Page 12 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I find myself smiling again. “I think we have that in common then,” I say. “Being genuinely curious.”

It’s not often that a woman’s gaze makes me feel bashful, but Eleanor’s warm brown eyes strike me to my core. I look away, thankful my stubble can hide any flush on my cheeks. “Anyway, Kenny runs a record shop here in Austin now. A collector’s paradise.”

Eleanor whips out her phone. “What’s it called? I’ll go check it out and see if I can talk to him.”

I rub my hand over my chin. “Naw, I’ll go with you.”

“Uh, what?”

“Yeah, Kenny’s, you know, he’s a curmudgeon. He probably won’t take kindly to an out-of-towner walking in and asking him random questions. No offense.”

Eleanor furrows her brow. “Well. I don’t want to ask you to give me any more help than you already have. This is more than enough for a lead.”

“Trust me, you’re not putting me out. I’d be happy to accompany you.”

Eleanor’s lips twist to the side. “Why is this starting to feel like I’m a woman in the ‘50s who needs to be chaperoned?”

“That’s not my intention, not at all, just . . .” Damn, I’m bungling this. “Listen, I know this town. I know the music and the history of music in this town. Sure, I might not have my own personal archive, but I know how to get answers. How to ask the right questions. I know the right people, and I know how to get the ins we—you might need to figure this out. I’m not going to say you need me, but . . .”

Eleanor lifts one of her shoulders and gives me a look that basically says, “Don’t step in it.”

“I think I could be a good resource for you,” I say, holding my hands out. “I’m not trying to take charge or anything. This is your project. Just take this as my official application to be your sidekick.”

Sidekick? Seriously, Wyatt? Sidekicks don’t get the girl, especially when the girl is the person you’re a sidekick to.

“That is a compelling argument . . .” Eleanor says, pooching her lips out and narrowing her eyes as she strokes her chin like she has a goatee. “Okay. Deal.”

She sticks her hand out toward me for a handshake. The second I accept it I have to tighten every muscle in my body for fear of turning to jelly under her touch.

Blessedly, by the grace of God, I make it through the handshake without totally losing it. I slide both my hands under my thighs to keep from trying to touch her again. Have to recover.

“So,” Eleanor says, grabbing her beer bottle and looking at me with a raised eyebrow. “When do we start?”

5

ELEANOR

I should have known he’d be late. Hell, I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes already. I’m this close to accepting he’s blown me off completely.

I thrum my fingers against the steering wheel and stare at the little record shop. It’s a dingy, old place. Lots of character. All the signage is clearly made by hand and hasn’t been updated in god knows how long. It could all use a fresh coat of paint.

When I parked in front of the store, I was suddenly very grateful that Luke offered his help. This is the type of place you have to know what you’re doing to enter without looking like a rube.

Now, though, I’ve been here so long I’m convinced the owner is going to call the cops on me for loitering.

I look at my phone one more time to check the clock. Twenty-one minutes late. And not even a damn text message to apologize or to let me know he’s backing out.

I should have known he’d be like this. He snowed me at the concert last night and really made me feel like the only woman in the world. Of course, that was after he had a flirty back-and-forth with the bartender. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the way she was leaning over the bar told me everything I needed to know.

He’s used to the attention of women. And now I’ve played right into his hand, let him know I wouldn’t mind spending more time with him.

I’ve been played for a fool.

Part of me wants to U-turn out of the parking lot and head back home. But the drive out here was long, especially in Austin traffic. Traffic in every city blows, but at least in Chicago I understood the driving culture. Here, I feel like I’m getting honked at for every little thing. Just existing on the freeway seems to be an affront to other drivers.

I’ve come this far. Curmudgeon be damned, I’m not leaving empty-handed.

I get out of the car and head into the shop. I notice the scent of the store first: aging paper and comforting must. The shop is almost completely silent except for the crackling of vinyl playing through the speakers. There are other people here but they’re all quiet. The bright orange and yellow walls—which should be warm and welcoming—seem more cautionary, warning me that I don’t belong.

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