If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(35)

“Erin, the guy could be dangerous.” The concern coloring his expression made my stomach hurt. But I never gave up any advantage that came my way—not when they were as elusive as shooting stars.

“I know, so don’t make me go alone. I promise I’ll stay in the car until you make sure it’s safe. Please bend the rules this one time.”

“Aw, shit.” Rodri glanced around as if checking to make sure no one overheard us. “You know I can’t ever say no to those big brown eyes. Get in the squad car and swear you won’t do anything without my say-so.”

“I swear.” I hoped I’d keep that promise, too, and truly I did. I locked my bike up at the rack before climbing into his front seat.

“I know I’ll regret this.” He slid behind the wheel. “Address?”

After giving him the information, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you. I owe you huge. Now let’s hope this guy is at home. He has to give my stuff back, right? Stolen goods and all.”

Rodri nodded. “Yeah, we’ll get your stuff back. How’d you get this info so fast?”

“Gimme a little credit. It’s not too hard to trick Max.” I rolled down the window, feeling like I could breathe for the first time since discovering the albums were gone. Losing them was like losing my dad all over again.

“Songs are miniature stories,” he’d told me once, when he’d sweetened an afternoon of garden chores by propping a speaker in an open window so he and I could listen to U2.

I’d always hated to read, habitually losing focus partway through any story, so I’d chewed that over while cutting back and digging out the old shrubs before planting new ones. Finally I’d proclaimed that songs changed the world more than books did because people remembered all the words to songs but not to books.

I still remember the way he smiled at me, shaking his head without argument. I miss how he accepted my way of seeing things without forcing me to see them his way. I also remembered him saying U2 would probably outlast many other bands, and he was right. Sadly, they also outlasted my dad.

Rodri pulled down Willow Lane to a sweet little Craftsman-style house, dark green with maroon accents and a covered front porch. The surrounding thatch of trees gave it an enchanted look. Not the kind of home a thief or dangerous person—or friend of Clyde’s—would live in. In fact, it looked more like something Amanda might like, with its neat yard and shrubs.

When I went to open the door, Rodri grabbed my arm. “You stay put.”

“Fine.” I slumped back, sulking.

After Rodri got out of the car, I rested both arms out my window, straining to watch the action. Shouldn’t be too hard when the driveway was barely a stone’s throw from the front door. Within a minute, a man answered and stepped onto the porch.

A striking man who looked like he could be Jared Leto’s brother. He had a hint of facial hair, but more like he’d forgotten to shave for two days than any real attempt at a beard or ’stache. An oval face—hollowed cheeks, fine nose. His hair begged to have fingers running through it . . . thick and glossy and a touch wavy.

Even from a distance, I liked his vibe. Loose-fitted jeans and a well-worn T-shirt covered his lean, fit frame. His bare feet appealed to my casual nature. He wore a thick leather bracelet on one arm and a silver one on the other. From what I could tell, he had no tats.

He stood there peering at me over Rodri’s shoulder. When our eyes met, the air all around me heated. From where I sat, his eyes looked pale, but I couldn’t tell if they were green or blue. Either way, the round shape fit the keen yet somber expression. He oozed an old-soul quality that would never be complicit in the purchase of stolen goods.

A serious hottie, but given Max’s and Lyle’s recent behavior, lust was trouble I didn’t need to borrow.

Rodri waved me up to the porch, reminding me why we had come. The albums. God, nothing would be right in my world until those were back in my possession.

Eli’s eyes dipped ever so briefly to my bare midriff before he jerked them back up. If he thought my knee-length Easter egg–print yoga pants, jog bra, and Birkenstocks odd or ugly, he didn’t show it. The stiff soles of my old sandals clomped on the wood steps.

“Erin, this is Eli. He wants to confirm which albums are yours, in case some of the ones he bought weren’t stolen. I don’t have the report with me . . .”

“Oh,” I said, then risked an up-close look at Eli. He didn’t look pissed or defiant, which was a good sign. “Hi, Eli. Nice to meet you. I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I have to get my dad’s records back.”

“So I’ve heard.” His voice was even prettier than that face. Clear and rich, masculine without being too deep or raspy. “Hope you understand why I’d like a little proof that they’re all yours.”

“What if I rattle them off right now?”

Both men stared at me with some surprise. Eli crossed his arms, distracting me by calling my attention to the muscle movement beneath his T-shirt. “Go ahead, then.”

“Sure.” I looked down, giving my head a tiny shake to concentrate, then wondered if Eli could pick up a pencil with his long, thin toes. Focus! “There were three crates. How about I do them in order of value, starting with the most valuable? David Bowie’s 1974 Diamond Dogs—the original cover that got pulled. Then there’s Nirvana’s rerelease of Bleach from 1992. The Beatles’ The Collection from 1982. Probably next is U2’s Joshua Tree Collection, the ’87 box set. Led Zeppelin’s BBC Sessions from 1997. Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, with the gatefold sleeve. Springsteen’s first pressing of The Rising—”