CHLOE BAKER'S LOST DATE

Chapter Twenty: Let's Dance

Of course it doesn't work out like that. Instead, when I float into The Corner Stop, the local bar where the band is playing, still buzzed from my three glasses of excellent wine, I run smack into Ben.

Not literally this time, but figuratively.

He's at the door taking tickets.

I have a moment of wishing that I can turn around and leave before he notices me, but I don't pull it off.

"Chloe!" He says with more enthusiasm than I feel. He's wearing dark jeans and a casual cotton blazer with the band's t-shirt underneath. He looks too good to ignore.

I tuck my hair behind my ears. "Hi, Ben."

"What are you doing here?"

"I have tickets." I wave my phone at him and he scans it.

"Two tickets."

"Yes."

He keeps his features neutral but his voice doesn't quite make it. "Ah."

"He's not coming," I blurt, then regret it.

"Okay."

"He got stuck at work."

"I assume you mean Jack?"

"Yes."

A hint of a smile. "Again?"

"It happens."

"Clearly."

Someone bumps me from behind, wanting to get in. I step out of the way and Ben scans his ticket.

"What are you doing here?" I ask.

"Scanning tickets."

"You know what I mean."

He points to the logo on his t-shirt. "It's my band."

"You're in the band?"

"No, they're on my label."

I feel like a moron, but I can't seem to help myself. "And you're taking tickets?"

"I sweep the floors, too."

"Right."

"You seem angry."

I catch his eyes. Are we really going to do this here? I guess so. "I spoke to your sister today."

His eyes brows raise as he scans the ticket of the next person in line. "Kaitlin?"

"Do you have another sister?"

"No, I ... Can you give me a minute?"

"I guess."

He points to a small, round table near the stage. "I have that reserved. Take a seat and I'll be with you in a minute."

I cross my arms, not sure I'm going to comply.

"Please?"

"Okay."

I go to the table he indicated. There's a small reserved sign on it. I wonder who he was planning on sitting here with. If it's Rachel, I'm out of here. I might be out of here anyway, but I guess I can stick around and see what he has to say for himself.

I take a seat and look around. There's a stage in front of me with some instruments on it—a drum kit behind a series of plastic screens, a keyboard, some guitars. The backdrop is matte black and the air smells like beer and cheap disinfectant.

A waiter comes over with a glass of white wine on a tray. He's in his mid-twenties, with his hair in a pompadour and an over-the-top moustache.

"I didn't order this."