“Because we’re playing a show in two days. And I have some news.”
Daniel scoffed, unable to keep from rolling his eyes though his smile still hadn’t retreated. “We’re just playing here. It’s not like it’s the O2 or anything.”
“No, but—”
“And besides, you should try to write when you have no inspiration.”
This was Angie’s cue to slump against the nearest bookshelf in exasperation. They danced this tango every time the subject came up, leaving them both dizzy with all the circles they turned.
“Right,” Angie said, sighing. “The damn courtly poet of Oxford.”
She meant it as an insult, but he couldn’t take it as one. The nickname suited him. Every time he picked up a guitar or put his hands to a piano, his fingers recalled all of those great love songs. “I Will.” “Your Song.” “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” “God Only Knows.” “Such Great Heights.” “I Will Always Love You.” Those songs were written in his DNA, the songs linking two people and setting their worlds on fire.Thosewere the songs he wanted to write. Those were the kind of songs that would win him the hearts of the crowds, the kind that would make him into something more than a poor nobody from Oxford.
Finding love in this world was so hard. If he could write it into a song and give it back to people…maybe they would remember him. Maybe he would mean something.
“I write what I dream, Angie.”
“You”—Angie pulled out a cigarette, talking with it clenched between her teeth as she fished in her pocket for a matchbook. It wasn’t technically legal or allowed for anyone to smoke indoors, but she was Old School Irish. Cork born and bred. No one would tell her where she could drink pints or smoke cigarettes, not even Nan—“should write what sells.”
“Love songs sell.”
“Yourlove songs don’t.”
“Because they’re not true yet.”
“Well, can we get you laid and make them true? I’m really tired of playing your nan’s shop. No offense.”
“None taken.”
“Nonetaken? What’s gotten into you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never let me get away with talking bad about Crowdwell’s. You also haven’t stopped whistling since I got here. It’s not right for a man to be this happy when I haven’t even told him my good news yet.”
He hadn’t even noticed he’d been whistling so much. His mind flashed back to the woman in the window at Ashbrooke, but he shoved those thoughts away. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I started a new job today.”
“At the Ashbrooke place, yeah? And?”
“I don’t know. Turns out I like old cars.”
“Daniel.” Angie’s disapproval cut the air. “How long have we been friends?”
“I don’t know…” He and Angie met when she came into the bookshop desperately seeking some Proust novel she could use to impress a girl. Daniel tried to tell her being herself was more impressive, but Angie left with the Proust anyway. She didnotget the girl. But they did become friends. “Five years, I guess?”
“After all that time, you still think you can lie to me? You think I’m gonna believe that you’re whistling some ‘Over the Rainbow’ bullshit because you got your hands on some vintage cars?”
“I don’t know. Have you ever touched a Rolls-Royce?” A joke rolled off of his tongue before he thought better of it. “I think it’s better than sex.”
“Only a person who’s never had sex would say that.”
Daniel’s eyes widened. An embarrassed flush rushed his whole body.
“Not so loud!”
“What? Who’s gonna hear me? The thousands of girls hiding in this store?”
Yeah, he was a virgin. Not that he exactly advertised that information. Nothing weirder—especially in a university town like this one—than a twenty-three-year-old virgin. He wasn’t ashamed of it. He just didn’t want to be a social outcast for it, that’s all.
