Page 5 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“Everyone is around here,” I reply. I give her another up-down, not in a lustful or inappropriate way. Just . . . her attire really isn’t 6th Street on a Friday night. It’s more like cute librarian. Long airy skirt and a scrunchy type of top with embroidery. She’d fit into the San Francisco music scene of the ‘60s. By twenty-first century Austin, Texas? Not so much. “Except for you,” I say.

The woman takes half a step back, unsure. “How do you know that?”

“Just guessed,” I say. “I know all the faces around here. I can tell the locals from the suburbanites from the tourist . . . so which one are you?”

She chews on the inside of her cheek. “I guess I’m a wannabe local. I’m new in town.”

“Oh, well . . .” I smile my winningest smile. “Welcome to Austin.”

“Thanks,” she says brightly. “You’re a local, I take it?”

“Born and bred,” I reply.

Her eyes alight. “Then maybe you can help me with something.”

“Depends,” I say, but I’m close to committed to moving heaven and earth to help.

“I’m looking for The Lone Star. Or at least the location of it. I saw it’s closed on Google Maps, but I thought I’d be able to see where it used to be . . .” she trails off, once again looking around at the scenery.

I’m used to 6th Street on a Friday. Vibrant and alive, downtown Austin’s throbbing pulse. It’s where I’m in my element, where I’m most comfortable and at ease. That is unless I’m talking to a beautiful woman I ran smack into. That’s when the thrum courses through my veins, and the sounds of the street become less of a backing track and more about the rhythm of how I move.

Been a while since I’ve been on pins and needles like this.

But this woman’s managed to do that to me. And I don’t even know her name.

“I think I might have gone too far . . .” she says carefully, looking at the bar front beside us.

“Yeah, The Lone Star closed recently but it’s still in operation under a different name—The Yellow Rose. It’s a few blocks that way,” I say, gesturing with my gummi-filled arms.

She flips around and scratches her hand through her crown of curls. Adorable. “Damn, I knew I missed it.”

I step beside her, tilting my head down the street. “You’re in luck. I’m going there. I can walk you.”

“You’re going there? Really? You’re not just being nice,” she asks, a teasing smirk on her lips.

“No, seriously, I’m promoting an event there tonight. That’s why I have all these gummies.”

She frowns. “Is it some weird Willy Wonka thing?”

“No, no, nothing like that. I’m a music promoter, I just . . .” I let out a groan of frustration. “Let’s just say musicians are temperamental and when you forget one thing from the rider, that’s the one thing they notice.”

“Interesting,” she says, leaning her head back enough that the dying sunset casts a golden glow over all her features, illuminating her olive-toned skin. “I always expected, you know, sex, drugs, rock’n’roll.”

I nod. “Yeah, you’d be surprised by how banal and specific the requests are sometimes.”

She laughs through sealed lips, then glances down the street. “Well, I don’t usually go walking with a man whose name I don’t know.”

“Ah, where are my manners?” Good old southern hospitality is elusive when under pressure. “I’m Luke. Would offer you my hand, but—”

“You’ve got your hands full. I could help actually if you—”

I pull my bounty away from her. “No, no. Not necessary. What kind of gentleman has a woman carry his gummies for him?”

“Is this a weird Austin thing I don’t know about?” she asks.

I chuckle. “No, promise, gummies aren’t a requirement for understanding Austinite culture.”

The conversation stills for only a moment, a moment long enough for me to feel like I might never breathe again. Everything about her is arresting. I work too much to date and even while I’m working, I’m sometimes swamped with women on all sides. As much as I hate to admit it, I use my flirting prowess to get ahead from time to time.

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