We turn to find Ronan standing behind us. Emma has gone into some kind of shocked state, so I guess I have to be the one to talk to the super-hot celebrity encroaching on our sisterly moment while ignoring he heard our childhood nicknames for one another.
“May we help you?”
His grin grows. Emma shakes out of her stupor and glares at me. “How did you manage that, huh?” She pushes her chair back and gets up, one beady eye on me the whole time. “It was nice to meet you,” she says to Ronan, even though they weren’t properly introduced.
“You too,” Ronan says, stepping back to allow her to move away from the table.
Without invitation, he takes Emma’s seat. He’s still wearing his suit, but he’s lost the tie and unbuttoned his shirt. I take a moment to look at him, being as he’s so damn close to me. I like his hair, it’s the color of dark chocolate, short on the back and sides and styled up top. He has a niceamount of scruff on his jaw, not a full beard but not clean shaven.
This close, I can see flecks of green in his hazel eyes. Sitting silently staring at one another, I see a whole lot of something in those eyes. He’s lived a life worth writing about. That doesn’t mean I haven’t. We’re all the stars of our own show. Who we invite to star alongside us in that show is one of the few things I’ve learned to keep tight control over.
“I kept up my end of the deal.”
“You did? I didn’t notice.”
His lip quirks in amusement. “You know my brother leaned over after my speech and told me not to call her Franny. He said she’s never liked it.”
“Imagine that.” I sip my champagne and lean back in the chair.
“Yeah, imagine. What is it with the two of you?”
“It’s not my story to tell.” I shrug.
“Fair enough. However, you dared me to do it, remember?”
“And you’ve come to collect.” I lean an elbow on the table and shift my upper body so I’m facing him. “What exactly?”
“Can’t I just want to talk, buy you a drink?”
“The alcohol is free.”
He lets out a little laugh and scrubs a hand through his hair. “Okay. Let’s do this right.” He holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Ronan.”
That’s a surprising move from someone who half the world’s population knows. Taking another sip of my drink to give me a moment to think, I stare down at his hand. Ican’t leave him hanging. His fingers are warm as I clasp them. Albeit briefly.
“Cora.”
“Nice to meet you, Cora. So, if I was to make you a mixtape, what songs would you want on it?”
A laugh slips out. “What?”
“It’s a genuine curiosity of mine.”
“You know people haven’t made mixtapes for about thirty years, right?”
“Not true, they just haven’t made them on cassette tapes. Play lists are so impersonal though.”
“Are you telling me you have cassette tapes? You’re not old enough to have been around when they were.”
“I’m not. Let’s just say I grew up with nostalgic parents who kept everything. And I’ll let you in on a secret,” he leans a little closer. “When I’m on the tour bus, I only listen to music on my Walkman.”
He smells heavenly. Don’t sniff him.
Did I hear that right? A Walkman? A rockstar in a band who has albums streaming digitally all over the world, and he uses a Walkman?
“What kind of music could you have on a cassette tape? Nothing modern.”
“Trade secret on how I made that happen.”
