“I do seem to smile a lot when I’m with you,” she said, smiling as usual. “I guess that means you’re charming, too.”
He chuckled. “You forgot virile and sexy.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Are you saying I’m not—”
She glanced up at him. “I meant that I didn’t forget. It’s obvious, you know. Goes without saying.”
“But you could say it.”
“I could.”
Their waitress returned with their drinks and Myrna’s salad. While Brian sipped his beer, he watched her methodical y move the cherry tomatoes and red onions to the edge of her plate.
“I thought you missed vegetables.”
“I don’t like raw tomatoes. And I thought I’d skip the onions so I could make out with the sexiest man alive after lunch without subjecting him to my death breath.”
He grinned at her compliment. He was used to girls stroking his ego, but when Myrna did it, it made him happy. She had such an unusual effect on him. He didn’t try to fight it. He was ready for this and hoped she’d come around soon. He knew he had to keep a rein on expressing these powerful emotions in front of her. The last thing he wanted to do was scare her away.
“You want it?” She speared a tomato with her fork and offered it to him.
“If you put some dressing on it.” Can’t have vegetables without dressing.
She dipped the little tomato into her cup of ranch dressing and held it out to him. He chewed slowly, watching her devour her salad.
“So how much data do you think you need to enter into your computer?” he asked.
She glanced up at him, her fork halfway to her mouth. “Why do you ask?”
He was wondering how much of her time her work was going to take. “Just curious.”
“Let’s see. I’ve been doing about twenty interviews a night, each with forty-two questions. And there have been eight concerts, so that’s about 6,500 pieces of data I need to enter. Give or take.”
“That’s a lot!” he sputtered. “You have to enter al that stuff by hand?”
“Wel , yeah. I don’t have an assistant in my back pocket.” She laughed. “It’s not the data entry that’s hard, anyway. It’s the statistical analysis and reporting the results in journal articles that takes so long.”
“You’re going to be real y busy, aren’t you?”
“I tried to explain that to you earlier. You seem to think I don’t want to go to L.A. with you because I don’t want to spend time with you.”
He shrugged. Was he that easy to read?
“I don’t want to go to L.A. with you because I want to spend too much time with you.”
When he tried to respond, she popped another tomato in his mouth.
“So I hope you won’t make it harder on me by getting al pouty.”
He swal owed. “I don’t pout. What if you get done with al your work early? Wil you come with me then?”
“I’l consider it, but don’t get your heart set on it.”
“You don’t want to meet my parents?”
She paled. “Your parents?”
“You realize who my dad is, don’t you? You being a col ector of guitar riffs and al .”
“Uh.” She paused. “I don’t know any other guitarists with the last name Sinclair.”
“He used a stage name. I can’t believe you don’t know this.” He grinned. “I’l give you three guesses.”
Her brow furrowed with concentration. “Is he as good as you are?”
Brian scoffed. “Better. Way better.”
She shook her head. “Now I know you’re making up stories.”
She’d eat those words after she figured it out. Brian had stood in the shadow of a legend his entire career.
“Does he stil play professional y?” she asked.
“The occasional reunion tour, but not real y.”
“Leftie?”
“No.”
“Malcolm O’Neil.”
“So you did know. I wondered how you didn’t know something like that.”
She dropped her fork and stared at him in shock. “Malcolm O’Neil is your father? Oh my God!”
If people weren’t staring at them before, they were now.
He scowled in puzzlement. “You didn’t know.”
“I was joking when I said Malcolm O’Neil. He was the only classic rock guitarist I could think of who was better than you are.” She grabbed his hand. “No offense.” She dropped his hand and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I mean, I think you’re better than he is, but…”
Brian laughed. “Calm down, Myrna. Is that enough incentive to get you to Los Angeles? Wel , they actual y live in Beverly Hil s.”
“I couldn’t,” she said. “I’d make a total ass of myself.”
“Like now?” He was teasing, but she glanced around the room and flushed in embarrassment. Their waitress delivered their lunches. “Can I get you anything else?”
Myrna clutched her chest. “A defibril ator.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Are you having a heart attack?”
“She’s joking,” Brian assured her. “Myrna?”
“I’m joking,” she agreed, stil breathless. “I can’t believe you didn’t tel me you were Malcolm O’Neil’s son.”
“You’re Malcolm O’Neil’s son?” the waitress asked. “Winged Faith’s lead guitarist?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Brian said.
“You do sort of look like him, if you had huge sideburns and a chubbier face,” the waitress said. “I saw them at Woodstock. That was right before they made it big. Do you play guitar, too, dol ? You have that rock star look about you.”
“A little,” Brian admitted. He hoped she didn’t make a scene. He’d been enjoying his obscurity, even if he had been the object of curious stares.
“I’d love to stay and talk, but I’m so busy,” the waitress said. “Do you want another beer?”
He glanced at Myrna, who was cautiously slurping steaming chowder from her soupspoon. “Just water.”
When the waitress left, he started eating his fried clams. They were grubbin’. Tender instead of chewy. Fried to a perfect crisp, yet not greasy. Deliciously seasoned. “Try one of these, Myrna.” He placed one on her plate next to her bread bowl. She bit into the fried clam. “That is good.” She scooped some chowder on her spoon and leaned across the table. “Careful, it’s hot.”