“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “You don’t know who I am, which makes me wonder why I assumed everyone else would.”

He wasn’t making much sense, although she realized the bigger problem was that he obviously was someone important and she had no idea who. She searched her memory for a flicker of recognition, but there wasn’t any. So he probably wasn’t an actor. Then who? Royalty? A porn star? Male model?

“I’m a singer/songwriter,” he told her. “Until a few years ago, I was lead singer for Darryl John James. It’s a rock band.”

“I know who they are,” she said. She did. Sort of. She’d heard of them. Kind of.

“You’re lying,” he said with a grin. “You couldn’t name one of our songs, which is okay. There’s not enough twang for you.”

“I do like country music,” she admitted. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Everyone has different tastes.”

“Yes, well, so the guitar isn’t to help you pick up women?”

The laughter returned. “No. I’m working on something, but it’s not going well.”

He was writing a song? How did anyone do that? She couldn’t imagine.

“I’m going to feel ridiculous when I google you later, aren’t I?”

“A little, but don’t take it personally. I like being a regular person, and that doesn’t happen very often. Although it’s been nice in town. People have recognized me, but most of them just leave me alone.”

The timer dinged. She busied herself plating the pizzas and carried them over to the table.

“I don’t even know what to ask,” she told him, picking up a veggie pizza. “Tell me about the band.”

“We started when we were in high school. There were three of us originally. The band name is our middle names.”

She winced. “Darryl?”

He chuckled. “James.”

“Thank goodness. Darryl would be tough. So, how did you get from high school band to famous?”

“We were discovered playing at a party. That got us a record deal. We started touring and we took off. I’d been writing songs since I was maybe ten or eleven. Once we had a label, I worked with some brilliant guys and got a lot better at it. I’ve had a few writing partners, but lately I’m writing on my own.”

He paused to finish his mini pizza, then reached for a napkin. “‘Moonlight for Christmas.’”

“I know that one!”

“I wrote it with my ex-wife.”

“It’s a great song.”

“Thanks.”

Everything about this was surreal. It was one thing to think of Micah as the hot guy in the carriage house, but to discover he was famous kind of knocked her sideways.

“I don’t think any of the guests would be a problem for you,” she told him, “if you wanted to risk Snacks and Wine.”

“Thank you.”