“You quiet down so you can hear me sing this song for you, and I promise to kiss and tell.”

    Sloane’s words are drowned out by cheers in the video I’m watching of her concertst night, and all I can think is: How the hell did something as simple as me liking a woman turn into this fucking circus?

    Okay, not simple. Nothing about Sloane Walker is simple.

    I met her. I liked her. I wanted to ask her out. And that might have worked, if everything else didn’t get in the way.

    Now I’m sitting in the damn practice room, waiting to go into today’s press conference and watching as Sloane is nearly injured at one of her own concerts by one of the fan footballs we sell at the games.

    It infuriates me, makes me want to stand in front of her next stage and make damn sure no one so much as breathes wrong in her direction.

    Pissed off, heartsick, and more worried than I want to admit, I click another video. This one is titled Sloane Holds Sly’s Jersey 3 3 3.

    I learned my lesson about how loud the audience could get at the concert here in Austin, so I have the volume turned down, which means I’m not distracted by the screams as she slides my jersey over her head and prances around the stage for a few seconds. She looks good in it. Not just sexy—though yeah, that, too—but strong. Fierce. Like she’s not afraid of being seen.

    Despite all the chaos swirling around us, warmth blossoms in my chest and a fluttering kicks up in my stomach. I don’t care if it’s corny, there’s something about seeing her holding my jersey that makes me feel…imed. Not in a caveman—or in this case, cavewoman—sort of way. More like she picked me. And whether it was part of the act or not, I want to be someone who’s worthy of that choice.

    Vivian called this morning to say Sloane agreed to go on one date with me. I should be thrilled, but it’s not a real date—it’s a one-and-done, in-front-of-the-paps kind of thing.

    Not exactly what I’d imagined when I felt the connection between us at her concert.

    Then again, she probably didn’t anticipate her concert getting hijacked by a bunch of “our” fans, either. So if this is the way she wants to handle it, I’ll y along. I owe her that much—and a hell of a lot more.

    Still, I can’t help but think about how easy it would be to fall for her.

    The way she teases me. The way she sniffs ca lilies like she’s trying to find a hidden meaning in their petals. The way she looked at me in her dressing room, like she felt the connection between us.

    I really like this woman. More than I should. And I think we really could be good together…if the rest of the world would just butt the hell out.

    But judging by the number of videos uploaded in the past twenty-four hours alone, that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

    I start to click another, partly because I’m still furious she was almost hurt and partly because I just want to watch her. From every angle. In every moment.

    It’s not rational, but she’s gotten under my skin in all the best ways.

    Before I can click through, I get a text from Vivian. Sloane’s terms for the date are in. The list is long enough she forwarded it as an email.

    What the ever-loving hell?

    I already agreed to go out with her and put on a show for the paparazzi. What else can she want?

    But I know the answer even as I ask the question. She wants control. Safety. Boundaries. And she deserves all that and more.

    So I grit my teeth and open the email, scanning for anything I can’t live with. But before I get far, the team’s PR guy walks in. He’s in a suit with a blue tie, same as me. But unlike me, he looks like he actually belongs in the thing.

    “You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks. He’s not talking about football.

    “Born ready,” I reply.

    “Really?” He gives me a look. “You just agreed to go on a date with one of the most talked-about pop stars in the world. What are you going to tell the press when they ask?”

    “I was going to go with the ole ‘Noment.’” At least that way, I can’t do any more damage.

    Heughs, then stops when he sees I’m not joking.

    “Oh, wait. You’re serious.”

    I shrug.

    “Yeah, that’s not gonna fly,” he says. “Did you see her concertst night?”

    “Clips.”

    “She promised an arena full of people she’d take a bite out of you. Then tell them all about it.” The fact that he says it with a straight face makes my own lips twitch. “If you think any reporter you talk to between now and then is going to be asking about anything else, you’re more naive than I took you for.”

    “I know they’re going to ask about it. That doesn’t mean I need to answer. I can keep personal things personal.”

