Dateline about this.’
‘There’s always candy involved in something like that, love. No candy. Just an inside scoop on where to find the best vinyl in Paris. I’ll even buy you lunch.’
Damn, he’s making it hard to say no. My love for old vinyl had been cultivated by my grandmother since I was ten years old. Searching old school record shops is one of my favorite pastimes.
I glance up at Lindsay when a thought pops into my head. “Did you give him my number?”
She shakes her head, but a slow, easy grin spreads across her lips.
“Then how did?” I stop when a few memories of last night filter through my brain.
I remember the bartender called a cab for Lindsay and me, and then Dylan refused to let me leave until I gave him my number. I remember whispering something into the bartender’s ear. The man immediately started laughing and nodding his head with enthusiasm as he grabbed something from underneath the bar. And then I was holding a black permanent marker in my hand.
Wide-eyed, I question, “Did I Sharpie him?”
“Tit-for-tat, darling,” Lindsay nods, but there’s a little twinkle in her eye that I can’t quite discern. “Although, I think your placement choice was quite creative.”
And that’s when the final memory flows into my mind. “Oh my God!” I cry in embarrassment, my head falling onto the table.
Barely two seconds pass before my phone starts ringing. His number flashes on the screen. I answer despite my better judgment. “Hello?” My voice is muffled against my arm.
“Brooke?”
I adjust my face, so I don’t continue sounding like one of the adults in the Charlie Brown movies. “Did I really write my number on your abs? ” I swear that is the most ridiculous question that’s ever passed my lips. My cheeks heat from the sheer embarrassment of it.
And yes, he has abs—washboard, I-could-grate-cheese-on-his-stomach, kind of abs. Holy hell, even that small description doesn’t do them justice. They’re that good, a “you need to see them to believe them” kind of good.
“Yes.” His deep chuckle reverberates through the phone.
I groan.
“I thought the song lyrics were a nice addition,” he adds, humor still present in his voice.
My head pops up. “Song lyrics?”
“You don’t remember?” he asks, but in reality, he is daring me to remember.
I mull over the night in my head. I remember talking with him, for what seemed like hours, about music, our favorite bands, and everything in between.
“It’s a song that we laughed about for a while before you decided you needed to dance to it. And then you did. Good thing you’re so bloody adorable. I think the bartender would have kicked you out had he not enjoyed watching you shake your little hips all over the bar.”
Dylan softly sings the chorus. My hand covers my mouth, giggles spilling from my lips. The song is Come On Eileen. Everyone knows the English pop song by Dexys Midnight Runners. It’s a cliché of a song, but no one can stop themselves from dancing around like a fool once the counter-melody gets faster and faster during the bridge.
“Brooke?”
“Yeah?”
“Check your messages again.”
I put him on speaker and check my inbox. There’s a picture message. It’s Dylan grinning, and holding up his shirt. The lower half of his stomach is covered in my sloppy, drunken handwriting.
Toora loora toora loo rye ay . . .
you’re gonna hum this tune forever . . .
323–333–4111 -Brooke :)
Fuck me, I even added a smiley face.
“Remind me never to drink again.”
“I thought the smiley face was a nice touch.” His light chuckle echoes from the speaker.
“I’m in full agreement with you,” Lindsay adds.
“How does an hour sound, Brooke? I’ll swing by your hotel. You’re at Le Bristol, yes?” He’s ignoring the fact that I haven’t even agreed.
“Uh . . .” I start to tell him no, but I’m cut off by Lindsay.
“That works perfect, Dylan. I’m meeting up with a friend, so
‘There’s always candy involved in something like that, love. No candy. Just an inside scoop on where to find the best vinyl in Paris. I’ll even buy you lunch.’
Damn, he’s making it hard to say no. My love for old vinyl had been cultivated by my grandmother since I was ten years old. Searching old school record shops is one of my favorite pastimes.
I glance up at Lindsay when a thought pops into my head. “Did you give him my number?”
She shakes her head, but a slow, easy grin spreads across her lips.
“Then how did?” I stop when a few memories of last night filter through my brain.
I remember the bartender called a cab for Lindsay and me, and then Dylan refused to let me leave until I gave him my number. I remember whispering something into the bartender’s ear. The man immediately started laughing and nodding his head with enthusiasm as he grabbed something from underneath the bar. And then I was holding a black permanent marker in my hand.
Wide-eyed, I question, “Did I Sharpie him?”
“Tit-for-tat, darling,” Lindsay nods, but there’s a little twinkle in her eye that I can’t quite discern. “Although, I think your placement choice was quite creative.”
And that’s when the final memory flows into my mind. “Oh my God!” I cry in embarrassment, my head falling onto the table.
Barely two seconds pass before my phone starts ringing. His number flashes on the screen. I answer despite my better judgment. “Hello?” My voice is muffled against my arm.
“Brooke?”
I adjust my face, so I don’t continue sounding like one of the adults in the Charlie Brown movies. “Did I really write my number on your abs? ” I swear that is the most ridiculous question that’s ever passed my lips. My cheeks heat from the sheer embarrassment of it.
And yes, he has abs—washboard, I-could-grate-cheese-on-his-stomach, kind of abs. Holy hell, even that small description doesn’t do them justice. They’re that good, a “you need to see them to believe them” kind of good.
“Yes.” His deep chuckle reverberates through the phone.
I groan.
“I thought the song lyrics were a nice addition,” he adds, humor still present in his voice.
My head pops up. “Song lyrics?”
“You don’t remember?” he asks, but in reality, he is daring me to remember.
I mull over the night in my head. I remember talking with him, for what seemed like hours, about music, our favorite bands, and everything in between.
“It’s a song that we laughed about for a while before you decided you needed to dance to it. And then you did. Good thing you’re so bloody adorable. I think the bartender would have kicked you out had he not enjoyed watching you shake your little hips all over the bar.”
Dylan softly sings the chorus. My hand covers my mouth, giggles spilling from my lips. The song is Come On Eileen. Everyone knows the English pop song by Dexys Midnight Runners. It’s a cliché of a song, but no one can stop themselves from dancing around like a fool once the counter-melody gets faster and faster during the bridge.
“Brooke?”
“Yeah?”
“Check your messages again.”
I put him on speaker and check my inbox. There’s a picture message. It’s Dylan grinning, and holding up his shirt. The lower half of his stomach is covered in my sloppy, drunken handwriting.
Toora loora toora loo rye ay . . .
you’re gonna hum this tune forever . . .
323–333–4111 -Brooke :)
Fuck me, I even added a smiley face.
“Remind me never to drink again.”
“I thought the smiley face was a nice touch.” His light chuckle echoes from the speaker.
“I’m in full agreement with you,” Lindsay adds.
“How does an hour sound, Brooke? I’ll swing by your hotel. You’re at Le Bristol, yes?” He’s ignoring the fact that I haven’t even agreed.
“Uh . . .” I start to tell him no, but I’m cut off by Lindsay.
“That works perfect, Dylan. I’m meeting up with a friend, so
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