Chapter 9
Erica
Sitting at a small table at this beautiful outside eatery overlooking the ocean—with menu items that I most definitely cannot afford—is by far one of the most nonsensical things I’ve ever done.
But here I am. Waiting for rockstar and heart throb Ari Seabrook to join me because I’m chronically early. So, when he said he’d be here in an hour, I left with enough time to get here thirty minutes early.
You’d think in that amount of time I could formulate a plan, or at least a proper greeting.
Unfortunately, the only thing that comes out of my mouth when he approaches the table is a small squeal, and when I try to stand, I realize my foot is on the bottom of my skirt, so it’s either topple over, or straighten myself and risk pulling my maxi skirt right off my rear in front of absolutely everyone.
I close my eyes and brace for impact. Hitting my head on the concrete beneath my feet isn’t going to go over well with Max and my concussion protocol, but it’s too late not to wear the maxi skirt now.
A wonderfully strange rippling sensation makes its way up both of my arms, radiating from the strong yet gentle grip on my biceps where Ari has caught me and kept me from falling.
When my eyes finally meet his, the grin on his face should be illegal.
“Easy there. I have a feeling Max would have my head if you got hurt on my watch.” There’s laughter in his voice, but also seriousness, because he’s not wrong.
All I can do is nod. My words are lost somewhere deep inside me. Traitorous little things. Still searching for all the words I want to say, I smile and extend my arm, offering that we sit.
The waiter approaches immediately, and I find it odd that he’s not as starstruck as I am.
But then I remember that not everyone listens to the same kinds of music, and in nicer places like this, they probably see celebrities all the time.
Imagine getting used to being around celebrities to the point that it no longer phases you.
I snort at the thought as I take a sip from my water cup, and magically words are spilling from my throat too quickly to change the subject.
“I’m sorry about last night . . . you know for interrupting your show . . . and inconveniencing you.”
His brow creases, and he opens his mouth to say something, but snaps it closed like he’s mulling over his words before he opens his mouth once more and holds up his index finger.
“You do not apologize for him anymore.” His middle finger joins his index.
“You did not interrupt the show. He did.” He raises his ring finger to join the first two.
“You did not inconvenience me. I could have easily had someone else bring your car to you but . . . but I wanted to.” He finishes and a deep breath whooshes out of him like he really needed to get that off his chest.
“Why would you want to?” I immediately fail at playing it cool and just ask the question that’s been at the forefront of my mind since I saw him leaning against my car in the hospital parking lot.
He reddens a bit, hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.
At least I’m not the only one here who’s nervous.
He seems to find his resolve, determination lining his features as his eyes bore into mine.
“Would you believe me if I said it just felt like fate. That I felt like I just had to meet you. Talk to you. Spend time with you.” He sighs.
“I hate that you were hurt, and that I couldn’t have prevented it. ”
I nod along, feeling the same strange desire to talk to him and be near him. I thought it was just my silly crush. I never would have considered it was mutual. How would he have found me had the episode not occurred? Would he have even bothered?
“How are you feeling? Better I hope.” It feels like his eyes scan my face, watching for any sign of discomfort.
“I still have a little bit of a headache, but I’m okay. I think I’m mostly lucky that Max was there to catch me so that I didn’t also hit my head on the ground,” I reply.
The waiter returns to tell us about the specials for the day, going over the menu with us. We both order the coffee of the day with the brunch specials.
We chitchat about the most random topics while we work through our food. He makes me laugh a few times, once almost causing coffee to come out of my nose, but I’m able to keep it together and not be a complete disaster. I am a lady after all.
As I take my napkin from my lap to wipe at my mouth, the question I’ve been anticipating since he arrived finally makes its presence when he asks, “Have you thought about coming on tour . . . with me?”
He’s joking right? Have I thought about it?
It’s literally all I’ve thought of. It feels like Vann knocked me into some kind of magical alternate universe that I could wake up from at any minute.
I’m scared to say yes and then wake up with a broken heart.
But I don’t say any of that. “I have,” is all I give him.
His eyes widen slightly as he leans forward a bit, waiting for me to elaborate. He still smells like the ocean. I didn’t imagine that either, apparently.
“Why do you want me to go?” I ask as I stare into his eyes, watching for any tiny reaction that makes me uncomfortable or sets off warning bells.
He clears his throat. “I meant what I said before. About wanting to get to know you. Spend time with you. I’m not saying I expect anything from you, whatsoever.
I guess . . . I guess I couldn’t stand the thought of you not having somewhere to go.
You not feeling safe. Of me having to leave and not know if I’d ever see you again. ”
This all feels so much more intimate than I expected.
Rockstars are usually portrayed as partying playboys, but he doesn’t give off any of those vibes.
He’s being genuine with me. He’s kind and he can communicate which is already better than the majority of the male population. “What if it’s not for me?”
He doesn’t miss a beat when he responds, “I’ll fly you back home the instant you say so. I can have this all written up in a contract if it would make you feel more comfortable—Shit. Not that I’d want you to feel like this is a contract kind of situation—that’s not how I meant that.”
I can’t help but laugh when he overthinks and prattles on like that.
“What about my stuff?” I know I’m just firing questions at the man, but I need to get the ground beneath me so I can decide which steps to take.
All of my stuff is still in Vann’s apartment, and I really don’t want to go over there when he gets out of jail. They said he’d have at least a twenty-four-hour hold until he’s allowed to post bail.
“Do you have anyone to help you? I could wrangle up the guys, and we could help you get your stuff. Then whatever you can’t, or don’t want to bring with you, um, you could ask Max .
. . or get a storage unit?” He finishes his thought as more of a question, and I guess it wasn’t really fair to ask him that, like my possessions are his responsibility. Maybe I am still a bit off-kilter.
To hell with it. I don’t have furniture or anything like that because when I moved in with Vann, he demanded to keep all of his own furniture.
“Actually, I’d love the help if they’re okay with that. I was worried about being able to get my things before he’s released.”
A giant, genuine smile takes over his face and knocks the air from my lungs.
We chat a bit more, and I text Max to see if she wants to join us. Since Ari took a Ryde here, he offers to drive my car, and I direct him to Vann’s apartment where his bandmates agreed to meet us.