    “Personal?” The look he gives me now is just in disbelieving. “After sting your business on the jumbotron?” He’s got me spanthere… “Even if you did get away with that answer, the follow-up question is going to be: ‘Does it bother you that Sloane obviously doesn’t have the same respect for you and your rtionship?’”

    “She was joking, Moises. Trying to keep the crowd in check.”

    “Exactly. Which means if you don’t say something, they’re going to assume she’s running this show and you’re just along for the ride.”

    “So?” Far be it from me to lie to the people.

    “So, if you don’t control the narrative, the press will. And you won’t like how they spin it, Mr. Caught-in-the-spider’s-web.”

    He’s right. I hate that he’s right.

    I’ve had press attention before. I’ve had fans show up at my house. But Sloane? She’s ying in a whole different league, and I don’t even know the rules.

    “What should I say, then?” He looks surprised but also so relieved by the question that I have tough. “Did you honestly think I was going to fight you on this?”

    “You wouldn’t be the first,” he admits as he sinks down onto the padded bench next to me. “Sometimes I forget how reasonable you are. Start with a joke. Something self-deprecating if they ask about the jumbotron. Then say you’re looking forward to the date. Keep it kind, positive,plimentary. You don’t want to look like you’re pissed about it—especially not after what happened at the concert.”

    “I’m not pissed. I’m…concerned.”

    “Good. Let that show. Just keep the anger part under wraps. That part’s mine to manage.”

    He’s half joking. Barely.

    “If I’m going to be fine, why do you look so nervous?” I ask as he reaches out to adjust my already centered tie.

    “Because we’re talking about the ck Widow herself. I have no idea what’s going to happen when reporterse at you, except someone’s going to try to make a meal out of you—and I highly doubt it’s going to be Sloane. In fact—”

    He breaks off as both our phones chime at the same time.

    “Well, that can’t be good,” Moises mutters as he pulls his out.

    I take mine out as well to see that Marquis has sent me another video.

    This one is titled Sloane Is Already Wild About Sly and We’ll Get Into It.

    I’ve never clicked something so fast in my life.

    It starts like the others—crowd screaming, chanting “Sloaney” so loud that they drown out the artist they paid who knows how much to see. But it’s from a different angle than the others I’ve seen. Whoever is filming is clearly on Sloane’s left, which gives us both a clear shot of her being struck on the left cheek.

    I wince. So does the woman filming.

    “Oh shit! That’s not okay,” she says. Her camera pans down to the stage floor and the thing that hit Sloane.

    It takes me a few seconds to register what I’m seeing. It’s a doll dressed to look like the ck Widow, with a knife stuck through her chest.

    A knife that has a crude rendering of the Twisters logo drawn on its hilt.

    My whole body goes cold, then hot, then ice-cold again. I can barely hear the rest of the video over the roaring in my ears.

    As I try to wrap my head around what I just saw, the video goes on to talk about Sloane’s expressions and how different they are from normal—all proof that she’s “wild about me.” But I’m not paying attention anymore. Instead, I’m staring at that damn doll still lying on the stage, wondering who the hell threw it and why the hell they thought they had the right to do so.

    “Do you see it?” I demand.

    “A weapon with a Twisters logo used to murder a Sloane Walker doll,” Moises says, his normally well-modted tone climbing into panic.

    “A threat,” I shoot back.

    “To her. And to us,” he agrees, standing up without even bothering to brush off his suit pants, which is a first for our PR manager if I’ve ever seen one. “It looks like we both have our work cut out for us.”

    He heads for the exit, then pauses just before he walks out. “Please, for the love of God, remember what I said.”

    I barely register the plea. I’m too busy pulling out my phone.

    I can put up with a lot. But this? A threat to her, because of me?

    I’ve already failed to protect someone I care about once. I’m not doing that again. And I’m sure as hell not doing it with Sloane.

    Which is why I call her. Not to warn her—I’m sure she and her security team are on top of this. But to remind her that she’s not alone in this. Even if she doesn’t answer, she deserves to know someone is on her side.

    Not for the cameras.

    Not for PR.

    But because I care. And she shouldn’t have to face this alone.