Chapter 6 #2
My phone buzzes loudly on the dresser, and I see Maren’s name light up the screen with a text.
Maren: Hope it goes wonderful! You deserve only the best. He won’t know what hit him!
I can’t help but smile, even as guilt twinges sharply in my chest. I reply with a bunch of hearts and a blushing emoji, then shove the guilt firmly to the side, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand.
I reach for a cute red sundress I bought last month. The sweetheart neckline and mid-thigh hem show enough skin to be flirty but still leave me looking put-together. Perfect for summer. I slip it on and study myself critically in the full-length mirror.
“This will have to do,” I tell my reflection firmly. “It’s not like you’re trying to impress him for real.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
I run my fingers through my long black hair. Down seems right for a coffee date, so I add some shine serum Maren got me for my birthday, then use the curling iron to add a few waves. Quick mascara, lip gloss, done.
I grab my purse and keys, take a deep breath. Time to go fake-date Jack Midnight in front of the entire town.
I pull into the parking lot of Perks and immediately spot him.
Jack leans casually against his sleek black motorcycle like he’s posing for a magazine spread, one ankle crossed over the other, scrolling through his phone.
He’s wearing dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the fact that Formula One drivers are, apparently, extremely fit.
His dark hair is windblown from the ride, doing that annoyingly perfect thing where it looks messy but somehow better than if he’d tried.
As I park my beat-up Honda in a spot two spaces away, he looks up, spots my car, and immediately puts his phone away in his pocket. The smile that spreads across his face is so convincing that for a second I almost believe he’s actually happy to see me.
I step out of my car, suddenly self-conscious in a way I’m absolutely not used to feeling. Jack’s eyes track me as I walk toward him.
“You look beautiful,” he says, pushing off from his motorcycle.
“Thanks.” I smooth down my dress. “You clean up pretty nice yourself.”
“This old thing?” He gestures dramatically to his perfectly fitted t-shirt with a grin. “Ready for our big debut?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, his palm warm against mine. The gesture is casual, natural, but my heart does a little skip that I try to ignore.
The coffee shop is busy, the comfortable murmur of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine creating familiar background noise. The moment we walk through the door together though, there’s a subtle but definite shift in the atmosphere.
A few heads turn our way immediately. Conversations pause mid-sentence, people forgetting what they were saying.
It’s not full celebrity hysteria—Dark River is too small-town cool for that kind of obvious reaction—but there’s definitely an awareness that ripples through the room like a wave.
Jack Midnight is here. Jack Midnight is with someone.
Jack Midnight is holding someone’s hand.
Jack seems completely immune to the attention, his posture relaxed and confident as we make our way across the room toward the counter.
Of course he is. He’s used to racing in front of hundreds of thousands of people, being photographed wherever he goes, signing autographs for screaming fans at every race.
Behind the register, the barista’s eyes widen noticeably as she recognizes him. She’s young, maybe college age, with perfectly-winged eyeliner and a nose ring. Her gaze shifts quickly between Jack and me.
“Welcome to Perks,” she says, her smile brightening considerably as she focuses primarily on Jack, her voice taking on that slight breathiness people get when they’re excited. “What can I get for you today?”
“I’ll have a double espresso,” Jack says easily, then looks at me with raised eyebrows.
“Iced vanilla latte, please,” I say, noting the way her eyes barely flick to me before returning to Jack.
The barista nods. “Anything else? We just took some fresh cinnamon rolls out of the oven a few minutes ago.” She says this directly to Jack, a hint of eager hopefulness in her voice, like she’s personally hoping he’ll be impressed with their pastry selection.
My stomach growls quietly in response. The fresh-baked smell wafting from the pastry case isn’t helping my hunger situation.
“Those look amazing,” I say, eyeing the warm rolls topped with melted cream cheese icing that’s still dripping down the sides.
“Then we’ll take two,” Jack says, glancing at me before turning back to the barista with a polite smile. “One for me and one for my girlfriend.”
The barista’s eager smile falters visibly at the word “girlfriend,” her entire expression dimming like someone turned down her brightness setting. “Coming right up,” she says, her tone shifting back to purely professional as she turns to prepare our drinks.
