Page 19 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Luke is still a stranger to me. And while he’s been nothing but kind, what if I’m making a mistake trusting him? I haven’t gotten a single bad vibe from him. Not even on the drive over here. But now my anxiety is reeling. I shouldn’t have let him pick me up, shouldn’t have let him drive me in his car, shouldn’t—

Down the street, I spy a door opening and orange light pouring out onto the street. A couple stumbles out, giggling and grabbing for each other’s hands, totally intoxicated by the night they’ve had.

I let out a taut sigh. Alright, maybe I was overreacting.

My door opens and Luke drops his hand down for me. Okay, gentleman. I look up at him as I take his hand, mumbling a soft, “Thank you.”

He helps me to stand, and closes the door of his slick black Audi behind me before leading me onto the sidewalk and toward the building the couple just emerged from. “This way.”

When we arrive at the door, I realize it is indeed marked with a small sign over the door, albeit it’s quite faded. The pale letters in Franklin’s are now ghosts of their former selves, specifically the “L” which is almost invisible.

Continuing his streak as gentleman, Luke opens the door for me. “After you.”

We have our IDs checked by the bouncer and then descend a long, warmly lit staircase side by side. On the walls are pictures upon pictures of musicians from years past. I admire them as we go.

“I bet you’d like these for your collection,” Luke says with a cheeky smile.

I smile in kind. “You read my mind.”

The lower we go, the louder the music gets. The plangent croon of a trumpet solo, soft rapping of the drums, and a bleating piano. I feel like I’m back at the Green Mill where I’d spent many a night in Chicago.

By the time we arrive in the doorway of the venue, the song is peeling into its last notes and people are already clapping. Though no one is smoking, I can’t help but feel the room is smoky, a haze looming over everyone. The small stage is across the room, crowded with musicians of all ages, a full jazz band. Cabaret tables litter the space, most of them full of lovers and friends. Across the ceiling are delicate chandeliers, and along the rightmost wall is a bar with mirrors arching behind the bartenders and rows and rows of liquor bottles.

“Tables look full. Should we grab a seat at the bar?” Luke asks me.

I nod. “Sounds good.” That feels a little less intimate too. That way, we aren’t leaned over a tiny little table. Better for my heart. Since our lunch the other day, I haven’t forgotten how he nearly choked on his mineral water because I dared to ask if he was asking me on a date. That made it very clear that he sees me firmly as a friend, just the way he’d described me to Kenny.

That’s fine with me. It’s better if we remain colleagues through this process anyway.

We wind through the little tables and find two bar seats beside one another.

Luke pulls the chair out for me; this man never quits with the gentility, does he? Before I can utter a thank you, he mutters, “You look really nice tonight, Eleanor.”

My heart lunges into the back of my mouth. “Really nice” isn’t a flirtatious choice of words, but knowing he’s even taken a moment to look me over and take in my outfit means a lot considering how I fretted over it before he picked me up.

In the days leading up to today, I studied Pinterest boards of Austin street style and even had Jolene direct me to some boutiques that might give me a fighting chance at fitting in. Of course, that meant I blew my budget for the month on this airy, boho floral number.

“Thank you,” I say as I settle into my seat, holding back a, “So do you,” for fear my voice might pitch a little too high and I’ll sound silly. But it’s true, he looks nice. Of course he does. That seems to be Luke Wyatt’s prerogative at all times. Tonight, he’s opted for a rust-colored jacket over a black dress shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a date with a guy who is wearing a suit coat.

Not that this is a date.

“What would you like to drink?” Luke asks.

“Gin and tonic,” I say.

He grins. “Why am I not surprised?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Luke holds up his hands. He’s got broad palms. Hard to ignore the idea of how they’d feel sliding around my back. “Just feels very Chicago of you.”

I scoff. “You’ve never been to Chicago, have you?”

“Once.”

“It shows.”

He laughs, all his teeth visible. I laugh too.

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