Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(27)

“I was waiting for a phone call back from a couple of people. And it was already after noon. My phone rang, and I ran out the back door to answer it. It was my agent. She said, ‘I need you on a plane to Ontario.’ The team that had released me, suddenly needed me back. In the minors, anyway. And you may recall that I was never given your phone number.”

“Minor league hockey,” I say slowly.

“Yeah.” He pats the logo on his T-shirt. “This was always my Plan A. And it came through right after I officially gave up.”

It came through. I don’t mean to get goosebumps for him. It just happens. “You never mentioned hockey that summer. Not once.”

“I know.” He regards me with quiet eyes. “It was a sore point. My real name is Silas Kelly, as you saw.”

“The guy from Twitter.”

“That’s right.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that—or Becky? Hey, by the way, I’m Ralph from Roadie Joe’s. In fact—why call yourself Ralph, anyway? That’s just weird.”

“I know.” He reaches into the shopping bag and removes several limes. And some kind of green herb? Oh my God, it’s mint. Lastly, he removes a bottle of liquor. “But I wanted to apologize in person.”

“You brought mojitos?” Fuck me, but I’m already salivating. Minty, limey yumminess. The last one I drank was three years ago.

With him.

“Of course,” he says calmly. “Now why don’t you tell me what I can order you for dinner?”

“Ralph,” I say tartly. Because refusing to call him Silas seems like a good reminder that I’m mad at him. “Who says we’re having dinner?”

He puts his muscular hands on the surface of the bar and regards me with those solemn eyes. “When you came to the door, you were yelling about how hungry you are. And I’d like to help the lady make her favorite cocktail, but not on an empty stomach. So let me fix that by finding you something to eat.”

Well, hell. I’d forgotten how decent he is. And the way he’s looking at me right now is doing things to my insides. Nobody ever looks at me like that—like they understand what I need. Except for Becky, and she’s on the payroll.

It’s going to be hard to keep myself in bitch mode if he’s this nice. “I could order some room service. But I’m so sick of room service. The burger, the pasta, or the chicken Caesar salad.”

He tilts his handsome face toward mine, and I’m still getting used to the lack of a beard on him. It makes him look younger. “I hope you’re not knocking the chicken Caesar salad. Some of my best friends are chicken Caesar salads.” He gives me a slow smile. “So how about some takeout food? We could order some Carribean food to go with our mojitos.” He rubs his stomach absently. That tight stomach, just over that strong chest, where the T-shirt clings for dear life.

Dear lord. He’s only gotten hotter in three years.

What were we discussing? Oh, right. “The takeout guys aren’t allowed to come up here to the secure floor. It’s a ploy by the hotel to get more business from me.”

“I’ll run out and get it,” he offers. “Or send your giant bouncer friend.” He tilts his head toward the door.

“He won’t leave me alone,” I grumble. “It’s policy. And my entourage is in flux right now. I fired my manager and…” This is getting way off topic. “Never mind. We’ll have the chicken Caesar.”

He holds up his phone, showing me a picture of a plate of churrasco. “This place is on Forty-sixth Street. Not so far away. I’ll use a delivery app and run downstairs for it. What do you want?”

I come closer, taking the phone and scrolling, meanwhile trying not to give him sideways glances. I inhale, and there’s that scent again. That wonderful, infuriating scent. My thumb pauses on one of the photos. “I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad, Ralph.”

“Delilah,” he whispers from way too close. “I get that you’re a little weirded out by me showing up at your hotel. But let me get you some good food and make you a drink. You’ll like it. I promise.”

There’s no doubt he’s right. And that’s exactly what I’m afraid of.





Silas





“You again,” says the thick-necked guy outside Delilah’s hotel suite as I return from the lobby with our dinner.

“I just went down to get the food.”

“The boss doesn’t like her taking food from randoms,” he says, crossing his meaty arms. I’d bet cash money that this guy competes on the bodybuilding circuit. Nobody has shoulders like that without staring at them in the gym’s mirror every day.

“I’m not a random,” I insist, trying to keep the growl out of my voice. “You want to inspect our takeout meal?” I offer the bag to him, daring him to poke around in there.

His unruly eyebrows knit together as he squints at me. “Naw. Go on.”

I tap on the door, and Delilah opens it quickly. “Omigod that smells amazing. It’s almost enough to make me forgive you.”

“Forgive him for what?” the security guard butts in to ask.

“Nothing. Jesus. I’m joking.” As soon as I’m inside, she slams the door on him.