Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(19)

“That’s what all the girls say,” he teases quietly.

Inside I’m dying. The feeling I get when he’s kind to me is so new and unfamiliar. He’s sexy as hell. But he’s also sweet. I didn’t even know that combination was possible in a man.

Just standing close to him makes my body run hot. And I want to know what he’d be like in bed. I’m curious on a gut level.

The universe doesn’t care, though. I’m going back to Southern California in less than a week. And Ralph isn’t. We are two people at two different crossroads.

Every day I think about actually giving him my phone number. And every day I don’t go through with it. Texting with him a week from now? It will only ruin the memory of sitting in this bar every day in his quiet company.

Some memories are sweeter if you don’t ruin them by hanging on too tightly.

Carefully, I turn around. I go back to muddling my limes. I open the superfine sugar canister and measure out a portion with the spoon Ralph hands me. I can’t stop my awareness of how near he is. And how good he smells—like soap and limes and summer near the ocean.

“Now what?” I ask, leaning over the glass to inhale mint. “This smells so good.” As do you.

“Here.” He hands me the ice scoop. “Fill the glass to the top.”

Gleefully, I plunge it into the ice bin and noisily fill the glass. “This is fun. And good practice for the jobs I’ll get after I bomb out of the music industry.”

“Never gonna happen,” he says. “Now this.” He hands me a bottle of Bacardi that’s never been opened.

I break the seal and remove the cap.

“You can eyeball it, or you can measure it with this.” He nudges a shot glass towards me.

“I’d better measure. I’m supposed to meet some other songwriters later. I should probably stay lucid.”

“If you’re into that.” His chuckle resonates in my belly. “Last step,” he says, handing me the soda gun. “Just a splash of club soda and you’re done.”

“Thank you,” I say as I finish making the perfect summer cocktail. “You’re the best. And I swear I’m not phobic about anything else. I don’t mind tight spaces or spiders.”

He grunts. “I’m not a big fan of tight spaces. And you come by your phobia pretty honestly.”

“I’d rather have come by it dishonestly,” I point out, stirring my drink with a straw. I lift the glass and peer at the minty ice swirling inside. “That is beautiful.” I take a sniff and sigh.

He waits, maybe wondering if I’ll be able to drink it.

But it’s no problem at all. I take a gleeful gulp. “God.” I take another. “This is even better than I remember. Taste?” I offer him the glass.

He takes it from me and takes a quick sip.

What I really want is to sit down somewhere and drink a pitcher of mojitos with him. I want to lounge on a beach in the sunshine and watch the wind tousle his hair. In this fantasy, he’s shirtless, of course.

“Good stuff,” he says, handing it back.

“Ralph!” shouts the owner from the kitchen. “How many cases of Malbec do we have? I got the distributor on the phone.”

“One sec!” he calls. He disappears into the stockroom. A few seconds later, his head pops around the corner. “Six!” he yells.

“Good man.”

I’m still standing here behind the bar, and now he has to go back to work. But I didn’t thank him properly, so I walk around the corner to find him. The stockroom is narrow and dim. One wall has all the beer keg hookups, and the other is stacked to the ceiling with cases of wine, beer, and spirits. Ralph is rearranging a couple of them.

“Hey. I just wanted to thank you for this.”

He straightens up. “You know it’s my pleasure.”

I put a hand on his shoulder and rise up on my toes, because he’s tall. I aim my kiss at his cheek.

But in a move so smooth that it deserves some kind of award, Ralph turns his head. My kiss lands on the corner of his mouth instead. He catches me around the waist and pulls me in.

I swear my heart stops beating as he changes the angle and kisses me for real. Soft lips. Hard body. Mint and lime juice. Heat. Hell yes. I don’t even pretend to be surprised. His kiss is every bit as good as I knew it would be.

He smiles against my mouth, his beard tickling my chin. I feel it like a beam of sunshine on a cold day. Then he sets me back onto my heels. “You’re welcome for that, too,” he says.

It’s an infuriating thing to say. But only because he’s right. Both the kiss and the drink are the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I open my mouth to tell him so, but nothing comes out. I feel flushed and a little off-kilter.

He pats my hip. “Skedaddle back onto your side of the bar, miss, before Mr. Dirello happens to walk through here.”

No witty comment presents itself to me. No cynical backtalk. I retreat back to my usual spot. He tidies up again while I sip my perfect cocktail and try to get my head on straight again.

“How’s the mojito?” he asks without looking me in the eye.

“You know it’s good. You’re just fishing for compliments.” We’re not talking only about the drink, either.

“Uh-huh.” He gives me a smile. “Write anything good today?”