Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(18)

“Oh, wow.” I feel my face heat. “That is a really nice offer.”

“Think it over,” he says gruffly, pushing my change toward me. “Now go on before Music Man starts barking at us again.”

“Later, Ralph,” I say softly, hoping he’ll give me one more smile.

“Later, girly,” he says with a resigned sigh.

I have to leave before I get my smile.





Delilah





The next two weeks go by at lightning speed. And nothing changes.

I still don’t have a recording contract. I’m still playing for whichever crowds Brett can find me. Still taking any meeting I can get. Still avoiding being alone with Brett, so I don’t have to make the decision about whether I’m going to give in and sleep with him or not.

Meanwhile, Ralph asks me every day for my phone number. But it’s our little joke now, and he smiles when he asks me, and he always gives me another friendly smile after I say no.

In fact, Ralph and I have settled into a rhythm that resembles an old-time comedy routine. Every day I come in to Roadie Joe’s before the happy-hour rush to enjoy a quiet hour of sitting and scribbling in my notebook while watching him mix drinks with those strong hands.

It’s my favorite hour of the day. No contest.

Brett hates that I come here. In fact, I think he tries to schedule things for late afternoon now just to foil my chill session at the bar.

Ralph, on the other hand, has gotten used to me showing up. He no longer cuts himself or falls down when I appear on a barstool. He just brings me a beer in a bottle—unopened—and gives me a smile.

God, that smile.

My notebook is nearly full of lyrics, but Ralph knows he’s not allowed to read them. One time last week I forgot my notebook and ended up writing lyrics on a napkin. Those were pretty good lyrics, too. Ralph didn’t say a word. He only offered me more napkins.

“Most of what I jot down is pure trash,” I’ve explained. “But once in a while something clicks.”

“That seems like a pretty good description of my life right now,” he said.

“Mine, too.”

“So we have that in common.” He winked and washed up some celery for Bloody Marys.

It’s another beautiful September afternoon, and the outdoor tables must be jammed because Ralph is neck-deep in orders. I glance up from my notebook to watch him sometimes, but we don’t get much time to talk.

Business finally dies down, and he wipes down the bar, eyeing me as I tap out a rhythm with my pencil eraser. The song I’m working on relies upon syncopation. I can hear it so clearly in my head, but I just don’t quite have the lyric.

Ralph is watching me. I like it, but he’s not allowed to know that. “Omigod, what?” I demand, looking up. “You’re staring.”

“I was just wondering when you’re going to give me your phone number.”

This is our fun little game, but the music festival closes in a few more days, and once I leave town, that’s it. Bye, Ralph. There’s no telling whether I’ll ever come back here.

That makes me a whole lot sadder than I’m ready to let on.

“Is never good for you?” I give him a cheeky smile. “Oh my God, that’s a good song title!” I flip open my notebook to scribble it onto the inside cover.

“Wow. Please write a song about my heartbreak. That’s not cruel at all.”

“I’ll dedicate it to you. This one goes out to Ralph the bartender.”

“Write quickly. Because I’m all set up back here for you to make your own mojito.”

I sit up straight on the barstool. “Really?” Damn, I really want a mojito. Or anything that is fresh and minty and not straight out of a beer bottle.

“Would I lie about a thing like this? Get back here before the happy-hour orders start rolling in. Quick!”

I’ve probably never moved so fast. A couple seconds later I’m standing beside him. “Are you going to get in trouble for this?”

“Nah. Let’s do this. First step—cut up this lime.” He places it on the cutting board in front of me.

I know better than to waste time. I pick up the paring knife and start slicing the lime into discs.

“Toss the slices in here.” He sets a pint glass down in front of me. “Then use the spoon and smash them up a little bit. That’s right,” he says as I work. “Now add this.” He unfolds a sheaf of wax paper, revealing a bunch of mint he’s already prepped for me.

My heart gives a gratuitous little flip.

“Thank you.” I drop the mint leaves into the glass, then pick up the wooden spoon and crush the leaves against the sides.

“There you go. Isn’t it therapeutic? When you’re done, you need these.” He pushes a couple of sugar packets in my direction.

I’ve been watching him too long to think that’s right. “Don’t you use that fine stuff, so the sugar melts?”

“Well…” He pulls the canister of superfine sugar off a shelf. “This stuff isn’t in a sealed packet. But it does work better.”

I put down the spoon and turn to face him. Suddenly, we’re standing so close that I forget to breathe. And when I look up into his pretty eyes, I see my own foolish attraction reflected right back at me. “You are a prince, Ralph,” I whisper. “I hope you know that.”