“No, probably not.” I pause. “Don’t you miss it? If nothing else, the music?”
He smiles, but it’s more haunted than genuine. “Sometimes? I still write songs, but I write under a different name, so very few people know it’s me. I can’t do the touring thing forever, so that’s my retirement money.”
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with sadness for him.
Everyone knows the story of the horrific bus crash that killed the other members of his band, along with his fiancée, the band’s tour manager, and the bus driver. Somehow, Ross emerged unscathed, and he walked away without a backward glance, according to everything I read.
Not that I can ask him about that.
“Go ahead,” he says after a moment. “I can see all the questions you don’t want to ask. It’s all over your face. Let’s get it over with. That way, we can both move on.”
I flush, a bit embarrassed at being caught.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I’ve already made a nuisance of myself. We can talk about something else.”
He cocks his head. “Tell you what. You ask me any question you want, and then I get to ask you one.”
“All right.” I take a sip of coffee. “What was your favorite song on the album?” Ross & The Rock-its only had one.
“Easy,” he says with a faint smile. “The best song on the album was ‘City Love.’ And ironically, it’s the only one I didn’t write on my own. We wrote that one as a band and it’s always been my favorite.”
“That’s my favorite too,” I say softly. “I play it in the car on the way to work. Pumps me up to get ready for my day.”
“That’s nice to hear.” He meets my gaze. “Somehow, I can picture it. You driving something small, like a Mini Cooper, radio blasting, and singing at the top of your lungs.”
I throw my head back and laugh, amazed at his astuteness.
“That’s funny. Because I do drive a Mini Cooper, it’s bright red, and I absolutely blast the stereo whenever I’m out and about.”
“You have long legs for a little car like that,” he says lightly, eyes meeting mine.
Is it dumb that the fact that he noticed my legs makes me a little giddy?
And why does my heart beat faster whenever he looks at me?
“It’s, uh, roomier than it looks.”
I’m being ridiculous.
This isn’t a date; he’s just being nice after how abrupt he’d been earlier.
No matter how giddy my pre-teen heart feels, the thirty-two-year-old woman controlling my brain knows better.
“So, what’s your question for me?” I ask as casually as I can.
The way I’m feeling makes no sense.
I’ve been around rockstars for years. My sister has been involved with one since she was eighteen and has been married to him on and off for almost that long. I hooked up with a guy in one of their opening acts several years ago, and we dated for about a year before I caught him cheating on me.
Celebrities are nothing new to me, but Ross is different.
I was eleven years old when the Ross & The Rock-its album came out.
My mother played it nonstop for months.
My younger sister Harley and I knew every word to every song.
But while Harley was always infatuated with drummers, I fell for Ross.
