“Yeah. Sorry, babe.” What else was I supposed to say?
“What are you gonna do?” she asked quickly, probably sensing I was slipping away. I was backing away from the cafe while she stood there, holding the door open. “Are you gonna play with Coop anymore?”
Ah. So she was an Andy Cooper fangirl. My bassist would be thrilled to hear that.
Myformerbassist.
I looked her over. She was pretty cute. Petite Asian girl, probably right up his alley. She looked like a student, maybe, backpack and all, but legal. Early twenties.
“He’s on Instagram,” I informed her, evading her question. “And I’ll tell him I ran into you…”
“Sandra,” she said, her eyes going wider.
“Sandra,” I said. “Nice to meet you.”
Then I kept walking. I meant what I’d said; I’d tell Coop to keep an eye out for her. Maybe he would, if she actually messaged him. She was probably about a six on my personal scale of hotness, but I was pretty sure she’d be at least an eight on his. We had different tastes, but you figured this kind of shit out about a guy after traveling the globe with him for nine years.
She seemed nice, too. Coop liked the nice ones.
I liked nice fans, too. Who wouldn’t? Reminded me that someone actually gave a shit if I kept making music or not. I especially liked them when they didn’t try to take a selfie with me when I was in a shit mood.
But women…? Nice wasn’t super high on my priority list.
Wicked hot, yes. Passionate. Sweet, maybe, in a dick-hardening sort of way.
But “nice” I could give a fuck about.
Maybe that was part of my problem?
I walked over to the intersection and stood to wait for the light to change. While I waited, I looked across atthegrocery store, halfway up the block in front of me—because apparently, I was a glutton for punishment.
As it turned out, though, destiny really was a thing.
And it was powerful as fuck.
Because she wasright there. Yellow rain boots and all.
Every hair on my body stood on end.
It’s not destiny,a tiny voice inside me said.You stalk someone enough, eventually you find them.
I told that voice to shut right the fuck up as I stared at her.
She had no umbrella this time. It wasn’t raining anymore. But it was definitely her. She wore a fitted cream-colored dress, knee-length, with a little slit up the side. Bare legs underneath, and yes, the yellow boots. Her hair was in a high ponytail and she was carrying another one of those light-blue bakery boxes—and struggling to pull open a tall, heavy door on an old building right across from the Chinese grocery store.
I would’ve helped her, if there weren’t about ten moving vehicles and half a block between us.
I punched the button on the crosswalk about a thousand times as I watched her disappear into the building.
When the light changed and the traffic finally stopped, I crossed the street, but I did it slow. I stopped on the curb in front of the building and stared.
The brick outside was old and crumbling, but the inside, according to the giant, newer windows, was renovated.
On the front window next to the door, it said, in big, fancy letters:Voilà.
Chapter Five
Danica
