Lindsey Kelk 6-Book ‘I Heart...’ Collection

‘Hi,’ he mouthed.

I paused my iPod and stared.

‘Don’t you just wish you could go up to people and say, hey, let me take a look at your iPod?’ he said, reaching out and taking mine from the table. The earbuds popped out onto my notebook. ‘That way, you would know whether or not to ask that person out right away. Say, they were listening to … angsty lesbians,’ he looked up at me. He had a sexy pale skin, dark eyes thing happening, as if he was pretty much nocturnal. ‘Most men would be scared off. But some other men would go back to the artists page and look for some other, more encouraging signs, like … hmmm, Justin Timberlake?’

‘It’s a good song,’ I defended weakly. Even I didn’t believe me.

‘Well, the ladies love Justin,’ he said and carried on scrolling. ‘And at least it cancels out the lesbian thing.’

‘I’m not a lesbian!’ Too quick to my own defence.

He looked up again and laughed. ‘Great.’ He pulled his chair a little closer to the table. ‘Oh, this just gets better. Bon Jovi?’

‘It’s “Living on a Prayer,” it’s a classic?’ I protested weakly, dropping my head to my hands. ‘Why aren’t you looking at the cool stuff? I like cool stuff too …’

‘Like what?’ he asked, looking back at the iPod. ‘And don’t say all kinds of music. I hate when people say they like all kinds of music. That just means you don’t love any. Well, you’ve got the new Stills album, I hear they’re good.’

‘I’ve seen them live!’ I said quickly. ‘I saw them in London. They were quite good. I actually prefer the first album though.’

‘Always good to get honest feedback,’ he held his hand out. ‘Alex Reid.’

I took his hand and bit my lip. ‘You’re in Stills, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘And you saw Justin Timberlake on my iPod.’

‘And Bon Jovi.’

This was not how I had imagined meeting the ridiculously sexy lead singer of a super cool New York band. In most of my rock star fantasies, (which were wide and varied), I was usually looking dishevelled and sexy, wearing fishnets, heeled boots and a lot of black eyeliner at some swank after party at an edgy East London bar. Instead I was wearing a pink T-shirt and baggy jeans with bright orange flip-flops, had a crunchy, damp ponytail and hoped, just hoped, that my mascara hadn’t completely melted away under my eyes just yet.

‘But I do have your album,’ I said, trying to buy some cool points. ‘And, like, I don’t know, The Arctic Monkeys?’

‘Very 2006,’ he said, handing me back my iPod and settling into his chair. He was still smiling and it was very off-putting. ‘But you do have some cool stuff and you did come and see my band.’

‘I do and I did,’ I confirmed. Please ask me out. Please ask me out. I couldn’t be further away from not needing a man to ‘validate’ me. I needed the good-looking man to ask me out. Fuck you Mark Davis, the hot rock star asked me out. Bwah ha ha.

‘And if you bought both albums and a ticket to the gig,’ he sighed and ran a hand through his messy, floppy black hair, letting it drop back down over his eyes.

Oh.

‘With the weak dollar, I figure you have spent, what, twenty pounds on the band?’

‘And I bought a T-shirt,’ I said seriously. ‘That was twenty on its own.’

‘As long as it was from inside,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Those sons of bitches outside selling my T-shirts for ten bucks? Don’t they know all the money comes from the T-shirts?’

I laughed nervously waiting for him to join in. He did, thank God.

‘So, I know you have an … “eclectic” taste in music,’ Alex started, ‘and I owe you about, what, sixty, nearly eighty bucks? But I still don’t know your name.’

‘I suppose since I know yours,’ I said, hoping I was coming across funny and flirty and not nervous and star struck. The more I thought about it, the more I remembered how good his band really was. ‘Angela Clark.’

‘And are you on vacation, Angela Clark?’ he asked, helping himself to my hot chocolate. I was about to complain but figured I could afford to lose one hot chocolate in the pursuit of a rock star. Well, lead singer of a slightly obscure indie band I’d seen once in Islington. Much closer to rock star than the banker at HSBC who I’d been going out with for ten years.

‘Sort of,’ I said, not wanting to get into it any more than I had to. ‘I’m staying with a friend for a while.’

‘Well, if you’re not planning to stay in and listen to Justin, would you like to go to a party with me tonight?’

He asked me out. He had asked me out.

And I couldn’t go.

‘I would really like to,’ I said, desperately trying to work out my excuse. ‘But I already have plans tonight.’

‘Should have guessed,’ he said, picking up my pen and opening my notebook to a blank page. ‘So here’s my number, I’ve got tickets to the best show on Saturday night and I would love for you to go with me. What do you think?’

‘I would love to,’ I agreed, watching all of Erin’s advice flying out of the window and down the road to tell her what a bad student I was. Accepting a Saturday night date on a Wednesday, shocking.

‘Good, I kind of thought you might blow me off.’ He stood up and stretched. Skinny jeans, but not too skinny, obligatory faded band T-shirt, just short enough to reveal his flat stomach when he stretched, accessorized by a thin trail of black hair tracing a path from his belly button to his waistband. And of course, sunglasses. He dropped his book into a leather satchel so battered, I was afraid to let my Marc Jacobs catch sight of such appalling abuse. ‘If your friend hadn’t left when she did, I was going to give up. Who listens to all that bullshit?’

‘What bullshit?’ I asked, distracted by his oddly muscly biceps. I guessed from playing guitar. Again, oh.

‘Yeah, seriously,’ he said as he walked away. ‘Don’t listen to her, dating rules are bullshit. Engaged three times and not married? Not the best person for advice.’

I felt my mouth drop open. He had heard all of it? ‘But how could you hear? You had your iPod on?’

‘So you had noticed me.’

So bloody cocky.

‘Anyway, Max Brenner’s at Union Square on Saturday–about seven? It’s kinda touristy but it’s the best hot chocolate in town. No offence to this place.’ He gave the waitress a puppy dog smile on the way out. I watched her visibly wilt as he strode past the window without a second look.

And with that, I was in love.

Again.

CHAPTER TEN (#ulink_6cfb9322-7a7c-5ffb-a5f0-0398218693d0)

Vanessa was on the concierge desk as I blew into the lobby, the overpowering whiff of the scented candles already feeling like home.

‘Hey, Vanessa. Is Jenny around?’

She nodded. ‘Sure, she’s in the back. We have this band staying and they’ve decided she’s their favourite concierge in the whole of for ever. You want to go bust her out of hiding?’ Vanessa buzzed me through the seamless, invisible door and into the employee lounge where I saw Jenny’s high ponytail peeping over the top of a squishy sofa.

‘You’ll never ever guess what,’ I yelled across the room. ‘I’ve only bloody found myself a rock star … Jenny?’

Rounding the sofa I stopped short. Jenny was red, blotchy and her mascara had run all down her pretty face.