Hey Jude

Prologue

What's Your Name?

“So, Miss Lucy Brooks, alleged connoisseur of classic rock music—you say you were named after a Beatles song, and you can name a song by every guitarist on your shirt?”

“Yep. Lucy Sky Brooks.” I pull a pink hair tie off my wrist and gather sticky blond waves off my neck, revealing sweat-soaked pink highlights underneath.

My hair has officially lost the war against Tennessee’s summer humidity.

“And yes, I do know who Slash, Eric, Angus, Stevie, and Randy are. But I can’t play much, if that makes you feel better about roasting me. ”

Only I would manage to meet a self-proclaimed guitar virtuoso while wearing a shirt illustrated with the names of the most famous guitarists of all time.

Despite his playful condescension, it took only a few minutes of generic pleasantries before our mutual love of classic rock music led to a snarky debate on the merits of our favorite bands.

Jace is the type of guy who needs to be sure you can name five songs if you wear a band T-shirt. I may not have a lot of guitar-playing skill, but I more than compensate with a wealth of useless musical knowledge.

He thinks I’m full of it.

The feeling is mutual, but he is entertaining, and he has moved in most of my stuff, so I can’t complain. Much.

“I hauled in a vintage Fender Strat you can’t even play? Typical Poison fan.” He playfully mocks me like we’ve known each other for years as his fingers effortlessly dance over the frets of my dusty and severely neglected guitar.

Dang it. He’s really good.

“I remember a few chords, but it’s been a while.”

“If you can play five, I might have to marry you,” he teases.

“Oooh, definitely four. Keep your head up, though. I’m sure there’s someone out there for you.”

He’s pretty, I’ll give him that. But pretty isn’t my type. Everything about Jace is high contrast, from his dark hair to freakishly light eyes and savage wit. It’s unnerving and not in a good way. A little too shiny for my taste.

The guy I talked to on the phone last week sounded more professional. Daniel, I think? Professional but also … oddly comforting.

There was something about his voice—all warm and crackly like a bonfire—that made him feel like an old friend. Which is weird. I know.

He assured me I’d have plenty of help when I moved in and insisted he’d personally assemble furniture or anything else I needed.

Clearly, I need to get out more if a reasonably competent guy with a pleasant voice had me imagining we’d be besties. He could be thirty-five and married with six kids for all I know.

But after talking to him, any apprehension I had about moving here melted away. And aside from the roommate I’ve met exactly twice, I don’t know a soul in Crappie Branch.

I’ve had maintenance change my vent filters or check a pilot light before, but helping me move in is a first, so I’ll keep the mild disappointment about who they sent to myself.

My mom and two sisters have been putting my clothes away and organizing my room while Jace and I unload a small trailer of all my worldly belongings.

They can’t hear us from my room at the back of the townhouse’s lower level, so they’ve missed most of our sarcastic bonding.

But we’ve moved a ridiculous number of times. They know this is how I make friends.

The move to Johnson City—well, the unincorporated community of Crappie Branch just beyond the city limits—is technically my second launch from the nest. I moved out after high school but returned to my parents’ home temporarily.

I had to regroup and save money. Since the nest constantly moved, I had no real attachment to Cookeville—where my family lives now—and where Mom, Layla, and Liza will return home to my annoying little brother, Jamie, when they finish organizing my chaos.

Like the guitar, organization is a skill I haven’t quite mastered.

Jace’s snark is actually a relief. I’m glad I’ll have at least one person who speaks my native language. Small talk is painful, and I appreciate getting his real personality without pretense, although I suspect he’s holding back just a smidge.

That’s okay. So am I.

“Will I be charged extra for the harassment, or is it complimentary with your move-in service?” I jab.

“My services are in high demand, but I like you. You get a free sample.” He’s quick as a whip and hardly comes up for air. “This is a decent guitar for someone who doesn’t play.”

I know for a fact my guitar is worth exponentially more than I paid for it at a yard sale, but I downplay his approval. “It’s not a ’57 Gretsch or a Martin, but I like it.”

“That’s what she said,” he mumbles, making me laugh against my will.

I’ve been blasting music, and so far, Jace has sung everything from The Doobie Brothers to Whitesnake with me.

For real.

The harmonies flow like we’ve done this our whole lives, which is fun even though he is incredibly full of himself.

“But still,” he scoffs. “How can you show your face in a guitar legends T-shirt with a measly four-chord repertoire?”

This endearing brand of obnoxious reminds me of my friends back in Kentucky. I don’t want to jinx it, but I think moving here for school was a good move. Not that I’m willing to admit it yet.

