I’d love you if I could, but I don’t know how.

I just don’t know how, baby.

I’ll make you cry, I’ll make you sigh, and you’ll beg for more.

Slayer of my heart,

Sweet as sugar,

Sexy as sin.

You’re just my everything.

Then there was you,

Keeper of my heart,

Wish of my soul.

Don’t ever leave, baby, and I’ll never let you go.

Just like that, there was you.

Keeper of my heart… wish of my soul… Don’t ever let go.

You’re my everything.

After he sings the last word and strums the last note I take a deep breath. “Wow. That was just…” I grapple for words, but can’t come up with any good enough. “Incredible. Amazing. Your voice gave me chills.”

I want to hear more. Begging isn’t beneath me. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than listen to him sing and watch his fingers drift over the guitar all day long, just for me, without the small crowd of people that usually surrounds him.

A hint of shyness reaches his crooked smile. “You’re the first to hear that one.” He strums his fingers across the strings.

“I feel special now.”

“You should.” He places the guitar back in the case and snaps it shut, causing Acorn’s ears to perk up. “That’s all for today,” he announces, snuffing out my hopes to hear more. “Now you owe me an ice cream date.”

My cheeks burn at his choice of words, and I feel a stab of unease as we walk toward the ice cream cart. Is this wrong? Having ice cream with a homeless guy who’s sort of becoming a friend? I think his flirting is harmless. It’s probably the way he acts with all women. It doesn’t mean he likes me. And the strange fluttering of my stomach is just a side effect of listening to amazing music up close, like having front-row seats at a concert by my favorite band.

That’s all.

“You’re really talented, Evan,” I say as we walk. “I don’t understand why you’re playing here in a park for dollars and change when you could be—”

“A famous musician?” He finishes my sentence as if he’s heard this hundreds of times before.

“Yeah. I mean, I really think you could.”

We stop at the ice cream stand and browse over the menu of flavors.

“I’ve had offers, been flown to L.A. and Seattle to meet with bands and producers and all that shit. That’s not what I want. I don’t care about money or being known. All I care about is playing music I love and being free. I don’t give a shit about anything else.”

His answer baffles me. Who walks away from the chance to make money? Why would he choose to stay on the streets?

He pushes my hand away when I take my wallet out of my bag.

“I can afford ice cream, Piper.”

I hesitate, feeling bad. Not only for insulting him, but for allowing him to spend his money on me. I’ve seen what people throw in that tip jar of his. Reluctantly, I put my wallet back as he orders two cones for us and a scoop of vanilla in a cup for Acorn, who’s waiting next to us with a wildly wagging tail and what could almost be a smile. My heart clenches at the dog’s excitement, and all I want to do is take him home with me and give him a big bowl of food, a soft doggy bed, and some toys.

Where do Evan and his dog even sleep at night? On the ground? In a sleeping bag? In a tent? I wonder if the rest of his stuff is hidden under a bridge or in a shopping cart in the bushes, or who knows where?

“You okay?” he asks after he pays with a handful of folded dollar bills.

I force a smile. “Yeah, I was just thinking.”

His tongue sweeps over his mint chip ice cream, and the glimpse of a silver bar pierced through it grabs my attention. I’ve heard that men get their tongues pierced to heighten the sensation when giving oral, and I wonder if that’s why he has one.

“You know what I like, Piper?” He takes another lick. “People who say exactly what they’re thinking.”

Hint taken.

“I was wondering where you sleep.” And what you do with that tongue bar. “I know it’s rude, but I was just curious.”

“It’s not rude. We sleep under that bridge where we ate lunch yesterday. It’s quiet and mostly dry, and the cops don’t give me a hard time. Some nights, I can see the stars.”

I swallow my ice cream too fast, and it spikes into my brain like an ice pick. “Oh.”

“Do you like where you sleep, Piper?”

What a question that is. So simple to answer, really. But deep down, in the secret places of my thoughts, it’s not so simple at all.

“Sometimes.”

“Do you sleep alone?”

“No.” I pause to gauge his reaction, wondering if he’s fishing to see if I’m single. “I sleep with my cat.”