Page 13 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Luke was right about this place. It’s a collector’s haven. Which means everyone here is dower and serious as they sort through the records, looking for their find of the day.

I pull my purse over my shoulder, the weight of my camera reminding me of my plight. At the end of the long room of records is the checkout counter. It’s a foot off the ground which makes the man behind the counter look more like a judge than a cashier, the keeper of all the collectible records lining the walls behind him.

This must be Kenny Zapeta. He’s an older guy with errant hairs poking out of his ears and a grouper-like frown on his lips.

Yeah, Luke wasn’t lying. He’s intimidating, to say the least.

I approach the counter, ignoring the stares of the patrons as I go. They can smell I’m an outsider. Sharks ready to go in for the kill.

When I arrive in front of the counter, Kenny doesn’t look up from the newspaper he’s reading.

“Excuse me?” I say, much softer than I mean to.

Kenny doesn’t move. He must not have heard me.

“Excuse me?” I say again. “Mr. Zapeta?”

“Huh?!” He rips the paper down from in front of his face and leans over the counter to lord over me. “What do you want?”

I should have picked out a few records as a cover. Then as he was checking me out, I could have subtly asked my questions. “Um . . . I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

“What do you want, Miss?” he asks again. More insistent. More annoyed.

I reach into my bag, my hand gripping onto the picture. “You used to own The Lone Star. Correct?”

“Who wants to know?”

I want to know! Obviously, I want to know or else I wouldn’t be asking. I decide to plod ahead though I feel my cheeks burning with the heat of a billion suns. “I’m interested because—”

Before I can place the picture on the counter, Kenny swings a hand in my direction. “Bah. If you’re not going to buy anything, leave me alone.”

I wish I wasn’t so sensitive, but the way he’s treating me makes me want to cry. This situation is already embarrassing enough without getting tears involved. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to bother you, but—”

“Look, kid,” he begins with an annoyed sneer.

Thankfully, he doesn’t get a chance to finish that sentence because a familiar voice cries out from the front door. “Kenny!”

I turn on my heels to see Luke waltzing into the record shop, and holy cow he looks just as put together as he did the other night but in a completely different way. Instead of slick music promoter, today he’s giving hipster cowboy. White t-shirt overlaid with an open navy button down, blue jeans, whiskey-colored cowboy boots—and to top off the whole look—a fucking hat. Broad-brimmed and black.

I didn’t know I had a cowboy fantasy until this very moment.

“Wyatt,” Kenny barks. There’s still an edge in his voice but it’s a helluva lot more affectionate than the way he spoke to me. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Luke removes his hat as he walks down the long record shop, revealing his golden hair. His boots clack against the floor with every step. I lean against the counter in an effort not to topple over. He smiles. “I see you’ve already met my friend, Eleanor!” he says with a gesture in my direction. His blue eyes flick to me for a second, long enough for me to read the apology in his eyes.

“I, uh . . . this is your friend?” Kenny asks.

Luke puts his hand on my shoulder and turns me back toward the counter so we both face the overlord of the record shop. I can’t ignore the feeling that zips down my spine at his touch. “Yeah, you haven’t met Eleanor yet? She’s a big deal.”

I scoff. “Luke . . .”

“What? You are!” he says with a glimmering smile.

Don’t know where he got that idea. Further proof I need to keep my wits about me around Luke Wyatt. He’s too charming for his own good.

“Where you from?” Kenny asks me.

“Chicago,” I answer, though my voice gives out on the second syllable.

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