Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(34)

Silas taps out a reply. Shut it down, will you? Can’t you just tell Georgia that I went out for an early run?

The roommate replies immediately. Too late! He adds a laughing emoji. Georgia and Heidi are reading this over my shoulder.

“Oh, Jesus.” Silas tosses the phone onto the nightstand again. “I’m never living this down. Totally worth it, though.” He encircles me with both arms.

I tuck my face into his neck and sigh. It’s odd how comfortable he feels to me right now. I don’t feel as if I’m snuggling an acquaintance I haven’t seen for three years.

“When am I seeing you again?” he asks me.

And even I’m not cynical enough to pretend I’m not wondering, too. Not that seeing him again will be easy. “No idea. My life is such a mess right now.”

“I know.” He strokes my hair. “But here’s the thing. I have six more weeks before training camp starts again. I can travel any time before mid-August. After that, I’m unavailable, except in New York, roughly on alternate weeks.”

“How do you spend the summers?” I ask, realizing I know so little about his life.

“Well, I always fly out to Cali and visit my mom. But I did that the week after we got knocked out of the playoffs. Then usually the single guys rent a cottage somewhere, for golf or hiking or whatever. But this year we’re all going to a destination wedding instead.”

“You visit your mom…in Darlington Beach?” I ask. The idea gives me a chill, because I’ve made frequent visits to Darlington Beach, too. Has he been right there under my nose before?

“She lives inland, now,” he says, his big hand flattening on my back. “I haven’t been back to Darlington Beach for more than a couple hours.”

“Oh.” Still. Even a single glimpse of him will always affect me. I know that now. “Want to hear something funny? I’m headlining the Darlington Beach music festival this year.”

He laughs, and the sound echoes under my ear. “Of course you are. How long will you be in town? Maybe I could arrange to be there at the same time.”

“It’s not until August,” I point out.

“Ah. You’re right. If you give me the dates I could try, though.”

I kiss his neck. He makes a happy sound, so I do it again. Lying here with him makes me feel like a different Delilah—a sweeter, less crabby one.

A hopeful one.

He rolls to his side so he can see me, and his eyes are already smiling. “Does this mean I can finally have your phone number?”

For about a half a second I contemplate teasing him. But I can’t do it. “Sure. Grab your phone,” I say, turning to reach for mine.

“Sure, she says. Finally.”

I smile, although I can’t help wondering what life would be like if I’d given it to him years ago. When I refused him before, I was so sure I was protecting myself from confusion and heartache.

Joke’s on me!

“What’s your number?” I ask, and he rattles off a 646 number.

Hi, I text him.

He texts me back a heart emoji.

Is there an emoji for a heart exploding? Because I think I need it. “You’re going into my phone as Ralph,” I warn him.

“I’m fine with that,” he says, putting his phone back on the bedside table. “So long as you call me Silas the next time I’m inside you.” He punctuates this thought by reaching between the halves of my hotel bathrobe and cupping my breast.

And my body is instantly like one big heart emoji. He smiles, as if he can read my thoughts.

There’s a knock on the door. “Room service!”

“Aw.” Silas laughs. “That was fast. But it’s probably for the best. You must be a little sore.”

It’s true. But I wouldn’t even care. I straddle him and kiss his forehead. “Would you pull on your shorts and get the food?”

“Of course, girly. But you have to move your hiney off me first.”

I move away, hiding my smile. I just love the way Silas speaks to me—as if we’re back at Roadie Joe’s. As if I’m still wearing an ironic T-shirt, and he’s cutting up limes. Those were golden hours, and I didn’t understand how special they were.

Silas departs for the living room, whistling, wearing shorts and nothing else. I admire the muscles in his back as he crosses the thick carpet and answers the door. And I step out of sight, because I don’t want to show off my sex hair to the hotel staff.

“Just leave it here on the table,” Silas says.

“Can I take this away for you?” a voice inquires, probably in reference to our discarded takeout containers from last night.

“Oh, would you? Thanks a lot. You have a nice day.” He speaks to the porter the way everyone should—like he’s done that job himself before, and he remembers how it is. But then I hear him say, in a different voice, “What are you looking at?”

It’s Mr. Muscles’s murmur that follows.

“Do me a favor? Delete my ID from your phone after I leave in an hour.”

I can’t hear my bodyguard’s reply.

The door closes again. “Breakfast is served,” Silas calls out.

I show myself. “What was that about?” I whisper.

“Nothing,” he mouths. “Coffee?”