“When you’re a famous musician, you can buy me all the coffee you want,” he says with a wink.
The barista returns with our drinks, setting them on the counter—his espresso in a small white ceramic cup, my latte in a tall glass. Two massive cinnamon rolls follow, still warm and fragrant enough to make my mouth water.
As we move away from the counter, I can feel several sets of eyes tracking our progress across the room. It’s like being under a microscope. We find a spot by the large front window, where the afternoon sun streams in warmly.
Jack settles into the chair across from me, setting our drinks and pastries on the table between us. The sun catches his face at an angle that makes those green eyes of his practically glow like backlit gemstones. It’s unfair how some people just win the genetic lottery.
“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, eyes intent and focused on mine. “Tell me about your music. What should I know about your sound? Your style?”
“Singer-songwriter stuff,” I say, stirring my latte. The foam swirls in lazy circles while I figure out how to explain. “Pretty intimate lyrics, acoustic foundation. Some songs are just me and a guitar, others have more production layered in. Depends on what the song needs.”
“You write it all yourself?” he asks, breaking off a piece of his cinnamon roll.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Every word. I write about relationships, but also family dynamics, identity. Whatever story feels worth telling at the time.”
“I’d like to hear some of your work,” he says, and I feel a flutter of nervousness at the thought of him listening to my music. Of him hearing the vulnerable parts of me. “Where can I find it?”
“YouTube, Spotify, Apple Music,” I explain, trying to sound casual even though my heart is beating faster. “I can send you the links if you want.”
“Do that,” he says, reaching for his espresso. “I should know what my girlfriend’s music sounds like, after all.”
“What, you mean you haven’t already memorized my entire catalog?” I place my hand over my heart. “And here I thought you were my biggest fan.”
“Give me a day or two,” he says, amusement dancing in his expression. “I’m a pretty quick study when I’m motivated.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I warn, surprised by how easily we’ve fallen into this natural back-and-forth banter. “There might be a quiz. With essay questions.”
“I’m not afraid of tests,” he counters, leaning back in his chair. “I perform very well under pressure. It’s kind of my thing.”
The way he says it makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts. I cover by taking a long sip of my latte, the cold sweetness a welcome distraction.
“What about you?” I ask, setting down my cup and eager to shift the focus away from me. “How do you spend your time when you’re not racing or getting into highly publicized scandals?”
He raises an eyebrow at my dig but grins, clearly not offended in the slightest.
“During race season, it’s mostly just training, practice runs, endless meetings with the team about strategy and car setup,” he says, his fingers drumming the table. “But I tinker with engines when I get actual downtime. I’ve got a classic car back in Monaco that I’ve been restoring.”
“So you don’t get tired of cars and engines?” I ask. “I mean, that’s literally your job and also your hobby?”
He gives me an incredulous look, like I’ve just asked if water is wet or if the sky is blue. “Never. It’s pretty much my entire life.” The passion in his voice is almost tangible, like I could reach out and touch it. “What about music for you? Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Touché,” I concede, smiling. “I guess we both found our thing young and never let go.”
“Exactly,” he says, and for a moment, we’re just looking at each other across the table, a flash of real understanding passing between us.
I’m the first to break eye contact. “We should probably take a picture,” I say, pulling out my phone. “That’s the whole point of this, right? Getting seen together? Building the narrative?”
“Right,” he agrees, sliding his chair smoothly around to my side of the table without hesitation. “The business arrangement.”
He moves in close, his arm coming around my shoulders. The casual touch shouldn’t affect me—it’s just part of the act, just performance, but I’m suddenly aware of everything. How warm he is, and how solid his arm feels around me.
I snap the photo, capturing us both mid-smile, the morning sun streaming through the window behind us creating a halo effect. When I check the result, I’m startled by how natural we look together, like an actual real couple enjoying a casual coffee date, not two people with an agenda and a contract.
“Perfect,” I say, more to myself than to him. “This should definitely get people talking.”
“Mission accomplished,” he says, moving back to his side of the table.
For the next hour, we talk easily, jumping from topic to topic. He tells me about racing. I share stories about trying to getmy music noticed, the frustrating generic rejection emails from record labels. He describes life constantly on the road, and I talk about my writing process and where songs come from. There’s an easy rhythm to our conversation that I wasn’t expecting.
