Page 16 of Rockstar Rescue
I look at him more carefully, confused. "What do you mean?"
"You didn't know I'm Dylan?" He seems genuinely surprised.
"Yes," I say, studying his face. "You told me your name."
"No, I mean I'm Dylan. The musician." He watches my reaction. "Do you listen to music?"
"Mostly country stations."
He shakes his head slightly. "Well, I don't play country. I play rock music. Have for years. Dylan—like Madonna, just one name.”
"You were popular when I was in high school," I say, watching his face for a reaction.
He winces slightly. "Rub salt in the wounds, why don't you?"
"I didn't mean?—"
"It's fine. Just did a show in Missoula last week."
He looks down at the food he's preparing, his fingers moving deftly with the knife. "Sold out, actually."
"So why come through Whitefish?” i ask. “It's not exactly on the way to anywhere."
Dylan’s shoulder brushes mine as he reaches for the pepper grinder.
“Right. I’ve played this area dozens of times. But I hadn’t known my great-great-grandfather founded a lumber company here in 1904 until recently. My plan was to spend the night in Whitefish and see it.
“The year of the railroad. So you’re practically a native.,” I say walking closer.
We stand there, neither of us moving away. Then he clears his throat. "Let’s sit down to dinner. You too, Charlie Boy."
My dog perks up at his name. Dylan smiles at him. "I've fixed you something special, buddy."
Charlie Boy follows me to the table, settling by my feet as Dylan brings over our plates.
First course," he announces with an exaggerated bow, "iceberg salad with ranch and bacon crumbles."
Charlie Boy makes a whining sound at the mention of bacon. I laugh. "He's obsessed with bacon."
"Smart fellow." Dylan places a small plate of crispy bacon pieces on the plate he’s set for my canine on the floor. Charlie Boy devours it instantly.
"You cooked for my dog," I say, oddly touched by the gesture.
"Second course is ribeye with my special marinade," he continues, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles.
"I didn't see any marinade in the cabin."
He taps his jacket pocket. "Homemade. I always carry my spice blend. Old habit."
"What kind of man carries spice in his pocket?" I ask, watching Dylan's hands as he settles into the chair across from me.
His fingers are long, nimble—a musician's hands, but there's something else there too.
"The kind who worked his way through culinary school before hitting it big," His eyes crinkle at the corners as he speaks, showing his age.
"I wasn't always playing sold-out venues. I was chopping vegetables and getting yelled at by French chefs for years."
I raise an eyebrow. "I always pictured rock stars working in dive bars in their early days, not fine dining."
