In Which
He wants to buy her guitar.
or
In which
Her guitar brings them together.
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
In a forgotten corner of the city sits a little record shop, filled with dusty shelves, the scent of coffee, and the girl who keeps it alive. She's twenty-tw...
It wasn't the kind of day where people browsed slowly and smiled at you like they'd just stepped out of a Wes Anderson film. No. Saturdays meant high-maintenance dads looking for Beatles reissues, teenage boys crowding the metal section pretending to know who Dio was, and middle-aged women asking me for "that one song from the Titanic movie" like it hadn't been drilled into all of our heads for two decades straight.
I showed up fifteen minutes early with a lukewarm coffee and a low threshold for nonsense. The bell above the door jingled as I let myself in, the familiar hum of the old air conditioning unit whining in the background. Dad was already flipping through a box of new arrivals behind the counter.
"Morning, rockstar," he said without looking up.
"Morning, manager of chaos," I replied, peeling off my jacket and tossing my bag beneath the register.
"New jazz records came in. Might be something for you in there."
"Mm. I'll give it a look when my brain turns on."
He just chuckled, still busy digging.
I leaned over the counter, sipping my coffee and mentally prepping for the stream of weirdos that was surely about to begin flooding in.
What I didn't prep for?
Jay.
He walked in like he'd been waiting outside for dramatic effect, wearing another suspiciously clean button-down and pants that looked like they cost more than my guitar strap. Sunglasses pushed up into his perfectly styled black hair, a leather-bound notebook tucked under his arm, and that same smug smirk glued to his face like it had been painted on.
"Good morning," he said with the confidence of someone who thought he was about to change the course of history.
I blinked once. "Why are you here like... this?"
"Like what?" he asked, pulling off his sunglasses slowly like we were in a Calvin Klein commercial.
"Like you're about to sue us for water damage in your penthouse."
Jay laughed — which, unfortunately, was kind of nice. Low, smooth, stupidly charming.
"I'm here to work," he said, walking behind the counter like he hadn't just been hired two days ago and terrorized me for twenty-four hours straight.
