Page 4 of The Sound Between Us (Vinyl Hearts #1)

my milkshake brings all the…

Harrison

“What the hell—?” Cold, sticky liquid slithers down the back of my neck and straight under the collar of my hoodie.

It’s thick. Sweet. Strawberry, I think. And freezing.

I flinch, arms lifted away from my body. Pink drips down the front of my hoodie in lazy, humiliating streaks.

She stares at me.

The girl from the vinyl shop. The one with the mouth.

“Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.” Her eyes are huge.

I glance down at myself, at the slow descent of strawberry milkshake across the front of my sweatshirt. The plastic lid spins on the pavement near my feet.

She bends to grab it. “Better not drop litter. Plastic kills the environment.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Does strawberry murder hoodies?”

“Sorry,” she mumbles again, cheeks flaring cherry red. The colour blooms high on her cheekbones.

At the edge of my vision, movement. Shapes, shifting. Someone’s watching. Someone always is.

“Sorry for the milkshake, or for being a bit of a dick?” I ask, keeping it casual but with just enough teeth .

She doesn’t react. Not the way women usually do. No flicker of recognition. No coy grin or rapid blinking. Just cool appraisal.

Her gaze narrows. “For the strawberry,” she says, wincing.

“Right,” I say slowly, biting the inside of my cheek. “So... do you have a towel in your superior vinyl shop that only stocks music made before 1994?”

“Only vitriol,” she replies crisply. “And we also specialise in incivility.”

I laugh, can’t help it. “Wow. That’s... comforting.”

She squints at me. “You want to come in? Get cleaned up?”

I nod towards her record shop. “Do you have spare clothes back there?”

She rubs the edge of her nose with her knuckles. “I might have a jumper kicking about.”

I hesitate. Still waiting for recognition. It doesn’t come.

“I think it’s fairly obvious I’m not an enormous fan,” she says, catching my silence and filling it. It’s not unkind. Almost gentle.

“You’re the first person to say that to my face in about ten years,” I admit.

Her lips part in a soft little O. “Really? That can’t be true.”

I shrug. “You’re clearly a natural at charm.”

“It’s my specialty.”

Movement again—right side. Cameras maybe. Phones.

“Sorry, would you mind if we got off the street?” I ask, voice dropping.

She follows my line of sight, then turns her face away with a grimace. “Too late. You’ve been spotted.” A wince. “Again—sorry.”

She cradles the milkshake cup against her jacket, smearing pink down the sleeve, then leads the way back to the record shop .

I trail behind. She’s in black tights, andl. the view’s excellent.

The bell above the door tinkles.

Warm air hits me like a wall.

“Jesus, did you milk the damn cow yourself, Seren?” a voice calls from the back.

She glares at him. “Closing early, Simon. Get your coat.”

“What?”

I hang back, angling my face away from the window and the guy at the counter.

“What’s going on, Seren?” he asks, stepping out of the back. “Why’s there a crowd? Are you okay?”

She draws in a sharp breath, shoulders going rigid.

“Fine,” she says. “Just get ready for Flick’s do. I’m sure Andrew needs coaxing.”

“Well, now that you mention it?—”

“No. Nope. Don’t elaborate. Go. I’ll see you at seven.”

“Cocktails?”

“Apparently mandatory.”

There’s a beat. She doesn’t sound thrilled about cocktails.

“Don’t worry, Ser—we’ll get you a pint and shove an umbrella in it.”

“That’s better. Now fuck off.”

She pushes him—physically—to the door.

“Don’t talk to anyone,” she warns.

“About what?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

The bell rings again as the door swings shut behind him.

She locks it. Pulls the blinds.

Doesn’t turn around.

“Clothes?” I ask, glancing around.

I pull out my phone and hit Lee’s number.

“I’m in Vespa Records. Minor incident with a fan and a dairy-based projectile. I’ll find you soon.”

“You okay, boss?” Lee’s voice rumbles in my ear .

“Yeah. Just... surprised.” I hang up and turn to find her watching me.

She lifts an eyebrow. “Calling me a fan is genuinely the most offensive thing you could’ve said.”

I try not to smile. Fail.

Her gaze drops to my phone.

“Nice hardware.”

“Fewer distractions,” I reply.

Her expression shifts—just for a second.

Then she turns, fast, stalking toward the back room without another word.

Left alone, I glance around. The shop is quiet now, music low. They’ve got great presses. Serious taste.

I step toward the J section. Faith Jones: The Red Session lies right at the top. I reach for it.

Whack.

A towel snaps across my wrist.

