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“Hi!” I finally manage in a tone that’s much, much, much too bright for the current vibe.

Sienna glares toward me as though I’m an embarrassment, then leans in. “He looks like he’d be trouble. Go talk to him.”

“No!”

“Yes! At least sell him a record.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” We’re whispering back and forth as the man steps in behind Sienna, towering over her like a Viking back from war. He’s not only tall, but broad as well with wide shoulders and tattoos streaking down his arms.

“I’m here about a record.”

“Okay,” I manage, trying to remember to breathe. “What kind of record are you looking for?”

“I emailed about the Fleetwood Mac album.”

My brows narrow as I try to wrap my head around this big, gruff guy settling in after a murder spree to listen to Rumors.

The whole vibe of that record screams emotional solitude, not what I’d expect for a guy like this, but I shouldn’t judge.

I listen to heavy metal sometimes. I’m not sure anyone would guess that by looking at me.

“Oh, ugh, yeah.” I brush the crumbs off my shirt and reach back behind the counter, handing him the record. “Sorry, it’s been a weird morning. The record is in great condition, like new really.”

Why am I repeating myself? I already told him this through the email.

I watch his big, rough hand slide across the plastic coating then pull the record from the sleeve. Thick silver rings catch the dim light. They’re worn like armor, a contrast to the delicate precision in which he handles the album.

Damn he’s hot. He’s the kind of hot that the world bends around, like space is shifting to make room for him. His leather jacket creaks as he moves, and his eyes scan the record slow and deliberate as though he’s looking for cracks.

Why am I staring?

Sienna has stepped away from the counter and gone to browsing records, though I see her glance up multiple times to look his way. He’d be a good wedding guest for her. He’s definitely the rough and tough type she’s looking for.

“Where did you get this from?” the man asks, tucking the record back into the sleeve.

“A buyer out in Tennessee purchased it at an estate sale. The original owner was selling it after his wife died.”

He nods slowly, dragging his eyes up toward me. “That’s too bad. Natural causes I hope.”

“As far as I know.”

Why is he asking me this? Also , why do I feel like a teenager and the hottest boy in the school is talking to me?

It’s ridiculous! I’m twenty-seven, not thirteen, and this guy is a decade older than me… at least. What the hell is wrong with me?

He steps closer to the counter, bringing with him the scent of leather and motor oil, but there’s something darker beneath it. “I’ll take it.”

My eyes widen in surprise. He’s looked at something he’s actually going to buy.

“You mind if I look around for a second? I want to check out the other records you have. I’ve been looking for an old Black Sabbath album.”

“Oh, yeah!” I tuck around the counter, suddenly questioning the outfit I chose for today.

It’s a black dress with an A-line cut that doesn’t do much for me, but it’s quick and easy.

Usually that’s enough. “Of course, we have that album.” I avoid eye contact with Sienna as I pass through the bins toward the back, then pull the record up. “Here you go!”

He nods and holds the record in his hand. “Just checking your credibility.”

I slide their second album out from the shelf and hold it up. “How’s this for credibility?”

“Respectable.” His eyes flicker over the psychedelic album cover. “You’re getting cocky now. I like it.”

“Sabbath is the foundation of everything that came after this album. What’s your favorite track?”

“You’re bullshitting. There’s no way you’re listening to Black Sabbath.”

“Why not? I like all kinds of music.”

That earns me a deeper laugh, the kind that rumbles in his chest. “Okay, what’s your favorite track.”

“War Pigs.”

“Nice,” he murmurs with a laugh in his throat. “You love protest songs buried in heavy riffs?”

“I like music that says something. I don’t discriminate about what it’s saying.”

His smirk fades into something softer, more thoughtful before he hardens again. “I like that. I’ll take all three.”

I try not to jump up and down.

“I’ll take a record player too if you have one.”

“You don’t have a player?”

“Nah, just moved into town.”

“Oh! Where from?” I walk toward the stack of record players at the back of the store, grabbing one off the pile before handing it to him.

“Texas.”

I don’t know why I expected more of an answer after the little connection we made over War Pigs, but clearly I was mistaken.

“Nice, you should like it here. Everyone is great.” I purse my lips as I scan his items into the register. “And umm… yeah. If you like apple pie, this place is your jam.”

“Don’t much care for it. Always preferred cherry.” He holds his stare far too long. “What time do you get off work?”

Something tightens in my chest. His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place. I glance toward Sienna, desperate for her to confirm that this is actually happening.

She nods, eyes gleaming with excitement, gesturing me forward as though she wants me to be reckless and say yes… but I can’t do that to Aaron. Besides, maybe this guy wants to see what time I get off work so he can murder me. “I work every day until four.”

Wow! Maybe I should hand him my entire schedule while I’m at it. Maybe he needs my social security number too.

“I get hungry around four. You want to show me around town?”

My cheeks blaze with heat and my heart pounds against my chest. “Oh, I have a boyfriend. He’s a banker down at the bank. We, ugh, we’ve been together for a while and I’m really happy.”

“Good for you.” The man holds his stare with mine. “I didn’t ask if you wanted to cheat on him. I asked if you’d show me around town.”

Oh shit! Am I that dumb? Did I not see that? How did I not see that? Of course it’s not a request for sex.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were asking me out. I’m so dumb. I don’t get out much.” My heart slams against my chest. How freaking embarrassing!

He leans back as though he’s slightly amused. “You sound like you’ve been tempted.” His smirk is criminal, as though he knows exactly how he’s affecting me.

“That’s not—” I scramble for words as heat builds in my cheeks.

He chuckles and glances toward the street. “Relax. No high stakes questions. Point me to the best coffee shop in town, and you can keep your complicated banker boyfriend.”

“He’s not complicated,” I say, taking the man’s cash. Who pays in cash?

“Okay, so he’s not complicated, and you just like making it sound like he is?”

“No, he’s actually the least complicated person. He’s always on time, hardworking, and he makes a lot of money, so…”

The man tilts his head back. “Ah, there it is. You like the money.”

“No!” I hand him back his change. “I… I like him. He’s a good person.”

“Cool. Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I do,” I lie.

“Good for you. He like music too?”

“No, he’s not a music guy, but that’s okay. People are allowed to like different things.”

He hums, like the answer makes perfect sense, but there’s something in the way he lingers that makes me feel like he’s not entirely done.

“Yeah,” he finally says, grabbing his bag off the counter, “people are allowed to like different things.” His tone is easy and unaffected as though this conversation hasn’t bothered him in the slightest.

I should be relieved, but I catch myself wishing he’d say something else, wishing he’d turn back toward me as he makes his way toward the door.

Finally, he does. “Not a music guy, though. That’s a shame.” He says it like a verdict, like he’s somehow figured out that I’m making terrible life choices without me offering a single confession. Then again, maybe I did say a word or two. “Which way to the best coffee shop in town?”

I point across the street to Josie’s bakery, though I’m feeling oddly defensive about what he’s said under his breath. He glances toward me with a small smirk before pushing through the door. “Thanks for the help. See you around.”

Then, just like that, the world dulls. The spark, the tension, the unspoken weight of something out of reach. Now, I’m left standing in the aftermath, pulse uneven, wondering what the hell just happened.