Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(26)

Of course I can’t tell her much, because Mr. Muscles is probably Brett’s spy. “How drunk can we get?”

“That bad, huh?”

“He’s willing to play this game of chicken forever. I’m out of ideas.”

“Sign with a new manager and let someone else do the negotiating.”

“I know, I know.” I should have done that immediately. Now I’ve wasted a few weeks for nothing. I’ve always been a natural musician and a disaster at the business details. “I can’t wait to go back to L.A. Where am I meeting you?”

“Well…” She giggles. “There’s been a slight change of plans. Come back to the hotel.”

“Why?”

“All will be revealed.”





Delilah





A half hour later I’m in my suite overlooking Times Square, rifling through the mini-bar offerings and wishing Becky would just show up already. I text her again. Not only do I need a drink, I’m starving. Wasting away, here. And your eyelashes are already beautiful, I add, because I know her too well. She needs to apply sixty beauty products just to walk out of her hotel room.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Finally!” I shriek. “So good of you to mosey upstairs before I starve to death!”

I jerk open the door.

But it isn’t Becky who’s standing outside. It’s a guy. The first thing I see is a muscular chest clad in a purple T-shirt with a hockey player on it. “Brooklyn Bruisers,” it says. Then I lift my chin and find a smooth, muscular jaw. And then...

Holy God. Those eyes. They’re beautiful, and also kind.

They’re also very familiar. “What the ever-loving fuck?” I breathe. “Ralph. How did you…” I don’t finish the sentence, because I can’t decide which question to ask first.

Why is Ralph from California here in New York?

And why now?

And what’s with the T-shirt that matches the team from my canceled Twitter date?

And how did he get onto the secure floor of this hotel?

Apparently, Mr. Muscles is curious about that last thing, too. His form looms behind my visitor’s. “If you’re visiting Delilah, I need to see some ID. Or will he be leaving, miss?”

“No,” I snap. I’m confused and more than a little bit hurt, because it’s also occurring to me that Becky is responsible for these latest hijinks.

Ralph pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open to the ID window, showing it to Mr. Muscles. My bodyguard/jailer takes out his phone and snaps a photo of it. Then he hands it back.

Or he tries to. I grab it first. Silas Kelly, the license reads. 220 Water Street, Brooklyn.

Ralph from California is my Twitter date? That makes no sense. I hand it back to him. “Get in here,” I snap, holding the door open a little wider.

He steps past me, putting his body close to mine for a half second. I get a whiff of his aftershave, and I swear he smells like the ocean and fresh air. I used to love sitting in the bar across from this man as he worked—those muscular hands in action as he made drinks and cut up limes. I liked his quiet company and hearing his thoughts during those rare moments when we were alone.

He was the only person in California who I found completely trustworthy. And then he abandoned me.

Whoa. Easy, girl. I don’t know what I did to bring about this weird little blast from my past. But it’s obviously unsettling, and emotional overload is not a good look on me.

Still, I slam the door on Mr. Muscles, trapping myself in the room with Ralph or Silas or whatever his name is. I march to the center of the plush oriental rug. "Now talk," I order. "Did Becky send you up here?"

“Yeah.” He holds up a hotel keycard. “She gave me this so I could reach your floor.” As if he owns the place, he walks over to the bar and sets down the keycard along with a grocery bag he’s carrying. And a shopping bag hits the floor.

“You stood me up,” I blurt. This is what happens when you greet old crushes on an empty stomach. I’d rather not let him know how disappointed I was three years ago. How I’d arrived on that beach, wearing a bathing suit, feeling freer and happier than I’d felt in weeks. And how awful I’d felt as the minutes ticked by. I waited almost two hours, alone, knowing he wasn’t going to show.

The next day I walked past Roadie Joe’s and looked into the window, hoping to chew him a new one, but there was a different man behind the bar. And it was the same the next day, too.

That’s when I gave up. And anyway, the summer was over. I went back to L.A. and tried not to think about it.

And failed.

“About our surfing date,” he says with a rueful smile. “I didn’t stand you up on purpose. I wouldn’t ever do that.” He puts both elbows on the bar and rests his chin on the backs of his hands. “Can I tell you what happened?”

You’d better.

No way.

I am at war with myself.

“It was a Friday, and I was calling around, looking for a training board for you. They’re coated with a soft material that’s easier to stand on for your first time surfing.”

My poor little heart says, and then what? Because I want him to convince me. But I just cross my arms and wait.