Page 1 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)
make mine a double shot
Seren
I watch him across the café, and my chest does that stupid flutter thing. He lifts his coffee, double shot latte, always, without looking away from whatever broadsheet has caught his attention this morning. Very Soho House-core. I’ve decided he must be a spy. Or maybe a documentary maker.
What would it feel like to kiss those lips?
I lick my own and instantly hate myself for it.
“You’re going to get arrested for stalking soon.”
Flick’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she bangs down my filter coffee, hard enough to send liquid sloshing over the rim.
“Won’t.”
I try to look away from him. I can’t. My eyes won’t cooperate.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
This time I manage it, turning to meet Flick’s knowing look as she wipes sweat from her forehead with the back of her arm. Her pink hair sticks to her skin in damp curls, halo-like .
“I say this every day, but why don’t you just go over and say hi?”
She shakes her head. “Make conversation. Ask him what he does once he’s finished drinking my excellent coffee. I doubt he’d beat you away with a stick.”
Her eyes flick over me, assessing the day's damage. Whatever she sees, she’s unimpressed. She shakes her head again.
“If I said hi, I’d need something vaguely interesting to follow it up with. Can’t be arsed.”
“You can’t be arsed about anything.”
“I know. It’s my life motto.”
I cringe. Christ, I sound just like Dad.
“Annoyingly chill,” she mutters, clearly reading my mind.
“You know, I’d love to have been a fly on the wall at those parties your dad used to throw. That level of detachment doesn’t happen naturally. Takes serious pharmaceutical assistance.”
My stomach dips.
“Listen, you can’t change your genetics. You get to live in a gorgeous house in the best part of town, and instead of earning real money, you spend your days doing what you love. Listening to those awful records.”
Awful records.
And yet we’re best friends.
The café clock hits 8:30. Steam curls through the air, turning the place into a low-budget sauna.
“Thanks for the coffee. Better go open up.”
“Expecting a rush today?”
“It’s March. It’s arctic. And it’s a vinyl shop. So, no.”
I lift an eyebrow. “But Vinny hates when we’re closed. And you never know when some pretentious tosser will wander in and drop five hundred quid on Beatles rarities while I silently judge their life choices.”
Flick snorts, loud enough to catch the attention of Double Shot Latte. He glances over. She freezes. Then attempts the world’s least subtle head-nod in his direction.
I grab my cup.
“And that’s my cue. I’m out.”
“You’re a total coward,” she calls after me, and she’s not wrong.
At the door, I turn and grin.
“Happy Birthday, Felicity Andrews!”
I shout it loud enough for the whole café to hear.
I laugh so hard I might rupture something vital as her cheeks burn a spectacular shade of red.
“And I thought you’d forgotten.”
I shoot her finger guns.
“Everyone tip her. She’s depressed and ancient!”
The morning regulars cheer. I step outside still grinning as the café bell jingles behind me.
The grin fades the second I’m alone.
The wind slaps my face like I’ve offended the gods.
“Fuck. Shit. That’s cold.” I try to sip my coffee through the plastic lid and immediately burn my top lip. “Fuck.”
I hunch deeper into my coat, retreating like a tortoise into its shell, and battle the weather for exactly five doors. Then I reach the small shop with the blue front—my sanctuary, my excuse, my quiet rebellion against the world outside.
My fingers fumble through my coat pocket. Lip balm. Tissues. A packet of mints that must’ve migrated from another life.
“Bollocksy, fuck fuck.” I glance up and down the empty street, then groan as I bend to place my cup on the doorstep. Where’s Simon when I need him? I specifically asked Vinny to keep him on the rota just so I wouldn’t have to wrestle with this door alone every bloody morning.
I jab the key in and lean my shoulder against the frame. After a theatrical battle, the lock gives way with a reluctant clunk. The bell jangles above my head, shrill and unforgiving.
Warm air exhales into my face as I stumble inside. The electric heater by the till wheezes to life as I crank it to full blast. I might take my gloves off around eleven, if I’m feeling wildly optimistic.
