He finishes the song, his dimple popping as the crowd breaks into applause. He pauses, acknowledges the audience with a nod, then bends over the guitar again.
This next song is different, with a faster beat and a rock and roll rhythm. I don’t recognize it, but it’s catchy, whatever it is. I feel the thrum of the crowd and scan the room.
Everyone is leaning toward the stage, tapping their feet and bobbing their heads as if they’re all vibrating on the same wavelength as Jake. I get it: the guy has charisma. The crowd’s almost doubled since I arrived at the bar two hours ago. A few people are holding up cell phones to record, and I wonder how many came just to see him.
Jake plays three more songs before wrapping up his performance with a quick bow.
“Thank y’all for being here tonight,” he says slowly into the microphone, beaming as the crowd applauds again. A small group of fans jumps to their feet, cheering and whistling. And for the first time in a long time, I regret my ban on dating.
3
“SO, WHAT’S THE VERDICT?Can I even hold a candle to Miss Kelly Clarkson?” Jake strolls back to the bar. It takes every ounce of self-control to keep my expression neutral.
“You could say that,” I reply, with what I very much hope comes off as a casual shrug.
He grins at me, a slow, devastatingly handsome smile that sends a ripple through my belly. “Wanna get out of here?”
I take a deep breath.Okay, Lexi, be rational here.This man is a stranger. A gorgeous stranger, yes. But for all I know, he’s a serial killer. Didn’t Charles Manson play guitar?
Even so, my plan to spend the night binge-watchingTop Chefsounds a lot less appealing than it did before Jake’s set. And the truth is, I’m not ready to let him go just yet.
“Sure,” I reply. “Let’s do it.”
Jake grabs a leather jacket from the back of his barstool and takes me by the hand. I toss a few dollars on the bar and let him lead me out the front door.
“So, where are we headed?” I ask, reluctantly letting go of Jake’s hand as he readjusts the guitar strap on his shoulder and feeling a rush of excitement when he takes it again.
“It’s a surprise.” He bites back a smile when I pull a face. “Though I’m sensing you’re not exactly the impulsive type?”
“Being impulsive is one thing. It’s the whole ‘allowing a stranger to take me to an unknown destination thing’ that’s giving me pause.” Jake laughs softly, and I take a minute to study his profile.
He really is insanely handsome, broad-shouldered, and taller than I originally thought, his boyish face juxtaposed by a light smattering of stubble along his jawline. Dark lashes frame his animated brown eyes.
“Not to worry,” he says. “My demon sex cult only meets on Thursdays, so you’re in the clear.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
“We’re headed to the F train,” he continues, “which gives us at least ten minutes to get fully acquainted.” He pronounces “get” like “git,” a trait I find inexplicably charming.
“Okay. Let’s start with the basics.” I narrow my eyes and put on my best bad cop face. “What’s your full name? Where are you from? And how many arrests do you have on your criminal record?”
“Excellent questions.” Jake swings our hands lightly. “I’m Jacob Aaron Taylor, but everyone except my mother calls me Jake. Born and raised in Marietta, Georgia. And I’m proud to say I have never been arrested. Though I was once detained by security at the Coca-Cola factory for attempting to sneak into the 3-D theater without a ticket.”
“You hooligan,” I say, shaking my head.
Jake smirks again. “Your turn. Same questions, and please say you are wanted by authorities in at least three different states.”
“Let’s see. Alexa Danielle Berman, but everyone calls me Lexi. Native New Yorker. And alas, I’ve never so much as cheated on a math test.”
“Figures,” Jake says with a snort. “You’ve got ‘good girl with a thing for rebellious musicians’ written all over you.”
We reach the platform just as the train arrives and scramble into the closest car. I steal another look at Jake—Am I seriously aboutto go through with this?—when an automated voice rings out. “Stand clear of the closing doors, please.”
Welp, I guess this is happening.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, WE’REstanding outside (Le) Poisson Rouge in the heart of Greenwich Village. I raise a questioning eyebrow at Jake, who tips his chin toward the poster in the window. Four musicians are pictured in over-the-top ’80s attire with the words “Living on a Prayer” written beneath them in sparkly bubble letters.
“You’ll never see a better eighties cover band,” he says as he pulls the door open. “Predates your beloved Y2K pop by a few years, but I promise you’ll love it anyway.”
