“That scarf you’re wearing looks high-end.” She brushes a strand of her brown hair from her forehead. “Who is the designer?”
I set the tray holding the coffee cups on the counter before placing my guitar case on the floor at my feet. “This happens to be an Eloise Rehn original.”
“It’s fabulous,” she draws the word out syllable-by-syllable. “Soon, everyone in Manhattan will want one.”
I tug on the end of the red scarf. “I don’t doubt that for a second.”
Eloise knit my scarf last winter whenever she had a moment to spare during her shifts. I didn’t complain. Although a steady stream of customers passes through Vinyl Crush every day, our online sales are booming. I set that in motion after I became the owner five years ago.
I dip my hand into the pocket of my black leather jacket and grab hold of the bills and coins I collected this morning when I was busking.
I drop it all into the large glass jar atop the checkout counter.
“From the sounds of it, you made bank today,” Eloise says.
I peer into the half-filled jar. “It was a good morning. Lots of friendly faces and one particularly handsome one.”
Her eyebrows perk. “Do tell.”
I shrug off my jacket. “It’s the same story every time. A good-looking stranger tosses some change my way, and then he disappears into the crowd, never to be seen again.”
Eloise’s lips dip into a frown. “That’s sad. Write a song about it.”
Laughing, I shake my head. “I’ll pass.”
“What’s that?” she asks just as I pick up my guitar case so I can put it and my jacket in the office at the back of the store.
I spin back around to face her. “What’s what?”
Her finger hovers over the donation jar that I dropped my busking tips into. “That.”
I look inside the jar again, but my eye catches on something this time. It’s shiny, gold and…is it a small key?
I fish it out and hold it up.
“It looks like someone threw something your way they didn’t mean to.” Eloise takes a sip of her coffee. “I’ve got my fingers crossed that it’s the handsome stranger.”
I let out a chuckle.
“Don’t laugh.” She playfully wags her finger at me. “I can picture it now. He’ll find you tomorrow morning in the same spot, he’ll ask about the key, and it’ll be love at first sight.”
“I already had my first sight of him today,” I remind her while holding in a laugh.
“Love at second sight,” she corrects herself. “Hold onto that. It might be the key to your future.”
I shove the key toward her. “Maybe it’s the key to your future since you spotted it first.”
She grabs it and drops it into the drawer behind the counter. “The key to my future is fashion.”
I start toward the back of the store. “The key to mine is helping you with our online orders. I’ll be back in a flash to do that.”
Chapter Two
Berk
“Daddy!”
My head whips to the side when I hear my daughter come storming down the stairs of our townhouse.
She’s running late.
Stevie isn’t an early riser. For a nine-year-old who adores school, I have a hell of a time rousing her in the morning.
Her latest excuse is that the new bed I bought her two weeks ago is too comfortable to roll out of. It’s a queen-size bed with a white wooden headboard. Stevie views it as a bed fit for an up-and-coming teenager even though she has four years before she hits that milestone.
Yesterday, I threatened her with the return of her old princess bed that is stored in one of the extra bedrooms. That got her on her feet fast.
Today, I resorted to the tried and true tactic of mixing up a batch of blueberry pancakes. The smell is wafting through our home. I was hopeful that it would be enough of a lure to get her to the kitchen.
It seems to have worked.
“Daddy,” she says again, but this time, it’s bookended with sobs.
The utensils in my hand hit the granite countertop as she races toward me with her arms waving in the air.
She’s still dressed in the pink pajamas she put on after her shower last night. Her cheeks are red. I fear that has more to do with what’s tearing her up inside rather than a night of restful sleep.
I drop to one knee and outstretch my arms so she can come in for a hug.
She does just that.
Her arms fly around my neck. Her head falls to my shoulder. “Oh, Daddy.”
“What is it?” I ask calmly, even though my heart is rapping a beat inside my chest that rivals the thumps that echo through here when Stevie gets her hands on the drum kit my brother and his wife gave her for her birthday.
“It’s gone,” she wails.
“What’s gone?” I ask gently as I skim a hand over her tousled long brown hair.