Page 17 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“The photo has nothing to do with you either,” I remark.

“But it’s my job to figure out these kinds of things. In fact, this meal would have been a tax write-off because of that if you’d have let me pay,” she says.

I laugh. She’s starting to loosen up just a bit and her humor is devastatingly witty. I’m not used to that. “Wouldn’t have been very gentlemanly of me,” I say, raising my eyebrows.

“Ugh.” She waves her hand to me, playfully frustrated.

“And besides, you’ve got it all wrong, Eleanor,” I go on. “You’re not a stranger. You’re a friend.”

Eleanor frowns. “We barely know each other.”

“Well, yeah, maybe in Chicago knowing someone as long as we’ve known each other would still be considered stranger territory. But you’re going to have to get used to the way things work around here,” I explain.

She inclines her chin. “Southern hospitality, hm?”

“Exactly. Around here, you’re a friend until you’re not. So don’t start being an asshole.”

Eleanor laughs, her bare shoulders rising. She’s wearing a loose yellow top with spaghetti straps that gives me a beautiful view of her collarbone. Somehow, she’s managed to avoid the sun enough to keep her complexion cool and untanned. Not sure that will last for long, though. “No promises, Luke.”

I lean on my elbow, slide my thumb under my lip, and let my eyes fall to the wooden slats of the table. It’s cliché to say you like the way a woman says your name, but it’s a cliché for a reason because I can’t ignore how nice it sounds when she says it. “Anyway, like I said, I know a lot about the scene around here. Not just because it’s my job, but I’ve grown up around it. I used to come into town and sneak into venues with my older sister because I was underage and . . . the music around here was my life. So, when I come across something I don’t know much about, well, I can’t help but be interested in finding out the truth. You know?”

Eleanor regards me for a moment with her brown eyes that flare a bit brighter in the sunlight than they did the other night. “Yeah, I get it.”

“If you don’t want my help,” I say, raising my hands in surrender, “then we can have our lunch and I’ll leave you alone. Never going to force something on someone, especially not the pleasure of my company.”

She giggles. “You certainly think highly of your company.”

“I’m a damned delight, Eleanor.”

“And humble too.”

“Very.”

She laughs harder and I can’t help but grin that I’ve made her smile.

“But if you think my expertise might be valuable, I’m offering myself to you,” I say and find myself falling silent when I realize just how intimate that sounds.

She spins her cup of horchata slowly. Is she nervous? Do I make her nervous the way she makes me nervous? The only difference between the two of us in that regard is that I keep throwing shit out, trying to see what sticks while she remains quiet and poised. Almost unreadable. Then she says, “Okay, well, what would you suggest our next step be?”

I like the sound of that. Our next step. I’m not out of the race yet. “We gotta talk to Bobby Sutton obviously.”

“I take it you know him from the way you talk about him?”

“Know him. Sure. But I know a lot of people.”

She frowns.

“Knowing people is different than knowing how to catch people. However, you’re in luck. I know how to catch Bobby Sutton.”

“Are we laying a trap or trying to get information?”

I place my forearms on the table and lean closer to Eleanor. “Aren’t they kind of one in the same, Nancy Drew?”

She blushes along her cheekbones. Gradually it spreads down her face. “Okay, fine. We have to catch him. And how do we do that?”

“Well, he plays sax in the house band at Franklin’s every Thursday night. We can go this week.” I grab my Topo Chico and take a swig.

“Like a date?”

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