If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(83)

“Are you scouting or something?” That idea prompted several thoughts. First and foremost was the fact that someone like Eli had the power to make a person’s dream come true, whereas someone like me did not.

“Not officially.” He brought his hands back atop the table to toy with his half-empty beer bottle. I couldn’t tell whether his anxiety was because he liked me or now regretted our not-entirely-accidental run-in.

“It’s great that you’re keeping your toes in the business.” Jesus, to hear me you’d think Max also stole my conversation skills.

“I’ll never quit music altogether, even if I’m no longer writing. It’s too much a part of me to fully walk away.” He tucked his chin, looking twice as cute when a little embarrassed, although I didn’t know why that admission made him uncomfortable.

Fortunately for him, I could demonstrate how to well and truly make a humiliating confession. “You’re lucky you have something that matters that much to you. Most of us don’t.”

He pulled a sip from his longneck while keeping his gaze locked on mine. “Seems to me you have a lot of things that interest you . . .”

Namely him, at the moment.

“Passing fancies, as my mom calls them.” I almost covered my mouth after that unintended confession.

He narrowed his gaze. “So there’s nothing you’re devoted to?”

His pointed question unmoored our little booth. If my goal was to make him less interested, I was killing it! Actual self-improvement would have to wait until a later date. Right now, I had to spin my fatal flaw. “I’ve got too many dreams and ideas, so I can’t devote myself to one thing.”

The relief from my mildly clever answer got cut short in a matter of seconds.

“Dreaming’s easy. It lets you feel productive while you avoid the work it takes to make a dream reality.” He sipped his beer while that observation simmered. “You don’t strike me as lazy, though. Maybe you don’t try so no one can say you failed?”

Those words triggered a long-forgotten memory, dazing me like a camera’s flash.

“Why are you quitting the dance team when you’re finally old enough to audition for the Christmas show?” My dad cut into his apple and ate the slice straight from the paring knife.

I shrank in my seat, swinging my feet while drinking chocolate milk. Amanda had been picked to play Clara in The Nutcracker when she’d been in fifth grade. I’d probably end up as one of the mice. “I’m bored of it now.”

He handed me a slice of his apple. “Bored, or scared?”

“‘Scared’?” I laughed a little too hard before biting into the apple.

“Part of trying new things is learning what you like and don’t like, so if you’re bored, then quit. But, Erin, getting good at things requires commitment and learning how to come back harder if you fail the first time. Promise me you won’t quit things because you’re scared you’re not good enough.”

“Erin?” Eli leaned across the table, his hand stretched out almost far enough to touch mine. He didn’t, but heat radiated between us, brushing against my skin nonetheless. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“It’s fine.” I waved him off, still shaken by the memory of my dad as a younger, healthy man. I wanted to hold that image close, or, better yet, have him back for one more day. More dreaming . . . “But since we’re speaking about not trying things, you haven’t come to another yoga class.”

“Nothing personal.” Eli swigged more beer while I tried to read his giant, soulful eyes. “I’m . . . not over the shock from what happened last time.”

Tony’s voice momentarily snagged my attention. Lexi had her chin on her fists, probably smiling at him while he sang the opening line of “Wild Horses.” I turned back to Eli, sidestepping the Nancy topic. “That’s my friend’s boyfriend. He’s a foreman by day. What do you think?”

“He’s not half-bad.”

“But only half-good?” I teased. Tony could carry a tune, but that was about the limit of his ability.

“He looks happy enough singing for this crowd.” He pushed his empty bottle to the edge of the table. “When you love to play, it fills your soul whether there are ten or ten thousand people listening.”

Eli had no idea about my Google-stalking him and Karen. That had led me to a bunch of his work—an impressive list of cowritten songs plus a few YouTube videos of him performing. His singing voice sounded a bit like Don Henley’s, which I wouldn’t have predicted. Regardless, I’d give up a full cup size for a private concert. “Do you miss performing?”

“Sometimes.” His nonchalance didn’t fool me, though.

I gestured to the stage. “Why don’t you get up there?”

His gaze shot into space while his fingers drummed the table. When he finally returned from his mental meandering, he said, “’Cause my old songs make me sad, and I haven’t written anything new.”

“Oh.” I interlaced my own fingers together instead of reaching for his hand. Don’t say it. Don’t . . . Oh, hell. I was gonna say it. “If your wife actually spoke through Nancy, maybe she wants you to write again.”

Crap.

His blue eyes turned the grayish color of a stormy sea.