Coffee retrieved, scarf wrapped round my face like a balaclava, I stamp my feet until the pins and needles start to prickle. The day hasn’t begun, but I’m already calculating how long it’ll take before I feel like a real person again.
Two hours and forty-five minutes. Not bad.
Black polyester and tartan wool burst through the door in a blur of limbs and flailing arms. Simon, tracking half of Hampstead Heath across my floor.
“You’re late.”
“You’re moody.”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“You literally employ me to be an arsehole. Keeps it real for you every day.”
I grunt, mostly because he’s right. Simon starts shedding layers—scarves, gloves, that coat that looks like it survived the trenches. The last scarf is burgundy and cream, and almost certainly stolen from a pensioner.
“You still coming to Flick’s birthday tonight?” I keep my voice flat, low on enthusiasm.
Simon squeals like a kettle boiling over and throws himself at me, catching my shoulders in a bear hug. I let it happen.
“It’s going to be amazing. I’m feeling tequila. Definitely tequila vibes this morning. Did you drop the cake at the restaurant?”
I roll my eyes.
“This morning? Simon, do you even have a functioning brain? They’re not open yet. I’ll bring it tonight.”
“You know a cake isn’t a date.” His lips twitch, pleased with his own rhyme. When Simon smiles, he makes geek chic look dangerously close to attractive.
“You know I’m not bringing a date.” I watch him closely. “Are you?”
“Andrew said he might come. But it depends.”
“Depends on what? His manicure schedule?”
“No.” He draws in breath like it’s fuel for a monologue. “Well, you know his sister Trace is expecting twins. Last night her waters started leaking, like she couldn’t stop peeing, so they called the hospital?—”
I throw up a hand, but he barrels on, full steam.
“They said it wasn’t a proper gush, so they weren’t sure. Maybe she was just pissing herself. That bump is massive, Seren. I don’t know how she’s still upright?—”
My hand clamps over his mouth before he can scar me further.
“Please. Stop. I get it. He’s not coming.”
I tilt my head.
“Have you told him about me?”
Simon clutches his chest like I’ve wounded him mortally.
“Would I? Seren, you wound me. Just because I like to talk doesn’t mean I gossip.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Swear on my life and hope to die. Preferably mid-orgasm.”
I let it go. He’s telling the truth, rare as that is. And maybe that’s the real surprise—I believe him.
“You know I’d never break the triangle of trust. Not even for Andrew. Who, for the record, gives the best head this side of the Thames.”
“Thanks for the visual.” I mime a finger gun to my temple. “I’ll store that next to all my other unwanted mental images.”
He waggles his eyebrows.
“Right then. Are we expecting to be busy?”
I sweep a glance around the empty shop.
“Um. No.”
“Shall we raid the stock for tunes for Flick’s party?”
“Nothing from the nineties.” My voice carries the weight of a thousand suns.
“You mean nothing by Damon Rogers?”
Every cell in my body tenses.
“Don’t say his name in here. This is my happy place.” I glance, involuntarily, at the R section.
Simon, of course, made the connection his first week. His brain is wired for obscure 90s pop trivia. A cruel gift.
“Oh, have you seen Hailey on the front of Closer this morning?”
I groan.
“You know I don’t read magazines. What’s she done now?”
“Dating some rapper, apparently.”
“Dad will be thrilled.”
Simon looks at me, thoughtful. Then shrugs. Hailey Rogers. Twenty-two and scaling fame like it’s Everest. She’ll step on anything to get to the top.
“Fancy another coffee?”
“Skinny hazelnut with two shots.” He pats his tiny, irritatingly perfect arse. “Gotta keep this looking pretty.”
I grimace.
“Whatever you say.”
I’m still cringing as I push open the door to the café. Double Shot Latte is gone.
Flick’s at the counter.
“The strongest coffee you’ve got,” I say. “And a decent shot of Valium if you’re hiding any.”
She laughs. But I’m only half joking.