Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(53)

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Come on, hormones. Last chance to get excited.

They remained obstinately dormant.

“I’m curious to see if you can deliver on these additions to the score. I wasn’t lying when I said they could bring a lot of character to the piece. That . . . final aspect that has been missing.”

It was gratifying and kind of a relief to know she wasn’t the only one who noticed the lack of magic. “Thanks. I won’t let you down.”

Sergei nodded, pulled on his sleeves again. “Separate from that. Completely separate . . . Look, I don’t want you to think I’m giving you this chance because I . . . like you. Or expect something from you . . .”

Hannah almost asked him to repeat himself. Did he just say he liked her? It didn’t sound as though he’d meant that in a platonic way, either. In fact, he couldn’t seem to make eye contact with her. Was this for real? She dug frantically for excitement, for the former version of herself that pined for the moody director all hours of the day and night, but . . . if she was being honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d doodled his name on a napkin or stalked his Instagram. “Yes?” she prompted him slowly.

“It’s probably not a very professional question, but I find myself”—he blew out a puff of breath—“extremely curious to know if your relationship with the fisherman is serious. Are you two doing the long-distance thing or . . . will you be available to see other people when we’re back in LA and not so . . . distracted?”

Was her relationship with Fox serious?

That was a really good question. Hannah guessed neither of them would know which answer to give. Yes or no. And yet all signs pointed to yes. They’d kept up a ritual of texting each other every night for seven months. They knew each other’s deepest insecurities. They’d slept in each other’s arms, and hey, they talked freely about masturbation. So there was that.

When she thought about Sergei, her brain made muffled beep-boop sounds. She liked his drive and his creativity and vision. His turtlenecks flattered his slim physique. They would have mutual interests if they ever really engaged in a personal discussion. Fine. It would be just . . . fine.

But when she thought about Fox, her stomach turned into a bouncy ball. So many emotions rolling around at once—longing, protectiveness, confusion, lust—and on top of those humdingers, she was infinitely more excited to see him at home tonight than go on a date with Sergei upon returning to LA.

It was entirely possible her interest in the director had started fading around seven months ago, when a certain Fleetwood Mac album showed up on the doorstep, and now it was completely null and void.

Still, as far as an answer to the question, was her relationship with Fox serious? She didn’t know.

But she found herself taking a deep breath and saying, “Yes, it’s serious.”

And somehow, saying it out loud felt entirely right.

*

Later that afternoon, Hannah walked slowly to Fox’s apartment.

She’d rushed back to Disc N Dat after filming to impress upon Shauna the urgency of getting in touch with the Unreliables and stood there while her friend placed the call. She left copies of the shanties for Shauna to pass on, along with the exciting (and hopefully enticing) news that Storm Born would be able to pay the band.

It would be pretty crushing if they didn’t come through, since they had the perfect sound, but worst-case scenario, she’d start hunting down other options bright and early tomorrow morning.

Toward the end of filming, the clouds overhead had darkened, settling a gloomy mood over Westport. Rainstorms always made Hannah want to go crawl into bed with her headphones, but after turning down Sergei—by telling him she was serious about Fox—she needed a minute before coming face-to-face with the fisherman. Would he know just by looking at her that she’d voiced such an impossibility out loud?

But maybe it wasn’t completely impossible.

She couldn’t stop replaying what Shauna told her. She supposed it wasn’t crazy unusual that Fox would stop into Disc N Dat. It was a small town. He’d been the one to introduce Hannah to the shop in the first place.

The fact that he’d been buying records, though . . .

To the casual observer, Fox’s purchases wouldn’t be a big deal. Only he knew what they would mean to Hannah. It made no sense to keep it from her, unless there was some important reason. On set this afternoon, she’d scrolled back through their text messages and found the one that had tickled her memory, made her pulse click in her ears.

F (6:40 PM): Apart from being dark and dramatic . . . what makes a man your type? What is eventually going to make a man The One?

H (6:43 PM): I think . . . if they can find a reason to laugh with me on the worst day.

F (6:44 PM): That sounds like the opposite of your type.

H (6:45 PM): It does, doesn’t it? Must be the wine.

H (6:48 PM): He’ll need to have a cabinet full of records and something to play them on, of course.

F (6:51 PM): Well obviously.



Record collecting wasn’t an interest he’d enjoyed before they met last summer. Him buying albums now was pertinent information. Where was he keeping them? And if he was hiding them from her . . . what else was he hiding?

Either he didn’t want Hannah reading too much into his new collection or there was a lot to read into it and he needed more time before admitting that.