Page 24 of How to Date a Rockstar

Playing rock music? Does he know who I am?

“Um…”

The group of elderly ladies who stopped by the house the other day bustle toward us.

“Hello, Cash,” Sage greets. “I see you’ve met Forest, our local pet store owner.”

Forest scowls. “You don’t own pets.”

And yet his squirrels are on leashes. He must notice me looking because he answers my unspoken question, “I have to use leashes. Aspen threw a fit when Chip climbed one of her bookshelves. It wasn’t his fault. Her dog attacked him.”

“Your squirrel is named Chip?”

“He’s not a squirrel. He’s a chipmunk. This is Chip and this is Dale.”

I chuckle. Forest is off his rocker, but he’s amusing.

“I thought we agreed you would wear pants when walking your pets during the daytime,” Sage says.

“We agreed to no such thing,” he grumbles. “I’m not going to wear pants if I don’t want to,” he declares before marching off with his chipmunks following him.

I blink. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Except I’m not the band member who experiments with drugs. I don’t go near the stuff. I barely drink considering how my mom died.

Which means I really did meet a man not wearing pants out walking his chipmunks.

“Do we need to make sure he gets home all right?”

“He’s fine.” Feather laces her arm through mine. “What are you doing out at this time of night?”

Night? It’s barely seven. Seven is practically noon to me considering we don’t usually step onto the stage at one of our concerts before nine.

“Have you had dinner yet?” Clove asks.

My stomach growls in response.

Feather whirls me around and prods me toward Main Street. “You should have dinner at Moon’s diner. It’s meatloaf night. You can thank me later.”

When I don’t move, Cayenne pats me on the ass. I’m used to strange women touching my ass, but they’re not usually old enough to be my grandmother.

“Go,” she urges. “Her meatloaf special tends to sell out.”

I shrug. I might as well. Eating at the diner is as good of an excuse as any to avoid staying in a house with Indigo where I’m not allowed to touch her, to kiss her, to strip her naked. I shut down those thoughts before I embarrass myself and wave to the gossip gals.

When I reach Main Street, I realize I didn’t ask for directions. I search the area until I notice the sign forMoon’s Dinersandwiched between a grocery store and a bookstore.

The bell over the door rings as I step inside. A woman hurries toward me.

“Finally.” She grabs my hand and drags me to a booth next to the window. “I couldn’t save this table for much longer. And I’m running out of meatloaf.”

“Boo!” someone shouts.

She plants her hands on her hips. “It’s not my fault someone decided to eat four servings.”

“He always eats four servings!” he shouts back.

“He’s my boyfriend. He can eat as much as he wants,” she shouts before turning to me. “I’m Moon. I own this place.”

“Nice to meet you.”

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