“Here.” Her scowl is perfectly unimpressed. “Don’t get milkshake all over everything.”

Her nose wrinkles. Irritated. Adorable.

I take the towel and wipe half-heartedly at my hoodie. Lost cause. She watches, arms folded, one hip against the counter.

She thrusts a grey sweatshirt toward me. “Should fit.”

I take it. “Boyfriend’s?”

The tiniest muscle in her jaw jumps. Her eyes go flat. “No.”

I shrug out of my hoodie, cold air slicing over my damp skin. I rub the towel through my hair and catch her staring.

Not at my face.

“You’ve got an appendix scar.” Her gaze is matter-of-fact, unbothered. She motions vaguely at my torso.

Oh.

“Yeah. I was ten. ”

She lifts her own jumper, flashes a pale belly and a silver line so faint it looks almost drawn in pencil. “Six.”

We both stare. At each other. At nothing.

“So. Wembley?” Her voice comes out quieter. Less armour.

“Yeah.”

She nods once. “Guess you’ve got lots to get on with.” She gestures toward the door, brisk again. “Keep the jumper.”

“Won’t he want it back?” I ask, sniffing the faint trace of aftershave still ghosted in the fabric.

“No.”

I hesitate. “Sorry, I know this is awkward, but... can I wait for my car? I was trying to stay off-grid.”

Her head falls back with a sigh, chin tilted.

“You really hate Elementary, don’t you?”

“I’m sure you’re all lovely human beings,” she says, deadpan.

“So it’s not the music?” I raise an eyebrow.

She laughs—and it transforms her face completely. “Believe me, I’m being polite.”

“Oh, this is polite?” I grin. “Wow.”

“I gave you clothes.”

“You gave me a jumper that obviously belonged to some guy you ghosted. Probably sat by the bin for weeks while you debated setting fire to it. After you doused me in strawberry milkshake—which, by the way, is a war crime of a flavour.”

She gasps. “Shut up. Chocolate is the worst. Always tastes like fake banana.”

“Which is why you always go for?—”

“Vanilla,” we say in unison.

There’s a beat.

And then—knock knock.

Her eyes flick to the door, wary. I move to the latch.

“Thanks for the clothes,” I say, hand on the handle .

She reaches out. Grabs my elbow. Just a brush of her fingers.

“The music,” she says carefully, “only went downhill after the second album. After that, it was like... you stuck to the formula. Instead of pushing your ability.”

I freeze.

Her words hit too close to home.

“Tell that to the millions who still buy every record,” I manage. It’s bitter. Hollow. Too honest.

She shrugs. “Wasn’t talking to them.”

I stare at her. “Thanks. I’ll remember it tomorrow—standing on the stage at Wembley.”

“Don’t remember it then.” Her smile is devastating. Honest. “Remember it in the studio.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“This has been...” I falter.

“A reality check?”

I laugh, a sound that comes out of my chest like it hasn’t in weeks.

Another knock.

“Definitely a reality check.”

She nods, and her eyes—so dark they’re almost black—shine under the fluorescent lights.

“Well. Glad I could help ruin your day.”

I open my mouth again, but stop myself.

And leave.

The car door slams. Familiar. Safe.

“Harrison!” someone calls and it’s too shrill, too loud.

I glance back to find one of the girls from earlier who shrieked in the shop.

Fuck.

I sink low in the seat.

“Where to, boss?” Lee asks, already merging into traffic .

I should head to the Savoy. Or the hotel. Or the studio. Or hell.

Instead, her voice plays on loop in my head: You stuck to the formula.

“Go around the corner,” I say suddenly. “Slow enough to draw the crowd.”

Lee’s brow furrows in the rearview. “Harrison?—?”

“Humour me.”

He doesn’t argue.

We crawl forward, the girls following behind us. When he rounds the corner, I slip out and double back, hoodie up.

She’s locking the shop. Still shaking her head.

I step out of the shadows. “Hey.”

She jumps. “Fuck! You can’t creep up on people like that!”

I laugh. “Didn’t realise I was creeping.”

“Guess you’re not used to it.”

She eyes me again. “What do you want? I thought you got chauffeured off to luxury land.”

I shove my hands in my pockets. “Would you believe me if I said I was at a loose end?”

“No.”

“Even when I do this?” I bat my lashes.

“Definitely not.”

Her smile flickers.

“Really,” I say. “Your brain might be faulty.”

She goes still. Her face blanks.

“I’m not the one who makes terrible music.”

She turns, walking past the spot where we first collided.

I pull my cap down and follow.

I shouldn’t.

I know that.

But I do anyway.