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My heartbeat picks up pace, almost as if it’s trying to compete with the song that’s now playing overhead.Familiar Taste of Poisonby Halestorm. Even though I like the softer sounds, I can still get down to Halestorm. Ms. Hale is a badass.
My attention, as if it’s magnetically drawn to the man sitting in front of me, diverts back to him just as he looks up at me from behind his long, dark eyelashes. His eyes are the bluest blue I’ve ever seen and I have to physically stop myself from gasping when his eyes linger on mine for the first time. They are soul-piercing and icy and I swear there are oceans inside them. My breath catches in my chest as he slides his phone into his pocket and looks down at his papers that he’s fastened on a clipboard.
“So, about the job,” he says, glancing up at me and then back down to his paper before meeting my stare once more. I wish he wouldn’t look at me. I wish he would look anywhere other than into my eyes because I don’t want to be having this visceral, electrifying reaction to his presence. “My grandma Frankie’s really just looking for someone to help out. Part-time hours, probably somewhere between ten and fifteen a week. I looked over your resume and it looks like you have no experience.”
I scoff at his words, my eyes growing wide as I cock an eyebrow at him because this man is not about to tell me I have no experience. Instead of telling him that he isn’t qualified to tell me what kind of experience I have, I decide to tell him exactly why he’s wrong.
I smile at him even though I kind of want to tell him off. “Yeah, you’re right, I don’t have experience selling vinyl. I have experience in sales though, and customer service. If you know a product, and love and believe in the product, I think it’s just kind of second nature to sell it. And if you know your customers and you’re good to them, they’ll keep coming back. And I keep people coming back.” I shrug. “Doesn’t really matter if you’re selling records or candles. It’s all the same formula.” My confidence doesn’t waver despite the growing tension I feel with his eyes on mine. “I’m studying music in school, actually,” I tell him as he writes something on his paper. “I’m not totally sure what I’m going to do, but I know music is the only thing I could handle doing forever. Maybe something behind the scenes.”
He nods at me, apparently understanding that he was wrong. I’ll take it. “Why do you want to work here?” he asks, and I don’t even have to think about it.
“The music. I love music and this shop isn’t far from my house. I’ve been here a few times over the years and I like the atmosphere. If I’m being honest, I could probably work in any record shop. But it’s just about the music for me. The way it can hit you, and change you, and turn you into a different person, even if only for three minutes. You can listen when you’re happy and it makes you even happier. Or when you’re sad, or empty. It can either amplify your sadness and your emptiness, or it can pull those feelings straight from your soul and replace them with a feeling of wholeness. You can revel in your moods or you can change them all to the tune of one single song. You can get lost, or get found, or stay somewhere stuck in between. Wherever you want to be.” I think about it before I finish, tugging my bottom lip into my mouth. “That’s what I love about it. I want to work here, Bordeaux, and I think if you give me a chance, you won’t be disappointed in me.”
Bordeaux stares at me, no words spilling from his mouth and I can’t read him. He sits forward on the stool, as if he’s studying me, his eyes roaming my body. He’s not even trying to hide it. I feel like I’m a different species all of a sudden, like he’s trying to decipher what I am, who I am, where I came from. I’ve got a good read on people usually. With him, though, I can’t tell anything he’s thinking. Those eyes of his are mysterious, unexplored oceans, they don’t give anything away.
The sound of our breathing is the only thing between us. Our chests rise and fall and I feel like I’m in a trance. I don’t like it. I don’t like feeling like I’m losing control and that’s exactly how this man is making me feel. In the short time since I’ve walked into this shop, the air has shifted.
Suddenly, a loud pounding breaks our connection and I look over to where the sound originated from. There’s a screaming woman making heart eyes at Bordeaux through the glass pane as two large-framed men in black shirts escort her away from the window.
These people are obsessed with the man I’m sitting only inches away from.
While I normally don’t understand the infatuation with celebrities, right now in this suffocating moment, I’m slowly starting to comprehend the hold he has over his fans. There’s something about him that screams sex, that is both quiet and loud, that rivals the desperate need inside of me to hate all men.
Woman scorned, and all that.
I need to get a check on these wild, reflexive feelings for this fucking rockstar.
Especially if I’m going to be around him for any length of time.
I refuse to fall for a rockstar. Manuel wasn’t the death of me, as much as I thought he was going to be. But falling for a rockstar who probably doesn’t have a monogamous bone in his body—especially after swearing off all men for the remainder of my life—not happening.
FIVE
Bordeaux
“Dude. That girl is a fine piece of—”
“Kennedy Matthews, you aren’t about to say something as misogynistic and piggish as I assume you are, are you?” Frankie looks up from behind her turquoise-rimmed glasses, judging the shit out of him. I love her for it.
He quickly shakes his head, dreads swaying from side to side. “Absolutely fucking not, ma’am.” He goes back to organizing records, keeping himself busy.
“Good. Because I like her and I don’t need you thinking with your dick and fucking this up. She seems like a nice girl. And don’t think you’ll be getting outfits like that often, she apologized to me on her way out.” Frankie looks back down at the monthly revenue report. “She just came from a family gathering and wanted to get here before it got too late.”
Frankie, my grandma who hates being called grandma because it makes her feel old, walked in when we were almost finished with the interview and she had the chance to talk to Isla for a few minutes. It seemed like they hit it off and Frankie offered her the job on the spot.
“I want to go to her next family gathering,” Kennedy snorts and I slap him on the back of the head.
“Let’s try and be a bit more professional, you basket case. The girl seemed smart. She knows what she’s talking about. She can probably outsell your ass considering you’re on break more than you’re out on the floor.”
Kennedy shoots me a narrowed glare and I laugh at his dismay. Under his breath, Kennedy says, “Don’t you even think you can woo her with that whole bad boy, rockstar bullshit thing you have going on. I saw the way she looked at me, and the way you looked at her. Let me shoot my shot before you have her falling in love with you.”
It annoys me that Kennedy thinks—or knows—I felt any type of way for the new employee. He can relax, though. I don’t let women close enough to me to catch feelings. I keep them at an arm’s length, especially ones that look like Isla Robles. He can shoot all the shots he wants with her. I’ll be going back on the road soon enough and forgetting all about her. I’ll have a different woman in my bed every night to distract me from the fact that I don’t belong with anyone, or to anyone.
I’m going to keep doing the solo thing. Exactly how I always do. I’m not about to let some unbelievably gorgeous, intelligent woman with badass taste in record shops screw that up for me.
And maybe—just maybe—if I tell myself that enough, I’ll believe it.
SIX
