Across The Stars

Chapter 3.

It was a rainy day in New York City, and The Music Inn had lost power.

Astrid insisted that there was no reason to close it, so we lit a few candles.

I polished a Journey record next to the candle we kept on the counter, my attention quickly focusing on the sound of the front door chimes.

"Welcome to The Music Inn." I say nonchalantly.

When I don't hear a response, my eyes narrow at the person who was stood by the door.

The person removes the hood of his jacket from his head, revealing a mound of dirty blond curls.

He shakes his curls out, making me wince as water sprays out around the locks.

When he looks up, I notice his side profile is very defined, his features exquisite in a way.

"Can I help you?" I ask, trying not to become too mesmerized.

He looks up and over his shoulder at me before straightening his posture. "Uh, yeah."

I place my book down on the counter and move around it over to where he was standing.

He flashes me a perfectly straight smile, his brown eyes lighting up the whole store. They were a darker shade than Toby's, more alluring in a way.

"What kind of music do you sell here?" He asks.

"All kinds." I say. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"Well, my first record just dropped. So, I wanted the luxury of being able to walk into a music store and seeing it displayed."

"Sorry to burst your bubble, but we don't sell any new records here. Only used and vintage mainly."

"That explains why it's so dead in here." The man scoffs.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask defensively, my arms crossing over my chest.

"I just mean that nobody is going to want to listen to this old junk. People want new things. Different things."

"It sounds like someone is uncultured when it comes to good music." I huff before turning on my heel.

The man follows me over to the counter, his long legs keeping up with my short ones. "What do you consider good music then?"

I'm taken aback by this question.

I've barely known this man for five minutes, and he's already getting on my nerves. "I don't know, something that makes a person feel things. Real things, I suppose."

"Are you assuming that my music doesn't make people feel things?" He asks defensively.

"Well, judging by your arrogance I would assume you're the type to write the same old breakup song and add shitty club music to it."

"Mm feisty. I like you. What's your name?"

"Anna." I simply say, placing the record back into its album before setting it aside.

"Anna what?"

"Why does it matter?" I ask.

"It doesn't." He says with a laugh before walking away from the counter.

I watch with knitted brows as this soaked stranger wanders around the dimly lit music shop, his fingers trailing over the covers of several vinyl before stopping in front of the piano. "Nice."

"Do you play?" I ask quietly, my hopes of this person having some taste in music rising.

"A little." He says before sitting down on the bench.