Page 34 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Don’t do that,” he chastises.

“Do what?”

“Talk about us like we’re in past tense,” Luke says.

My brows lift. “Well, I mean . . . I don’t want you to feel obligated to spend more time with me.”

“As if any of this has been an obligation? You know how much fun I have telling people about my city? About the best music in the world?” he asks, disbelief in his expression. “You seriously think I’m doing all of this because I feel obligated?”

“Southern hospitality, right?” I ask.

Luke’s eyes pass over my face. His effervescent smile thins. He gives a subtle shake of his head. “Naw, you got me all wrong, Eleanor.”

I swallow, praying it’s not audible. “Well, you said it yourself. You’re supposed to be kind.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not genuine.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek. I hope I haven’t offended him.

“You think I’d spend three weeks carting you around Austin during my time off if I didn’t enjoy being around you?” Luke asks, the smile returning.

Don’t smile like a maniac. That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time. It feels nice to be enjoyed.

Luke bites down on his lower lip and sucks in through his teeth before giving a hard nod. “Yeah. Okay. I know what we’re going to do.”

He unlocks the car and opens the door for me as he always does. I resist a swoon as I always do. “What are we doing?”

Luke circles the car. “We gotta get your mind off things. I’m going to show you Austin. Not just because of a picture, but because I want to.”

We stare at each other over the top of the car.

His tongue glides across his lower lip, eyelids hovering lower. “Got it?”

I nod like a dashboard bobblehead. “G-got it.”

He grins. “Good.”

12

LUKE

Eleanor walks down the aisle of cowboy boots, eyeing all the varieties. The store is filled with the delicious, intoxicating scent of leather. Boots, as far as the eye can see, line the wooden shelves. I’m sure Allens Boots is exactly what a northerner would picture when asked where they think we get all our gear.

“Like anything?” I ask.

“I’m just trying to take it all in,” she says. “I didn’t know there were so many kinds.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say. “We Texans love our boots.”

Eleanor smirks over her shoulder, eyes falling to my own feet. “I can tell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She goes back to looking, settling on a black leather boot with a silver toe and a studded spur belt across the front. “I just don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear the same shoes twice.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say.

Eleanor lingers for only a moment before moving down the line. “I don’t even want to picture your closet.”

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