Sly holds out a hand, and this time I take it without hesitation. I’m not sure what tomorrow will bring—hell, I don’t even know what the next few hours will bring—but after everything we just talked about, I’m emotionally wrung out.

    I’m ready to have a little fun with this man, to enjoy him for a little while. And if I have to be the ck Widow to feel safe doing it, then that’s okay with me.

    As we trek back to the main area of the park, his thumb rubs circles on the back of my hand. It feels good, soothing, but somehow also manages to make tiny little zings of electricity zip through me. Besides the kiss at the restaurant earlier, it’s the first time that’s happened to me in a really long time.

    Having it happen with Sly, who feels like a good guy instead of just a nice guy, makes it less scary than I imagined it would be.

    “So, what do you want to do now?” he asks when we finally make it up the hill.

    “Oh, no, you’re not getting off that easy,” I tease with a smile I actually mean. “I nned the first half of this date. Just because the Willow was a disaster doesn’t mean I didn’t do it. Now it’s your turn, though I suggest you don’t take us anywhere crowded. The more people there are around—”

    “The more chances there are for us to get spotted,” he finishes, tugging his hat down a little lower. “The park it is, then.”

    “The park? You want to stay here?” I ask, because it never urred to me that we’d actually hang out in the park. Probably because Jarrod would have died before hiking through a park; air-conditioned yoga followed by lunch at the most expensive ce in the area was more his date of choice. But Sly isn’t Jarrod, and the sooner I remember that, the better off I’ll be.

    “Why not? For whatever reason, it’s pretty quiet here this afternoon. If we’re careful, we might actually manage to go the whole date without being recognized. Plus, it’s beautiful, and the mosquitoes won’t be out for a few more hours,” he adds. “Seems like a win-win to me.”

    “I’m notining,” I tell him with a grin. “I’m just surprised.”

    “Well, don’t be. I’ve got this.” He steers me toward a paved walkway that runs along the outer edge of the park. “It’s been a while since I’ve been here, but I have a few ideas.”

    It turns out those ideas are all epassed in a small collection of food trucks at the outskirts of the park. They serve everything from tacos and crepes to Korean fried chicken and vored churros piled high with ice cream.

    I turn to him in amazement. “How did you know this was here?”

    He steps up to the truck and levels a grin that could short-circuit half of Hollywood at the stern older woman working the window. It lights up his whole face and shows off his gleaming chocte-brown eyes to their best advantage. The fact that he doesn’t even know he’s doing it makes the whole thing even more fascinating—and more adorable.

    I watch her transform from suspicious to giddy in the space of one point three seconds, even before he greets her in Spanish.

    She answers the same way as Sly leans an elbow on the stainless steel ledge, but after a nce at me, he switches to English. “Is there anything on the menu you don’t rmend?”

    “Of course not. Mi esposo and I make everything ourselves.” She looks him over like she’s trying to decide how much he can take. “The tomatillo taco is very spicy, though.”

    Sly sizes her up right back. “How spicy are we talking here?”

    “Muy caliente,” she answers. “I think you can take it, but I’m not so sure about her.” She nods at me.

    Sly cracks up as I try to decide if I’m offended or not. “Don’t worry about her,” he tells thedy. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

    Iugh, but something about the exchange leaves a strange ache in my chest. Maybe it’s the casual confidence in Sly’s voice, the way he assumes I’m strong enough for whatever this thing between us is. For once, I almost believe him.

    “She’ll have to be,” the woman tosses back, “to keep up with you.”

    “He’s a lot to keep up with,” I agree.

    She gives me a surprisingly cheeky smile. “The good ones always are.”

    I don’t know if it relieves me or puts me more on edge that even she can recognize the goodness in Sly after a minutes-long exchange.

    So what is he doing with me when I’ve spent thest five years making sure everyone knows just how bad I am?

    My doubts must show on my face, because he reaches out and squeezes my hand before saying, “We’ll take one of everything on the menu. Except give me two of those tomatillo tacos.”

    “That’s like…fourteen different things,” I tell him, eyes wide.

    “Hmm, you’re right.” He shes me a grin before turning back to the woman. “Better make that dos carne asada tacos, too. It’s practically dinner, and I don’t want my girl to go hungry.”

    My heart skips a beat, maybe two. I tell myself to calm down, but it doesn’t matter.

    He called me his girl. I know I shouldugh, toss it back, brush it off, because he doesn’t mean anything by it. But instead, I freeze. Not because I mind but because it feels good to imagine it. Too good.

    My stomach twists, and a shiver runs down my spine. Because feeling good is dangerous. Feeling good means I’ve let my guard down too much. It means I’ve got something to lose.

    I dig my feet into the gravel, forcing myself to keep my face neutral and my body rxed even though the hyper-vignt part of my brain is screaming at me to retreat.

    But Sly sees it anyway. He pauses in the middle of pulling out a worn, brown leather wallet, and though he doesn’t say anything, there’s a question in his eyes as he waits to see what I’m going to do next.

    Part of me wants to turn around and flee—this is getting too real. I’m starting to want it too much. But if I run now, I know Sly won’t chase me. He’ll let me go if he thinks it’s what I want.

    Which begs the question… What do I want?

    The easy answer is peace. But the not-so-easy answer is standing right in front of me, a careful look in his eyes.

    The smart thing to do would be to back away, to channel the ck Widow and put some distance between us, literally and figuratively.

    But that would also be the cowardly thing, too, and I’m no coward. So instead of retreating, I take a step forward and say, “Can you add a Jarritos to that order?”