Lines We Forget Read Free

moments.
    As Anna’s gaze falls to the flush of his cheeks, she notices that he appears effortlessly handsome yet oddly angelic too.
    And even in spite of the fact he’s playing the one song that swells her heart, she believes he’s still in his own right pretty damn lush.
    Thinking about how never in a million years could she ever consider Mark to be lush or alluring, she wonders if she should just cross over the road, maybe get the Tube home instead. She decides it’ll be quicker and less hassle than sitting on a stationery bus stuck in the city’s rush hour traffic. Because maybe it’ll allow her to cross paths with the intriguing and admittedly attractive guy playing out in the cold and rain.
    The one who’s singing “Brown Eyed Girl” like he wrote it just for her.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Two
     
     
    Anna
     
    Standing just a few feet away from where the familiar and nostalgic music plays, Anna can’t understand why it’s taken her so long to notice him strumming hard against a wooden guitar, all fingers and thumbs. She can tell he’s much taller than her and that the clothes he wears are much too light for the bad weather. Just watching him makes her shiver and pull her own coat tighter.
    It’s surprising how unfazed he seems by the biting cold rain, the large puddles that form below his feet, or that his soaked velvet-lined guitar case only has a few coins in it.
    For a moment Anna toys with the idea of passing him by, a little well of doubt bubbling up in her chest. Thinks that maybe she’ll just throw in some loose change and let the moment go. Call it a day.
    But then she takes a deep breath, counts to ten, and thinks about what a waste it would be if she chickened out. All the time stuck waiting at the always-on-red traffic lights, jostling with the crowds for space, entirely for nothing.
    Instead, she continues to admire the way his lips form around each word sung. How he taps one palm to the grainy wood and lifts it again, almost triumphantly. She likes how rosy his cheeks are and how he’s gifted by kind eyes, a strong jaw. An important quality she didn’t realise could matter so much until she saw his.
    Keeping a safe distance away, yet not too far to lose sight of him, she runs through a logical plan of action. Digs in her coat pockets for some coins, fingertips holding on to the heavier ones she hopes will make a bigger impact upon landing in his case.
    And as just as the wind and rain gain traction along the high street, Anna and her newfound courage step out, squeezing the golden coins tightly. Her clunky black boots part the tides of water across the pavement and guide her along. Twisting on her heels to avoid the rush of commuters’ elbows vying for less congested paths with umbrellas held high above, but not always high enough.
    Head bowed low, she follows the soft melody, praying to nothing in particular that she’s not too late. That her memory is correct: just one more chorus to go.
    When she’s gotten close enough to touch him, Anna tosses in a two-pound coin and waits to hear it land with a solid loud thud , which it doesn’t. Worry creeps in that it’s not been enough to catch his attention. Until after a breathless pause, his much-admired kind gaze falls to meet her own.
    She thinks of Mark’s eyes—small and dark like empty black holes, as if nothing were behind them, and she can’t believe it’s taken so long to realise why they never took her breath away or held her heart captive.
    Guitar Guy, as she’s already starting to call him affectionately in her head, takes the plastic pick from his forefinger and slots it between the wet strings and fret board, finished with his siren call.
    “Thanks,” Anna hears him say in a soft, posh-sounding accent which is jarring but thankfully less polished than the girls she has the misfortune of working with who like to boast about Oxford and Cambridge, fancy pants places like Chelsea and Knightsbridge and