Toto sits at attention, eyes fixed on the buttery delight.
“Here you go, boy.” Slayer tears off a large hunk of croissant for the canine. “Enjoy.”
“Generous,” I say. “Now I’ll feed Oscar.”
I tear off a smaller amount—I’m not quite as charitable as Slayer—and rise to put it in the turtle’s path.
We both watch as Oscar slowly stretches his leathery neck, sniffs at it, then uses his surprisingly long tongue to lift it to his mouth.
“I have a question to ask you, and I demand an honest answer,” Slayer says when I return to his side.
His knee is inches from mine, both of us perched on the rock. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the energy between us.
“That night at the noodle shop—did you know who I was?”
I almost choke on my croissant. “You’re asking if I knew you were Slayer? Youweren’tSlayer that evening—not really. How could I possibly know?”
Something changes in his expression as he studies my face. “Okay. Then tell me about your diary,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he tears off another piece of croissant.
“That morning, I found it open. You’d written about seeing Slayer perform, then meeting...” He looks away. “I thought you’d planned it all. That you read about that noodle shop being one of my favorite after-performance spots and decided to ambush me there.”
My eyes widen. “Oh God. The notebook.” I remember writing about the club, about seeing Slayer on stage, and finally about meeting Sam later.
If he read the entry, I can see how it might have looked. “So after reading it, you thought I was just another girl trying to use you to get ahead?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” His voice carries an edge built up after what must be years of suspicion, of betrayal.
Toto nudges my hand with his wet nose, hoping for some of my croissant. The simple gesture breaks the tension.
“Slayer, that night was real,” I assure him. “Maybe the only real thing in this whole mess.”
He looks at me then, really looks at me, and for a moment I see the man from the noodle shop—and the one who held me during the plane’s turbulence.
“Should I call you Sam or Slayer?” I ask softly.
“To the world, I’m Slayer. Always.” He gestures to his running clothes, his natural hair. “Sam is...private. For times when I’m not performing.”
His gaze holds mine, and I feel heat crawling up my neck.
“And which one went to Valentina’s villa last night?” I ask.
Slayer says nothing. He tears off another piece of croissant, but just holds it, watching Oscar’s slow progress.
“I spent a lot of time last night thinking about how everything got so twisted. About why I let Sterling control so much of my life.” He finally looks at me again. “About why I ran that morning, after you told me you were...”
“A virgin?” Heat floods my cheeks, but I force myself to hold his gaze. “Yeah, that was real too.”
“And that’s exactly why we can’t...” His hand moves toward mine, then stops, hovering just above my skin. I can feel the heat of it, the promise of contact. “This contract, these roles we’re playing—it’s complicated enough without...”
“Without making it real?” I finish for him.
“Two more days,” he says quietly. “Let’s just get through the weekend. Keep things professional.”
But the way he looks at me suggests thatprofessionalisn’t what either of us wants. His eyes drop to my lips for just a heartbeat before he pulls his gaze away.
“Professional,” I test the word, watching Oscar finally disappear into the underbrush. “Is that what you’re being with Valentina?”
His silence speaks volumes. A muscle tightens in his jaw, and I know I’ve hit a nerve. Toto looks between us, tail stilling.
