Most of the walls are lined with old concert posters and signed photographs of a single artist: Dustin Willoughby. It’s quite the tribute—the owner must be a die-hard fan. Maybe the rock legend was even a regular once. It would explain all the autographs.
I glance around, half-hoping to see the man himself.
Alas, no Dustin.
The lunch rush is in full swing, the air humming with conversation and clinking cutlery. The musician stands on the low stage near the front window, playing a semi-acoustic. He looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties—far too young to be the retired star whose face fills the walls. Cables snake around his feet, the lights catching the scuffed varnish of the floorboards as he sings with practised ease, every note pitched to draw the room’s attention. It’s a shame most people are focused on their food.
I order a coffee to go, but on my way out, I linger by the door. Aposter catches my eye:Open Mic Night. It’s on Wednesday, the day after tomorrow.
I lick my lips. Hope flickers, but it’s pointless. I haven’t even opened my guitar case yet. Not that I’ve been here long, but still…
I glance down at my red dress, frowning.
Was wandering around aimlessly, eating and clothes shopping, really the best use of my morning?
Without warning, the door swings inward and slams into me. I jolt, clutching my takeaway cup too tightly, the lid flipping off as hot coffee splashes across my chest.
“Ow!” I yelp, stumbling back and swiping uselessly at the spreading stain. “That’s hot!”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, love!” cries the woman who barged in, a business type balancing a laptop bag and phone. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I lie, though the coffee burns and the entire front of my dress is drenched.
“Here.” A smooth male voice cuts in. A hand appears, offering a stack of folded napkins.
“Thanks,” I gasp, pressing them against my chest. It’s no use—the liquid’s already seeped through the fabric. I can feel the beads trickling down my stomach.
Ugh. So much for ‘New Lily.’
“Bit silly of us to put the poster there,” he says, tearing the poster from the door.
I look up and realise it’s the musician from the stage.
His guitar is gone, and he’s wearing a linen barista’s apron, the light fabric streaked with cocoa or coffee grounds. A black T-shirt stretches across his arms, and his jeans are more ripped than mine could ever aspire to be. Glossy black curls graze his shadowed jaw, silver bands glint on his fingers, and a neat row of studs lines one ear.
Up close, he’s devastatingly handsome, with piercing blue eyes that see straight through me. And that smile—the kind that breaks hearts, teeth so bright I’ll need sunglasses.
He’s a different kind of handsome to Brandon: less stillness and polish, more rugged.
I swallow hard. Remember to breathe.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Let me get you a fresh coffee, on the house.”
“Oh, no, it’s not your fault—” I begin, but he holds up a hand.
“I insist. What are you having?”
“A cappuccino,” I say, still dabbing at my dress.
“You got it.” He begins working the machine himself, the churn of beans grinding filling the air.
I abandon my attempts to rescue my dress.
“Here,” he says, taking the sodden napkins from me. “I’ll chuck them.”
“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks warming as I fidget with my sleeve. “Are you the owner?”
“Yep. I’m Willoughby. I run the place. And before you ask, Dustin’s my uncle.” He nods to the tribute wall of posters and photos.
