Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(15)

Something warm and unfamiliar settles into the center of my belly. “That might be the nicest thing anyone ever said to me. Which only means you’re still trying to get my phone number.”

He laughs immediately. “Can’t both things be true? Both my musical assessment and my interest in your evening plans?”

“Because you know so much about music.” I flip my hair and take another sip of beer.

“Look. I don’t know shit about music. But I know plenty about talent.” He leans down on a set of forearms I shouldn’t be noticing. “I know that talent sometimes takes a nap at just the wrong moment, but it never stays asleep for long. I also know that luck matters, too. If they don’t give you what you want, it won’t be your fucking fault.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

But he’s not done. “I saw something else valuable the other night. You’re good in the clinch. And that counts for double, I swear to God.”

“The clinch?”

“Yeah. You’re not just good at practice.” He pauses, wrinkling up his interesting nose. “What word would a musician use? Okay—you’re not a rehearsal musician, Delilah. That stage was like your home. Either that or you fake it really well. That’s going to pay your rent someday, I promise.”

“Wow.” It’s like he looked right into my terrified little soul and found the very thing I needed to hear. Those beautiful eyes of his are practically burning me right now, so I have to look away. “Thank you, Ralph. Really. I really needed that pep talk.”

I make the mistake of looking up at him again, and, for a split second, I see pure yearning. It’s like our souls vibrate at exactly the same frequency. And I have no idea what to do with that.

Ralph doesn’t either, apparently. He sighs quietly and goes back to work, adding mint leaves to a pitcher where limes and sugar are muddling together.

“Is that a pitcher of mojitos?” I ask. I inhale deeply and take in the scent of mint and lime. “Wow, I miss those.”

“Want one?” he asks me. “I could make an extra.” He reaches for a glass, but I’m already shaking my head.

“No thank you. I had a bad experience once. It was here at the festival last year, actually.”

His hand freezes on its way to the glass. “Wait. You were here last year, too?”

“Yes and no. I came by myself to try to do some networking. I had to wait tables just to afford to hang around for six weeks. I worked at Pizza Palace, trying to upsell wings at every table. This is where I met Brett Ferris.”

“At the Pizza Palace?” He snorts. “Unlikely.”

“No!” I laugh. Because Brett wouldn’t be caught dead in there. “I mean here in Darlington Beach. I introduced myself to him after another artist’s set, and after I talked his ear off for a while about songwriting, he agreed to let me audition for him.”

“As if that would be a hardship,” he mutters under his breath.

I reach across the bar and poke him in the arm. “It was business, Ralph. I didn’t show him my tits to get the audition.”

He flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you did. It’s just…” He clears his throat. “You’re a couple now?”

“No,” I say immediately.

He raises his eyebrows, disbelieving. The whole freaking town watched Brett plant that kiss on me. I knew it.

“It’s complicated with him,” I admit.

Ralph goes back to his work, not saying anything. Where Brett lacks discretion, this guy has it in spades.

And when I said it was complicated, I meant it in the most literal way. I’ve been corresponding with Brett about music for a year. And I’ve seen him at various music festivals, where we’re all business.

But when I came to Darlington Beach a couple of weeks ago, he offered me the guesthouse at his parents’ place. I accepted because—hello, free room. But he also made it clear that he wants us to be a couple. And I don’t know what to think or do about it. I’m on the one-day-at-a-time plan.

“You’re not sure about him, then?” Ralph finally asks. There’s something in his delivery that sounds hopeful. And maybe a little smug.

And he’s right. I’m not at all sure about him. “People say awful things about women who date powerful men.”

“So that’s another vote in my favor.” Ralph spreads his strong arms in a gesture of greatness. “Pick me, and nobody can ever claim you were using me. I’m as washed up as they come.”

I laugh suddenly, and so does he. And I swear it’s the most relaxed I’ve been in weeks.

Ralph goes back to his pitcher of mojitos, finishing it off with ice and soda, then passing it to a harried waitress who runs in from the patio.

“Better start another one,” the young woman says. “I got a feeling that table will be here a while.”

“Sure,” he says, reaching for the mint.

I take a deep breath as he begins to chop. Without missing a beat, he hands me a sprig. I pluck off a leaf and roll it between my fingers. “So what’s your story?”

“What do you mean?”

“I can sense bitterness in people, Ralph. It’s my super power. You’re a good bartender, but you don’t love it. Plus, you just gave me a big speech about talent. What’s yours?”