Make Me a Mixtape

Chapter One

Chapter One

Allie Andrews could not have cared less about her neighborhood’s charm and beauty as she stomped the streets of Brooklyn in a terrible mood.

It was October, and the corner bodegas of Park Slope were bursting with mums and marigolds, apples and pumpkins. The trees that lined the blocks were dropping their muted, rosy leaves onto the sprawling sidewalks. The autumn sun poured its golden light over the bustling crowds. But to Allie, it looked as if Brooklyn was showing off, as if it was trying too hard to impress someone on a first date.

She’d lost the spirited game of rock-paper-scissors that decided who would deliver the coffee order called in during the last few minutes of the afternoon shift. It was a small order—one latte, two cookies—so it hardly seemed worth leaving the cozy café to navigate the crowded streets. On top of that, Solidarity Studios was her least favorite place for deliveries. The podcast company was on the fourth floor of an old building—no elevator—on an irritatingly beautiful corner in one of the hippest sections of the borough.

Looking at the fashionable outfits of the people around her, Allie felt distinctly grungy by comparison in her dirty sneakers and secondhand dress. Wait, it was worse. She’d also forgotten to remove the dark-green café apron tied around her waist. A streak of foamy oat milk was still smeared across the pocket on her left hip.

As she approached the building, she dodged a woman wearing a neon-yellow beanie, carrying a pumpkin and laughing with a tall purple-haired man. Allie stumbled to the edge of the sidewalk, holding the coffee aloft. Annoyance fizzed up inside her.

It took three jabs of the buzzer before the ancient front door would properly release. Allie trudged into the lobby and over to the stairwell, shuffling around the cup of coffee and bag of cookies so she could hold the railing as she climbed. She stopped on the first landing and listened for footsteps. Silence. She was alone.

The only thing this place had going for it was its excellent acoustics. Ascending slowly, she sang the opening lines of “True Colors” by Cyndi Lauper.

The song was released years before Allie was born, but it was so familiar she felt as if she’d written it herself. She sang softly for the first verse, but by the time she reached the chorus, she was belting it out with her full voice. She slowed her pace, hoping for more time with Cyndi before she had to step out of the stairwell and back into her real life.

Despite her deep love for Cyndi (or “Ms. Lauper” as she’d breathlessly addressed the pop star once when she’d seen her in the bathroom of a pizzeria in Carroll Gardens), Allie had never been a “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” person. She respected the song, sure. It was an enduring hit, and she understood why people connected with it. Heck, even she sometimes wanted to have fun when the working day was done. But for her, it didn’t hold a candle to “True Colors.” There was real emotion in the ballad that you didn’t get in the pop hit. “True Colors” was about being accepted by someone, loved without condition.

She reluctantly exited the stairwell and yanked open the door that led to the studio’s reception area.

Still humming under her breath, Allie checked the order slip and made her way down the hall toward Recording Room 4. The place was unsettlingly quiet, with just a few unfamiliar faces working at computers visible through glass walls. Despite the frequent orders they received from studio employees, she hadn’t recognized the name this time.

He had his back to her when she walked into the room. Definitely a new guy. She would have remembered him if she’d seen him before. He was a giant. Tall and broad, not in a muscular body-builder way, but still large enough that no one would mess with him on a dark sidewalk. He wore Blundstone boots, black jeans and a worn denim shirt stretched across his wide shoulders. His hair looked freshly cut, shaved at the back and sides with a longer section at the top neatly combed to the left.

She cleared her throat. “Hello?” She pulled the order slip out of her pocket. “Are you Ryan?”

He turned to look at her with a wide smile on his face. Allie felt an involuntary jolt in her belly.

Handsome.

He had a thick, tidy beard and a kind, open look in his eyes. But as soon as he saw her, his expression twisted into one of shock. The microphone in his hands tumbled to the floor with an unsettling snap. Allie was about to apologize for startling him, but he spoke before she could.

“You’re Allie Jetski!”

Allie’s eyes widened in horror. She almost dropped his coffee, but the microphone served as a cautionary tale. Instead, she shook her head wildly, and whispered, “ No .”

“Yes!” He took a step toward her with his long legs and bent slightly to look into her face with intense focus. “You are! You’re Allie Jetski. Allie Jetski is delivering my coffee. How about that?”

Allie froze, too shocked to respond.

This didn’t happen. This had literally never happened. It was something she loved about New York. There were so many people, all absorbed in their own lives, anonymity was a given. Even if a huge celebrity appeared in the wild, everyone just pretended to ignore them. And she was absolutely not a huge celebrity.

He was still looking at her, expectantly. She noted again, now with annoyance, that he was disarmingly attractive. His well-groomed appearance and warm eyes were enough to immediately throw her off balance in a way that she hadn’t felt in…well, in a long-ass time. She sighed. It didn’t appear that he was going to accept her feeble denial.

“It’s Allie Andrews, actually. I haven’t been Allie Jetski for years.”

He clapped his hands and straightened his posture, his face breaking back into its friendly smile. “Hot dang! I knew it was you. The Jetskis were my favorite band back in the day!”

She snorted with laughter. “Well, that’s obviously a lie.”

“No!” He put his hand over his heart. “No, I swear! I was just a kid when y’all were playing, but I saw you every time you came through Birmingham.”

That explained it. His slight accent, his weird friendliness, his awareness of a band that no one in New York would remember or care about.

