Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(5)

Now I’m back behind the bar at Roadie Joe’s Bar and Grill, cutting up limes to shove inside bottles of Mexican beer.

The fact that Mr. Dirello gave me a summer job is a blessing. It wasn’t charity on his part, though. Darlington Beach is a fancy town and host to a six-week-long music festival from August into September. It’s the busiest time of the year for Roadie Joe’s.

It’s not the Ritz, but at least I’m employed. And I can live with my mom. (Like only a loser does.)

I’m right in the middle of this private pity party when I become aware that someone is now seated on a bar stool in front of me. I glance up, and my gaze collides with the most arresting young woman I’ve ever seen.

The girl’s eyes are dark brown and almost too large for her face. They’re round and doe-like with long lashes. They ought to look innocent. Except they’re framed by a pair of arched eyebrows that lend her a mistrusting expression.

And there’s just something about that gaze that makes it difficult to breathe. “Hi,” I wheeze.

“Hi,” she says. And her voice catches me off guard all over again. I’m so startled by its unexpected texture that the knife I’d been using actually slips off the lime, nicking my thumb and my fingernail.

“Shit,” I hiss. “I’m sorry. What did you need?”

A few seconds tick by, while she’s trying to figure out if I’m sane. “Is the bar open for business right now?” Her voice has more depth than a person that size usually has. And there’s a grit to her tone that’s almost as captivating as her face. “Because if it’s not, I need to know that. Please.” She taps a large watch on her slim wrist. “I’m on a schedule here.”

“Sorry. Yes. Sorry,” I stammer. And then I look down to see blood running off my thumb and onto the cutting board.

“Ouch,” she says, her voice softening. “Better take care of that first.”

There is no end to life’s petty humiliations. “Better not order a margarita, I guess.” I tilt the contents of the cutting board into the trash, then dump the board and the knife into the sink. I run water over my cut and then grab a paper towel and squeeze it around my thumb to stop the bleeding.

“I only wanted a beer, anyway,” she says. “A really cold one, preferably a lager. And it has to cost less than eight dollars including tax and tip because that’s exactly how much I have.”

“I can work with that.” With my good hand I aim for the reach-in, plucking a bottle of von Trapp Vienna from deep down in the bed of ice, and setting it on the bar.

“No glass,” she says as I reach for one. “I’ll take it from the bottle.”

“Sure.” Another brilliant utterance from me. I make a move to open it, but she stops me with a raised hand.

“I’m sorry. I know this is weird, but I need to open it myself.” She holds up her key chain. It has a church key on it.

“Okay,” I say slowly. I can’t stop staring at her. She has dark, wavy hair and delicate features. But there’s nothing delicate about her bearing.

“It’s just my odd little habit.” Her gaze challenges me to argue with her.

“Go for it.” I hand over the bottle, and she pops off the top.

“Thank you,” she says. “Is your thumb okay?”

“Absolutely,” I lie. But I don’t want to talk about how distracting I find her, even now.

She leans an elbow on the bar and inspects the place, starting with the garage-door-style windows that stretch from floor to ceiling, then taking in the beer taps and the liquor shelf.

And then me. When those big eyes sweep all the parts of me that she can see, I feel weirdly electrified.

“Thank you—” She focuses on my name tag. “—Ralph.”

“N-no problem.” My hand covers the name tag before I realize what I’m doing. So I drop it again.

I spend a half second wondering if I should explain that Ralph isn’t really my name. The tag is a joke. I went to high school with the owner’s son—Danny Dirello. And Ralph is the nickname he gave me junior year when I ralphed all over a parking lot after my first kegger.

But you just don’t tell the most stunning girl you’ve ever seen that your nametag is a vestigial reminder of the time you puked in front of all your friends.

And anyway, she has her drink, and my work here is done. I need to find something else to do with my hands and maybe also my brain. Otherwise, I’m just going to stare at her and measure all the ways that she’s beautiful.

It’s not easy to look away, though. Even as I locate a Band-Aid and slap it over the gash on my thumb, I’m stealing little glances at her. She’s lanky, with long arms and a smooth neck that I study as she lifts her beer and takes a swig. But her edges are softened somewhat by waves of thick, dark hair.

She’s wearing a simple black T-shirt that says, Kind of a Big Deal. And it makes me smile.

“What?” she demands, putting down the beer, and proving that I’ve completely lost my ability to be subtle.

“Nothing. Just amused by your shirt.”

She glances down and frowns, as if she’s never seen it before. “You have to laugh at yourself in this town, right?” She looks up again and pins me with a gaze that stops my blood from circulating. “Everyone takes themselves so seriously. I thought Northern California was supposed to be laid back.”