Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(20)

“It’s getting there.” I glance down at my notes and try to remember what I was thinking about fifteen minutes ago. “Some songs come easy, and some of them are like pulling teeth.”

“Which kind was ‘Sparkle On’?”

I blink at him for a second, because I’m surprised he remembers the title of my favorite song. “That one was easy. I wrote it in an hour. I mean—I tweaked the lyrics afterward. But the guts of it came out of my guitar, fully formed. Why?”

“Someday…” He shakes his head. “Someday I’m going to hear that song everywhere. I’ll be walking down the beach and hear it blaring out of three different radios at once.”

For a split second—before I can rein it in—I let the pure joy I’m feeling break across my face. God, I want that so badly. But it doesn’t do any good to think like that. “That’s your pick, huh? ‘Sparkle On.’ I would’ve taken you for more of an uptempo guy. ‘Sparkle On’ is my girliest song.

“It’s not my usual sound,” he admits. “But it’s your sound. And you made a woman cry.” He tosses the rag in the sink. “I think maybe the world needs ‘Sparkle On.’”

Oh my. I just sit with that for a second. Every artist loves praise. If she says she doesn’t, she’s a liar. But the quality of that praise is so unlike anything I’ve heard before, that I need a moment just to appreciate it.

When Brett talks about my music, he uses words like demographic and market potential. But Ralph felt my song.

My poor little heart creaks again.

“Besides,” Ralph says, lightening the mood. “Can a dude not want to sparkle on? Are you insulting my manhood right now?”

“Maybe just a tiny little bit,” I say with an evil smile.

“Don’t ever use ‘tiny little’ when we’re discussing my manhood, okay?”

I actually giggle, which never happens. It sounds all wrong on me. I take another sip and change the subject. “Enough about me. Have you made any progress on your Plan B?”

“A little,” he admits. “It’s still not my favorite topic. But I’ve been looking at some masters programs in education.”

“Whoa!” I can totally picture this. “High school teacher? The girls will all stay after class every day just for a few extra minutes of your time.”

“Nah.” He rolls his eyes. “Besides—the only girl I want is the one in front of me.“

Oh.

We’re both quiet for a second after that little truth bomb. “What will you teach?” I finally ask.

“History, maybe.” He rubs his fingertips through his beard. “And I want to coach.”

“Coach what?” I hold up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. The surfing team.”

“Surfing team? Is that a thing?” He laughs.

“I don’t know. You’re the Californian. Didn’t you offer to teach me how to surf?”

“Yeah, but you always say no.” We have this conversation almost as often as we discuss my phone number. “Any day, anytime. I’m totally serious.”

“How about Friday?” I hear myself ask.

“Done,” he says immediately.

Uh-oh. What did I just do? “Can you get Friday afternoon off from the bar?”

“Mr. Dirello!” he hollers immediately. “I need Friday afternoon off. I can be back by the dinner rush.”

“What for?” an older man’s voice barks from somewhere in the kitchen.

“I’m teaching a surfing lesson.”

“You’re moonlighting?”

“No, it’s for a friend.”

“She pretty?”

“Devastating,” he says, looking me right in the eyes. There’s a beat of silence while Ralph and I stare at each other.

I can’t believe I finally agreed to hang out with him, and right before I’m scheduled to leave town. It’s either a brilliant idea or heartbreaking.

But the restaurateur seals the deal. “Eh, okay, kid. After the lunch rush is done. And you come back at sunset.”

“Thanks, man.”

Well. I guess I’m going surfing on Friday. “Wow, okay. What do I need to bring?”

“Not a thing,” he says. “Just wear a bikini. The smaller the better. It’s more aerodynamic.”

“Ralph.”

“Kidding! I’ll bring you a rash guard as well as a board. This is going to be great.” He looks thrilled, honestly.

“There will be a couple of rules,” I say slowly. “Don’t stand me up.”

“That’s an easy one. I would never.”

“And you won’t get me into bed. So don’t try.”

His smile says, Oh, I’ll try. But he jerks a thumb toward the kitchen. “You heard the man. I have to come back to work.”

“And promise you won’t let me drown.”

His smile fades. “You’ll be absolutely safe. I’ll bring you a life vest so you don’t have to even think about it.”

“Do you think I can do this? I’m not very coordinated.”

“You can totally do this. It’s going to be so much fun…” But then his face falls. “Heads up. Your jailer has arrived.”