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“Sure, that’d be great.”
He used a corkscrew to pop the cork from the bottle, then poured some wine into their mason jars.
“Sorry, I don’t have wine glasses,” he said, setting down the bottle.
“As long as I’m not drinking out of my hands, it doesn’t make a difference to me.” She smiled at him. “These are perfect.”
She clinked her glass with his, then they both took a sip. “This is really good,” she said after running the liquid over her tongue.
“I’m glad you like it.” He gestured to the table. “First up, a nice house salad. Then the main course, followed by dessert. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Really?”
He smiled. “Really. You asked for wine and dine.”
“Yes, I did.”
Bex picked up her fork and dug into her salad. Flavor exploded on her tongue. “Did you make this?” she asked.
Aiden nodded. “Homemade dressing. Secret recipe.”
“This is delicious! Seriously.”
He grinned. “Thanks. It’s my favorite, so I was hoping you’d enjoy.” He took a sip of his wine, then swallowed and set the glass down. His eyes met hers. “Tell me about touring. What you love, what you hate. I want to hear everything.” He took a bite of his salad and watched her across the table.
“I love seeing different cities. The roar of the crowd screaming our lyrics back to me. I’m part of a six-string circus; this year my band is the ringleader. I love that! It makes the fame worth it.”
“What do you mean?”
She gestured around them. “This town is an exception. Few people have approached me here. In other places, that’s not reality. Paparazzi follows the band everywhere, and a scandalous picture — or what seems like a scandalous picture — is worth a lot of money. Privacy is non-existent. It’s the price of fame so I deal with it, but I have to say... it sucks.”
“Sounds like it. The big question is: Do you love making music enough to make the sacrifice worth it?”
“Absolutely.”
He grinned. “Good. I’m happy all those hours of violin practice worked out for you.”
She laughed. “They really did.”
In high school, Aiden sat through many, many hours of practice and never complained once, even though at first she sounded awful.
“Practice made perfect. I’m seriously a fan,” he said. “I love the way your fiddle sounds with the punk rock music you do. The very first Youtube video hooked me, that one where someone recorded your show at a bar.”
“You saw that?” Bex asked, surprised. Only the most hardcore fans remembered that old video.
He nodded. “I’ve always been behind you, 100%. Even if I couldn’t be with you, I wanted to be supportive. I ran into your mom at the grocery store a few years back and she told me about the band. I’ve been a subscriber to your YouTube channel from the start. I also have every one of your CDs, even from before you signed to a record label.”
“Stalker,” she teased.
“#1 fan,” he countered.
“Sometimes I’m not sure there’s a difference.”
He smiled. “Touché. Does having a google alert on your name make me a stalker?” He took a sip of his wine and watched her with a quirked eyebrow.
“Yes,” she deadpanned.
He grinned. “Then label me a stalker.”
