I take a place next to a woman balancing a toddler on her hip as Astrid hits a high note that sends a pulse straight through me.
“She’s incredible,” the woman whispers. “I could listen to her sing all day.”
I glance down to find her brown eyes pinned to my face. “She’s amazing.”
“She owns a record store near my apartment,” she tells me. “She’s always doing something to help out the neighborhood. How can one soul hold that much kindness?”
I break her gaze so I can glance at Astrid. “She’s a remarkable woman.”
Right at the moment, Astrid notices me. I see it in her expression, and I hear it in the soft lilt of her voice as she sings the last note of the song.
“I’m going to say hi to her.” The woman wipes a finger over her little boy’s chin. “She always sings a special little song to my son. It puts the biggest smile on his face.”
I’ll hang back because I’ve got a full two hours before my meeting, and I intend on spending at least a portion of that asking Astrid to have dinner with me again.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Astrid
“Your fan base is limitless.” Berk chuckles as I pack my guitar into its case. “That little guy was spellbound when you were singing to him.”
I tap the gold hoop in my right ear. “He’s more interested in my earrings than my voice, but I think that’s typical for a two-year-old.”
He rakes me from head to toe when I stand back up.
I hurried out of my apartment this morning after a quick shower. My hair is pinned up in a messy bun, my face is bare of makeup except for a light coat of mascara, and I’m dressed in jeans and a bulky black sweater that Eloise didn’t knit.
I’ve had it since high school, and on mornings like this, with a chilly bite in the air, it’s perfect under my leather jacket.
“You did pretty good today.” Berk motions to my jacket pocket.
I shoved all of my tips in there after he generously dropped a few twenty dollar bills in my guitar case after I sang a song to the little boy about a tiny spider going up a water spout.
“Thanks to you,” I say with a smile. “You’re incredibly generous, Berk.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I’m generous? Something tells me that you enjoy giving much more than I do.”
I can’t let that pass by, so I straighten my shoulders and fight back a smile. “I do enjoy giving.”
His chin tilts back. “As do I. I suddenly feel the need to point that out. I really, really enjoy giving, Astrid. It’s in the top three of my favorite things to do.”
I close my eyes briefly to try and ward off the image of his face between my thighs with my hands roped through his hair, clinging to him as I ride through an orgasm.
I sense him moving closer to me, so my eyes pop back open. I glance up at him. “What are the other two things in your top three?”
He studies my face before his gaze locks on my lips. “I’d much rather show you than tell you.”
Flirting this early in the morning on a crowded subway platform may be new to me, but I could get used to it.
The moment is broken when a man rushing toward a train knocks his briefcase into my hip.
He tosses me an awkward smile with a silent mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
I smile back because anger won’t slow him down. I’ve often seen him race through here as he tries to catch the train headed uptown.
“Do you have time for a coffee before you open the store?” Berk asks as he reaches for my guitar case.
I glance at the watch on my wrist. “I have time.”
“Good.” He looks over my head toward the concrete steps that lead up to the street. “We’ll discuss when we can have dinner again.”
Heads turned when we walked into this bustling café in search of coffee and a table.
No one glanced at me because Berk Morgan, in all his GQ-page-worthy-splendor, entered their orbit.
Admittedly, it was primarily women clutching tightly to their overpriced coffees who looked at him.
I’m guilty of that too.
I don’t turn away when a good-looking man crosses my path, but it’s usually a brief glance before moving on with my day.
The exception to that was when I first saw Berk.
I’ve learned to train myself not to stare at him with my mouth agape whenever I’m around him.
“Berk!” A black-haired woman wearing a red pencil skirt and a plaid jacket practically screams from where she’s standing near the counter.
The barista, who seems to be in the middle of taking her order, glances in our direction. Her hand drifts to her hair to smooth it back in place.
I feel like I just walked into a high school gymnasium with the star quarterback at my side.