want,” I say. “To spend as much time with you as I possibly can. But I understand if you just want to get away. I know you have a concert tonight, and I don’t want to jeopardize—”

    “You’re not jeopardizing anything,” she tells me. And all of a sudden, the ck Widow is back in full force. Her hand is on her hip, and her lips are pursed in that mischievous, feline smile she gives her audience when she’s onstage. “Though I have to say, you sure do go to extremes to get out of buying a girl lunch.”

    I’m not sure why she feels the need to retreat behind her public persona right now, but I’m not about to fight her on it. If that’s what she needs to befortable and continue our date, I’m plenty intrigued by this Sloane, as well. We can table the conversation until she’s feeling a bit more in control.

    So instead of digging, I give her a smile I’m not quite feeling and say, “I’m not trying to get out of anything. I’ll buy you lunch, dinner, and dessert if you’ll let me. Just say the word.”

    She holds my gaze for a long second, the kind that feels like a turning point. Then she says, “Let’s start with lunch. And see what happens from there.”

    It’s not a touchdown. It’s not a victory dance. But it’s an opening. A chance. And I’m going to take it.

    Her walls are standing strong. But for the first time, I swear she’s peeking over the top to see if I’m still here.