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the brick façade, his guitar strapped on, his rucksack on the sidewalk by his open case. He sees me and beams a megawatt smile. My breath catches in my throat, and for a second I can’t breathe. My heart rate accelerates by about twenty beats per minute, and my leg muscles feel watery.
    I’m glad I’m far enough away that he can’t see the effect he’s having on me, and I do my best to ignore how damned fine he looks. I had just about convinced myself that I was exaggerating his hotness in my mind, but this morning, if anything, he looks better than yesterday, which was a tough act to follow.
    When I draw alongside him, he stops playing and winks at me. “Morning, Sage.”
    “What do you think you’re doing?”
    “Me? Keeping someone else from stealing your spot.”
    At least he acknowledged that it’s my spot, not ours. That’s hopeful. I sigh as I set my guitar case down and retrieve my blanket from my backpack, holding my tongue until I spread it on the sidewalk. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, and I feel for a moment like he can see through my clothes – a not altogether unpleasant sensation, but not a helpful one if I’m going to keep things businesslike.
    I look at his case. He’s already got two bucks in it. Damn him. It must be the female tippers, because I get nothing but spit before nine.
    He clears his throat when he sees me eyeing the coins. “Don’t worry. We’ll split that.”
    “Gee. Thanks.”
    “Did you think about what I suggested?”
    The moment of truth. I look up at him, at his hopeful face, and I know what I’m going to say. Still, when I do, I feel a sense of relief, a flood of anxiety washing away as the words tumble over each other.
    “I did, and I’ll give it a whirl as long as you remember your promise.”
    He crosses his heart with his pick hand. I haven’t seen someone do that in years. I notice his nails are clean and well trimmed, making me immediately self-conscious about my chipped black enamel job.
    “You bet. Let’s talk about songs. You know many?”
    I frown a little. “Are you kidding? I know ten hours’ worth. Maybe more. Hundreds. No, maybe thousands.” Only a little exaggeration, but I feel intimidated by his question as well as by how close he’s standing.
    “Cool. It’ll take some practice to figure out who does what, but if we switch off on lead vocals, the other can take the harmonies, and it shouldn’t be too bad.”
    I nod. Makes sense.
    His gaze drifts to my eyes, and I feel that sensation of spinning on the carnival ride again. “I heard you sing. Nothing that comes out of that mouth could be bad,” he says and smiles again.
    I flush. The blushing is uncontrollable, and I curse the German part of my heritage that blessed me with pale skin, the better to display my embarrassment when the blood rushes to my face.
    “How long have you been here?” I ask, more to have something to say than out of genuine curiosity.
    “I don’t know. Maybe a half hour?” He nods to a cup of coffee next to his rucksack. “I got you some brew. Just the way you like it. Should still be hot.”
    Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all. I try not to notice that the early sun is creating a halo effect around his head. Or maybe that’s just the last of the sleep in my eyes.
    I nod and move next to him. He smells freshly scrubbed. Again. I so want to ask him where he’s showering, but it seems kind of forward, considering I should be trying to crush him with the power of my will. Instead, I accept the coffee, which tastes better than good.
    “So how do we do this?” I ask, always the sensible one. “How do you want to pick the songs?”
    He rubs a hand across his face and considers the question. “It’s your gig. How about you pick ’em, and I’ll do my best to keep up?”
    He’s not getting off that easily. “What about the guitars? We can’t just strum the same chords.”
    “How about whoever is singing the lead plays the main riff,