“Listen, I don’t see your name on this shirt, and the store didn’t check my ability to play an F chord before they sold it to me, you douche waffle.”

Man, I love it when I can be myself.

I jump up on the kitchen counter and motion for Jace to hand me the items on the bar behind me.

“I’d offer you lessons, but you’re a violent little cupcake, aren’t you?

” Jace passes my dishes and pans up to me without questioning why I’m standing on the counter to put kitchen supplies on shelves he could easily reach.

It’s how short girls get things done. I’m sharing this space, so some of my stuff will have to go on top of the cabinet.

“Is maintenance aware that this townhouse has a pest problem?” I clap back to the violent cupcake comment, but nothing shuts this guy up.

“Does Annie know how hostile you are?”

Apparently, Jace lives behind us, so he already knows my roommate, Annie Parker. She did mention neighbors who watch the complex like guard dogs, but surely, she meant some nice retired people—not a guitarist with a big mouth.

When she gets home, there will be questions. I’ve only met Annie in person twice, but we’ve been talking and texting nonstop since we met in the student center when I came to tour the campus.

Her previous roommate moved without warning, leaving Annie with this adorable townhouse she couldn’t afford on her own. I was tired of online-only classes and ready to get out of my parents’ house … again.

I’m a little older than Annie, but being the big sister is my usual gig, and I feel too old to live on campus.

“That’s your free sample. Annie loves me. The only thing we disagree on is how much Taylor Swift should be played in this house.”

“Uh, none?” He cringes.

“Aww. Did we just become best friends?” I squeal like a teenager, my deranged smile wide with mock excitement before returning to my natural expression of indifference.

“We may have, Cupcake.”

Since we’re already calling each other names, I predict my tolerance for Jace will be low. My gut says he should come with a warning label not to exceed the maximum dosage even if we do share similar interests.

The music app freezes, spreading awkward silence over the room. “Hey, can you fix the music so I don’t have to climb down?”

“Maybe. If you ask nicely.”

“Jace, prince among douche waffles, will you please refresh the music?”

“You’re not nearly as sweet as you look.”

“Sweet?” I laugh. “You must be a terrible judge of character if that’s what you thought.”

“Punk.” He smirks.

Despite how it sounds, we’re having fun.

I am a punk.

“Do you even work here? I thought I was meeting a manager or someone in maintenance today. The guy I talked to last week sounded way more professional than you. Daniel something? I got a text that said DC Management today. I saved the number as Townhouse Management Guy. Who was that?”

“DC—Daniel Crawford. The facilities manager,” Jace calls from the living room, walking toward my laptop on the coffee table. “Also known as my roommate, Danny. He had to deal with a broken window, so I saved the day. You’re welcome.”

“And I’m eternally grateful for your service, but DC is Daniel? That’s who texted me?” I ask over my shoulder as I inch my feet across the counter to the next cabinet.

“That’s Danny. You’ll like him, but I’m better-looking and a much better guitarist.”

The app refreshes, blasting Lynyrd Skynyrd from my laptop, when I smell something minty and sense movement behind me.

Someone speaks the very thought from my mind when I hear, “Shut up, Jace.”

That voice.

The heavy thump of a box dropping on the counter accompanied by a voice like salted caramel causes me to whip around—which is a dumb thing to do while standing on a countertop facing the inside of a cupboard.

My foot misses the edge, and I yelp when someone who’s clearly not Jace, my mother, or either of my sisters catches me around my legs and holds me against him the way one would hold a toddler up to see over a crowd.

I claw at a broad shoulder while my other hand still grips the cabinet door like my life depends on it when I meet his eyes, too jolted to speak. Although this may be the most un-awkward staring-into-the-eyes-of-a-stranger ever.

Ohh, now here’s some dark chocolate sea salt caramel. Swirled with … avocado? I guess they’re hazel. It’s a pretty combo, but it wouldn’t taste good at all.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been comparing his eyes to incompatible food concoctions before I notice his raised brows, and a hint of a grin travels from his eyes to his lips.

We both hear the irony of the music playing at the same time when he echoes the words of the song on a low chuckle, “What’s your name, little girl?”

I can’t help but laugh. His amusement is contagious.

“I’m Lucy.”

“Nice to meet you, Lucy. I’m Daniel.”

Jace’s voice breaks in, yelling over the music, “You didn’t have to jump in his arms, Cupcake. I would’ve introduced you.”

“Shut up, Jace,” Daniel and I call out in unison before his voice softens.

“You can let go. I got you.”

“Okay.”