Love at The Bluebird

I turn around to find a black-and-white portrait of a bulldog with a half-eaten bagel hanging out of his mouth. The photo is so ridiculous we both burst out laughing.

“In fact, I think I need a photo of it.” He swiftly takes out his phone, and before I can protest, he’s snapping a photo of me with the portrait.

“Beautiful,” he says, not even bothering to look down at the picture he just took. I feel my cheeks getting warm again, so I distract myself by taking a sip of water.

“So, tell me all about Aly,” he says in a soothing but commanding voice. He sets his forearms on the table and leans forward, his expression attentive as he waits for me to respond.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“Well,” I start, clearing my throat before continuing. “Here’s the Cliff’s notes, since our time this morning is limited. I was born and raised here in Nashville, graduated from Belmont University, and I currently work at Big Little Music as an A&R assistant.”

“That explains why you were at the Bluebird last night,” he says with a grin right as the waitress is delivering our food and coffee. “I can’t believe you’re a native Nashvillian. You guys are becoming like unicorns.”

I giggle at his statement, because he’s right; this town is booming with transplants and now you can’t assume anyone is from here anymore. “Yup, my sister and I are third generation born and raised here. She was the one with me last night.”

“The blonde?” he asks with a look of doubt on his face. “You guys don’t look anything alike.”

“I know,” I say with a laugh. “She looks like our dad and I look like our mom.”

“Do you have any other siblings?”

I shake my head before answering. “Just us girls.”

“I bet you two have your dad wrapped around your pinky fingers.”

My smile falters at his words, because I wish that were the case, but it isn’t. No matter how hard I try to hide it, he notices the shift right away. Seeing the concern in his eyes, I decide to give him a small explanation.

“We’re closer to our mom than our father. He works a lot and doesn’t make himself available to spend time with us.” Acknowledging this out loud stings, but I learned a long time ago to not let my father’s lack of affection bother me. While I love my father because of who he is, I don’t have much respect for how he treats us, especially my sister. I just wish Valerie would go to counseling and learn how to handle it better. She’s affected the most by his aloofness toward us.

Understanding replaces his concern and he reaches across the table to grab my hand. “It’s his loss, Aly. You understand that, don’t you? It’s his loss, not yours.” He gently squeezes my fingers in encouragement and graces me with a soft smile. The sincerity in his eyes almost has me undone. This man seems to be too good to be true.

Am I still dreaming? I squeeze his hand back to make sure he’s not a figment of my imagination and give him an appreciative smile. I loosen my grip as a signal for him to let go of my hand, but instead, he holds onto it.

“Enough about me,” I say, wanting to take the attention off me and move it to him. “It’s your turn now to tell me everything about you.”

“Why don’t you tell me what you already know about me and I’ll fill in the rest.” He raises a mischievous brow before taking a sip of coffee.

“I know you’re from Texas and that you’re incredibly talented. I know you’ve made a name for yourself and are now one of the most sought out songwriters in Nashville. So far, you don’t seem like you could be a serial killer, but then again, I just met you.” I smile, enjoying the sound of his rich, deep laughter. A sound I really hope I get to hear again. “I also know your ex-girlfriend is Tori Langston.” I mimic his actions by raising my own brow and lifting my coffee cup to my lips.

His eyes glitter with amusement. “All those things are true. Does it bother you that she’s my ex-girlfriend?” He maneuvers our hands so that our fingers are now laced together, his thumb sending shivers down my spine as he caresses the inside of my palm.

I force myself to concentrate and think for a moment on how to answer. “Not at all. She’s in your past, right?” For some reason, I need to hear it from him that she’s not going to be a threat to whatever this thing is between us.

“She’s in my past.” He squeezes my fingers once more, and whatever apprehension I felt disappears. He lets my hand go so we can eat but continues speaking. “I grew up in Austin and my mom was the one who introduced me to music, since she got me my first guitar at age eight. Then me and my brother formed our first band two years later,” he recalls with a grin. “We called ourselves The Blond Monkeys. Needless to say, we changed the name as we got older and realized how ridiculous that sounded.” I smile as he laughs at the memory.