“Well, we were also just kids when we were playing,” she told him, fidgeting from one foot to the other.

He laughed. “Well, y’all seemed like cool adults to me. I was nineteen when I saw you at the Hidey Hole.”

The Hidey Hole.

Allie remembered it. A basement punk club where the entrance was literally a hole in the wall. She had a sudden, vivid memory of her former bandmate and best friend Jessi going through the hole/door ahead of her, muttering “If there’s a fire, we’re all gonna die.” The acoustics in that place were amazing, though. Concrete walls, just like the stairwell she’d been singing in mere minutes ago.

Allie did quick mental math. “I would have been eighteen then, so there you go.”

For the first time since his initial shock at her appearance, Ryan was bemused. “Huh!” He stared past her, and she felt as if she could see him reviewing history in his head. “Isn’t that something? Memories are weird things. I could have sworn you were all leagues ahead of me in life.”

Allie did not feel as if she had ever been leagues ahead of anyone in life. “It was a long time ago. Here.” She thrust the coffee and cookies at his chest. He stared at them, as if he’d forgotten that’s why she was there in the first place.

“Oh! Right.” He took the items from her hands. He smelled nice. Like cologne? Aftershave? Essential oils? She didn’t know what made men smell nice these days. She was sweating. Why was she sweating?

He dropped the bag of cookies onto the table beside him and shifted the coffee to his left hand, offering his right to her. “Ryan Abernathy.”

She shook it, cautiously. Her heart rate accelerated as his soft, warm skin touched hers. “Allie—”

“Andrews.” He nodded. “So you said. Hard to get my head around that, though.”

“Try.”

They looked at each other for a moment before he released her hand. One side of his mouth crept up into a small smile. A rush of adrenaline moved through her. This was too much. She immediately looked down at the ground, gaze landing on the forgotten microphone.

“That looks busted.”

He looked at the floor and cringed. “Dang.”

The black casing around the base of the microphone was clearly cracked. Allie could see the wiring inside peeking out. Ryan bent to pick it up. “Great. I’ve been working here for all of one week, and I’m already breaking things. You wouldn’t happen to know of a repair shop nearby, would you?”

Allie did not want to play tour guide. What she wanted was to get back to the comforting familiarity of the café. But she was reluctantly taken in by his gentle, pleading expression. It didn’t hurt to be helpful.

“Music Go Round is just up the block. If you walk downstairs with me, I’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Great!” He juggled his coffee from one hand to the other. “I’ll save those cookies for later. Unless you’d like one, Jetski.”

Every time he said it, the word was like a punch to her gut. Allie was already regretting her offer of help.

“I don’t want your cookies.”

They shuffled out of the recording room. Ryan locked the door behind them, a Solidarity Studios tote bag containing the broken microphone slung over his broad shoulder. He held the door open for her as they entered the stairwell.

“So, Allie Jetski.”

“Andrews.”

“Right.” He flashed her a grin. “Andrews, sorry. Are you still into punk? Or did you mellow into a fan of classic country like all the other oldies in the scene?”

Allie had no idea what part of this jumble of assumptions she should respond to first. Then it occurred to her that she didn’t owe anyone, least of all this friendly giant she’d known for all of two minutes, an explanation for her complicated relationship with music.

“Nope.”

“Nope what?”

“Not into classic country.”

“So, punk still?” He was walking beside her down the stairs, their footsteps echoing in unison. His shoulder brushed hers as they turned to descend the next section of the staircase.

She jumped away and shook her head. “Not really into punk, either.”

“But you must still play music.”

“No.” They reached the bottom of the staircase.

“No?” He was incredulous. “How come?” They were less than a foot apart, standing in the tiny vestibule by the front door. She could see his chest rising and falling with each breath. Being close to him made her lightheaded. Allie took a deep breath.

She forced herself to look steadily into his eyes. “That,” she said, pulling open the door and gesturing to him to go out first, “is none of your business.”

Ryan held up both palms in mock surrender as he stepped forward, moving through the doorway, laughing. “Whatever you say, Jetski. Whatever you say.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped out after him. The waning sun drenched the neighborhood in warm light like the final scene in some romantic movie that had nothing in common with her life. Why was Brooklyn being such a pain in the ass today?

She pointed west. “Walk three blocks that way and then turn right. You’ll see the striped awning a few buildings along. The sign says Music Go Round. Hussein will help you.”

“Thank you.” All joking gone from his demeanor, he furrowed his brow. “Really. You’re truly saving me here.” He lifted one hand, as though he was about to reach for her. For what? Another handshake? Surely not a hug. Allie felt her own hands twitch. She wanted to reach for him, too. It didn’t matter, though, since he seemed to think better of it and dropped his arm back to his side. Instead, she waved at him and turned to walk in the opposite direction, willing herself not to look back.

Once she’d safely rounded the corner, the fog of attraction seemed to lift. A cool breeze caused an eruption of goose bumps on her warm skin. She shook her arms and head vigorously, earning a strange look from a tall, bespectacled man walking a dachshund.

No matter how cute Ryan was, or how familiar he was with that magical part of her past, this guy was not worth the trouble. Her life was just fine now. Predictable and safe. The last thing she needed was someone upending all of that.

She walked slowly back to the café, sure of only one thing: the next time a delivery for Solidarity Studios was called in, she was getting someone else to do it.