“I’m flattered, but I’m not interested.”
“You said you’re single,” he points out the way a young guy always does when the woman he wants to fuck turns him down.
“I am,” she explains. “I’m focused on my music right now.”
“Oh,” he draws that out in an exaggerated sigh. “I get it. You don’t want to confuse the muse.”
I hold in a laugh because what the ever-loving fuck does that mean?
“Exactly,” she states simply. “Do you want me to ring this up?”
“Might as well,” he says. “I’ll go home alone and give it a listen.”
You do that, Castle.
I keep that to myself as I turn to face them.
Castle, with a dejected look on his face, glances at me. “What type of music are you into?”
That’s a quiz I didn’t prepare for, so I go for the easy answer. “Many different genres interest me.”
He nods like that makes sense to him. “Me too.”
It seems we have that in common, along with the fact that we’re both crushing on Astrid.
She takes his credit card from him when he offers it to her.
“If you change your mind about the beer, you have my number,” he says in a last-ditch effort to woo her.
Her response is accompanied with a soft smile. “Have a good night, Castle.”
He’s been brushed off with a charm. It’s been years since I’ve experienced that. I may find myself there again tonight.
“You too.” He glances back at me. “Later, man.”
Since I doubt I’ll ever see him again, I offer him a curt nod and nothing else.
Chapter Ten
Astrid
Castle exits my store at five minutes to eight.
Normally, I’d be preparing to lock up for the night, but that’s not happening.
Berk Morgan wandered in, and I’m not about to order him out when the clock strikes the hour.
Looking like perfection in his well-tailored suit, he smiles. “Castle is a unique name.”
I stutter out a nervous laugh. “It’s his last name. He doesn’t like his first name, so he goes by Castle.”
“It doesn’t suit him.”
This time I let out a full-on chuckle. “He thinks it does. He’s a good guy.”
Castle has been dropping by the store bi-weekly for months.
His love of vinyl rivals mine.
We’ve had several hours-long discussions about our favorite artists, but we’ve never spent any time with each other outside the walls of this store.
Castle is great, but he’s not my type.
“Good.” He nods like my confirmation that Castle is an upstanding person matters to him.
Since Berk has been focused on records since he walked in, I shift the conversation there. “Can I help you find something? My inventory is huge.”
That lures a soft smile to his lips. “I can see that.”
Since he avoided the go-to question I ask every customer, I try my backup approach. “Let me guess. You’re into classical music.”
That perks his left brow. “I listen to Mozart when I work out.”
That sends my greedy gaze over his body. It may be covered in a suit at the moment, but it’s not hiding the fact that he’s tall, trim, and muscular.
He strikes me as the type of man who has defined abs and biceps that I can’t wrap both of my hands around.
I dart my eyes to the floor. “What do you listen to when you’re not working out?”
“My daughter singing.” He laughs.
His daughter.
I haven’t forgotten about her or the fact that he’s likely married.
He looks like he’s in his thirties. He’s probably established, successful, and blissfully happy with his beautiful wife.
They most likely eat at a formal dining room table. Then, when the dishes are done, they tuck their daughter into bed together before they retire to their opulent bedroom.
That’s when he fucks his wife into tomorrow before she falls asleep in his arms.
I tear my thoughts away from what he’s like in bed and focus on his daughter. “What kind of songs does she sing?”
It will give me a clue about her age.
I’m not an expert on kids, but some of my regular customers bring their little ones into the store, and often I’ll join them in a rousing song about wheels on a bus or a twinkling star.
“Whatever nine-year-olds are into that day,” he answers. “Recently, it’s been a song by some pop idol.”
I laugh. “She sounds just like me when I was nine.”
“When was that?”
That unexpected question sets me back a full step.
Maybe he’s just making small talk, or maybe…
“I was nine twenty-six years ago.” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “To Stevie, the music I listened to is ancient.”
He’s thirty-five.
That’s old enough to know more than me but young enough to still learn from me.
“I’m twenty-five,” I tell him. “Stevie is your daughter?”
He nods. “My very musically inclined daughter. She not only sings, she plays piano and is trying to master the drums.”
That’s impressive.
“Does she get that from you?” I smile. “Are you as talented as she is?”