“Daisy, I can’t keep a low profile while I’m singing karaoke. Everyone will know me the second I open my mouth.”
“Look around. Do you see any fangirls?” I ask. “Everyone in here already knows who you are. And they don’t care. We’re all serious musicians, just wanting an opportunity to shine on the stage for one night of the week.”
Ryder snorts. “Sure. Tell yourself that.” He tips his head back and watches me through narrowed eyes.
“We made a deal.” I remind him.
“Fine.” His mouth finally tilts up in a way that causes my stomach to do cartwheels. “But I’m not doing karaoke. I need a guitar.”
“Not a problem.”
Fifteen minutes later, he’s on the small, makeshift stage Ed uses on nights like this. He’s got a guitar slung around his shoulder. His hat’s still on, but his shades are gone. After all, what’s the point?
This is probably reckless. But this is also the closest place Ryder has to a hometown. I want him to cut loose, have some fun. I’ve gotten to know almost everyone in this bar tonight, and they’re good people. My gut tells me he needs to step out from behind a velvet rope and connect with real life.
He’s standing on that humble stage, illuminated, and even in this dive bar, you can see it: his star quality. He was made for the spotlight, with his golden eyes, high cheekbones, molded mouth, firm jaw covered in stubble, and dark brown hair. His body in his trademark black T and well-worn jeans is tall, strong,and lithe, with tats snaking up his muscular arms. His medallion hangs loose around his neck. And his vintage Rolex and a few thin leather bracelets decorate his wrist as his hand moves with confidence over the guitar strings.
It makes me wonder how those confident hands would feel gliding over my body.
“Hey,” he says into the microphone, his voice a distinctive low rasp. The chatting crowd quiets and turns to the stage. There’s a clatter of dishes, and suddenly everything stops. The silence is so loud, it’s palpable. My gaze sweeps the room, and more than a few regulars, from lobster boat fishermen to retirees, stare in shock at the rock star about to perform.
Ryder clears his throat. “Daisy over there asked me to play a song for you. And if you know Daisy like I do, then you know I couldn’t say no.” He flashes me a tight smile. He looks surprisingly nervous. But then he runs his hands over the old guitar, and something lightens in his expression. When he glances up again, he looks more carefree, confident.
Relief that my gamble paid off runs through my body. This will be good for him. Maybe it will remind him of what it was like to play music just for fun before the pressure and the fame.
A burst of applause surrounds me. “That’s our Daisy!” Joe says. He’s a long-haul truck driver and a wannabe Neil Diamond.
“Love you, babe!” Margery, the owner of a painting studio on Main Street, cries, giving me a thumbs-up. She’s a woman of a certain age with a wide smile and wild black hair. Tonight, she’s wearing another pair of her signature overalls decorated in paint splatters. “Always looking out for us girls.” She cackles.
“I’ve decided I can’t sing the song without help, though. So if you want to hear me, Daisy, you better get your ass up here.”
The room breaks out into even more applause. Ryder is grinning broadly now, and my heart turns over at the beauty ofit. It’s the boyish, lopsided smile that made me fall for him so many years ago.
I grin back. And stand awkwardly to hobble my way toward him.
He swears as if he’s forgotten about my ankle and takes off his guitar, bounding down to me.
Once again, he picks me up and settles me onto the stool that Ed hurries to the stage. I thank him while the crowd loses it.
“Get him, Daisy,” Margery calls. “He’s hot!”
Did I mention I love Margery?
Ryder faces me. I lift my good leg and twine it around his stool with a wink to the crowd.
Someone gives a wolf whistle.
“So,” I say to Ryder throatily. “You have me now. What are you going to do with me?”
He fumbles with his pick and drops it. When he retrieves it, his face is tinged with pink. And I hope it’s because of me and not just from the rush of being onstage. I mean, he plays in stadiums. This is just a small bar.
“You can be my backup singer. You know the part?”
“I know it.” I’ve listened to that song over and over with my headphones on, imagining that he wrote it for me. That he’d someday sing it to me. That he’d declare his undying love after singing it to me.
But hey, one out of three ain’t bad.
And then he starts, strumming out the rhythm.