As the espresso machine hisses and gurgles loudly, I open my purse and take out my wallet. Jack’s eyes immediately drop to my hands, his brows lifting slightly in surprise.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Paying for my half,” I say matter-of-factly, extracting a ten-dollar bill from my wallet. It seems only fair, even if this is technically a fake date.
“Absolutely not,” he looks amused. “I asked you to coffee, I’m paying. Plus didn’t you tell me last night you were counting your tips to see if you’d make rent?”
“That was an exaggeration,” I protest.
He grins, gently pushing my hand back. “Look, Reyes, just let me buy you coffee. Consider it payment for having to pretend to like me in public.”
“In that case I should be charging way more,” I say, but I’m fighting a smile.
“Probably true,” he laughs.
I hesitate. On one hand, I’m perfectly capable of paying for myself. On the other hand, the watch on his wrist probably costs more than I make in a year.
“Fine,” I concede, slipping the bill back into my wallet. “But I’m buying next time.”
“When you’re a famous musician, you can buy me all the coffee you want,” he says with a wink.
The barista returns with our drinks, setting them on the counter—his espresso in a small white ceramic cup, my latte in a tall glass. Two massive cinnamon rolls follow, still warm and fragrant enough to make my mouth water.
As we move away from the counter, I can feel several sets of eyes tracking our progress across the room. It’s like being under a microscope. We find a spot by the large front window, where the afternoon sun streams in warmly.
Jack settles into the chair across from me, setting our drinks and pastries on the table between us. The sun catches his face at an angle that makes those green eyes of his practically glow like backlit gemstones. It’s unfair how some people just win the genetic lottery.
“So,” he says, leaning forward slightly, eyes intent and focused on mine. “Tell me about your music. What should I know about your sound? Your style?”
“Singer-songwriter stuff,” I say, stirring my latte. The foam swirls in lazy circles while I figure out how to explain. “Pretty intimate lyrics, acoustic foundation. Some songs are just me and a guitar, others have more production layered in. Depends on what the song needs.”
“You write it all yourself?” he asks, breaking off a piece of his cinnamon roll.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Every word. I write about relationships, but also family dynamics, identity. Whatever story feels worth telling at the time.”
“I’d like to hear some of your work,” he says, and I feel a flutter of nervousness at the thought of him listening to my music. Of him hearing the vulnerable parts of me. “Where can I find it?”
“YouTube, Spotify, Apple Music,” I explain, trying to sound casual even though my heart is beating faster. “I can send you the links if you want.”
“Do that,” he says, reaching for his espresso. “I should know what my girlfriend’s music sounds like, after all.”
“What, you mean you haven’t already memorized my entire catalog?” I place my hand over my heart. “And here I thought you were my biggest fan.”
“Give me a day or two,” he says, amusement dancing in his expression. “I’m a pretty quick study when I’m motivated.”
“I’ll hold you to that,” I warn, surprised by how easily we’ve fallen into this natural back-and-forth banter. “There might be a quiz. With essay questions.”
“I’m not afraid of tests,” he counters, leaning back in his chair. “I perform very well under pressure. It’s kind of my thing.”
The way he says it makes heat rise to my cheeks despite my best efforts. I cover by taking a long sip of my latte, the cold sweetness a welcome distraction.
“What about you?” I ask, setting down my cup and eager to shift the focus away from me. “How do you spend your time when you’re not racing or getting into highly publicized scandals?”
He raises an eyebrow at my dig but grins, clearly not offended in the slightest.
“During race season, it’s mostly just training, practice runs, endless meetings with the team about strategy and car setup,” he says, his fingers drumming the table. “But I tinker with engines when I get actual downtime. I’ve got a classic car back in Monaco that I’ve been restoring.”
“So you don’t get tired of cars and engines?” I ask. “I mean, that’s literally your job and also your hobby?”
He gives me an incredulous look, like I’ve just asked if water is wet or if the sky is blue. “Never. It’s pretty much my entire life.” The passion in his voice is almost tangible, like I could reach out and touch it. “What about music for you? Do you ever get tired of it?”
“Touché,” I concede, smiling. “I guess we both found our thing young and never let go.”
“Exactly,” he says, and for a moment, we’re just looking at each other across the table, a flash of real understanding passing between us.