Sun & Moon: An Inspirational Contemporary Romance (A Guitar Girl Romance Book 1)

by Hope Franke

  She may be many things, but she wasn’t a thief.

  Perhaps she would get lucky and find a half eaten sandwich or kabob lying out on a sidewalk table, abandoned by the smoker who was forced to eat outside.

  It’d happened once.

  Worry curled in her chest. She didn’t know where she would sleep tonight. Maybe she wouldn’t. The parties on Alaunstrasse lasted through the night. She could mingle with the crowds, check out some live music.

  That was what she was here for, right?

  Then she walked by the soup kitchen. The blinds were up on the large, square windows that faced the street, revealing a mid-sized room with wooden tables filled with people eating. A girl, the same one she’d spotted a few days before, sat in the corner playing guitar. She noticed Katja looking in the window, her eyes falling to the guitar case in her hand. The girl smiled and motioned with her head that she should come in.

  Katja let out a long breath.

  This was a place for poor people.

  For homeless people.

  She wasn’t one of those.

  Yet, she was now, wasn’t she?

  She went in.

  “Hi, I’m Eva,” she said with a smile when Katja walked in. “The soup’s free. Make yourself at home.”

  Katja hesitated in the doorway, feeling even more apprehensive. With the exception of Eva, the people here looked unkempt. The place smelled funny.

  Eva didn’t sing, just plucked melodies on the strings and strummed. Katja admitted she was pretty good. She could at least stay a while and listen. Warm up.

  The girl was thin and looked small behind her big instrument. She had straight brown hair cut bluntly at her shoulder blades and matching blunt bangs that stopped just above her eyebrows. Katja was disappointed when she stopped playing.

  The girl set her guitar down awkwardly and then to Katja’s surprise, limped noticeably toward a black cane propped in the corner. A shot of anxiety crept up Katja’s neck as she watched the girl maneuver off the stage, worried she would fall.

  The girl flashed her an embarrassed smile. Then with her free hand, she pointed to the kitchen.

  “I’ll watch your stuff,” she said. “If you want to get something.”

  Katja glanced around at the others who were finishing their meals. Spoons scraped along the bottoms of porcelain bowls, and butter knives dropped on the tables after use with the buns. The food looked and smelled okay.

  Her hunger beat out her pride.

  “Thanks,” she said. The soup line was in sight so she kept her eye on her belongings the whole time, but she was grateful that the girl was watching, too.

  The place started to empty out by the time Katja began to eat.

  “We’re closing soon,” Eva said, hobbling toward her. Katja looked away from the cane, not wanting to be rude.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “Take your time.” Eva pointed to Katja’s guitar case. “You play?”

  Well, she didn’t haul around the heavy instrument for the fun of it. Katja swallowed her soup and nodded. She didn’t want to be rude, but she really didn’t feel like talking to this girl. She kept her eyes on her food hoping the girl would get the hint, and felt a twinge of regret when the girl left her. Katja cleared her table when she was done and hefted her things back out into the frigid air.

  Now what? It didn’t take long for the damp cold to seep through her clothing and into her bones. She meandered through a couple shops to warm up. The owners eyed her suspiciously, like she was the type to slip wares into her pocket without paying. She wasn’t that type, but she understood the temptation. Would they miss one candy bar? Or a banana?

  She was like a bull in a china shop with her bulky guitar case in these small stores. She needed some place bigger, like a mall. She could hang out in the hall and crash on one of the benches. There was a large one in the old town, but it was a cold twenty-minute walk away. Plus, she couldn’t live at the mall. She’d have to leave when it closed in a few hours and then where would she go?

  She remembered Micah’s note. It was humiliating to go back there, but he had extended the invitation, if not directly, definitely by suggestion. At least it would give her time to think. Time to make a new plan.

  His place was clean and dry and warm. She was glad she had left the door unlocked. She shoved her things out of sight behind the door. What would Micah do when he discovered she hadn’t left? When he found out she was homeless? She hoped he’d let her infringe on his hospitality for one more night.

  She groaned. He might cash in on the make out session this time.

  She warmed up over the radiator and when she finally felt warm enough, it was almost six o’clock. The least she could do was to prepare Abendbrot, a light evening meal of buns and meat and cheese, but decided a warm meal would be a bigger gesture.

  She opened all the cupboards, finding them surprisingly bare. A set of dishes for six. Six glasses. Three pots and a frying pan.

  There was a little more in the food department, and Katja settled on pasta with Alfredo sauce. She found fresh vegetables in the fridge and prepared a salad while the noodles boiled. Dinner was ready and the table set when Micah walked in.

  He jerked to a stop when he saw her, like he’d forgotten that he’d left her sleeping on his sofa bed that morning. His eyes moved to the loaded table.

  “Welcome home, sweetie,” Katja said lightly. Micah closed the door and set his briefcase on the floor.

  “You made dinner,” he said, stating the obvious. He removed his jacket and hung it on a hook.

  “Yeah, I thought since you made it last night,” Katja began, “that it was only fair.”

  Micah disappeared into the bathroom without another word. Katja folded her arms, preparing herself for the inevitable “time for you to leave” speech.

  Instead, Micah took a seat in the same spot as the night before and waited for her to sit across from him.

  “Looks good,” he said.

  “I hope you like it.” Katja winced. She felt like she was playing mistress or something.

  Micah took a bite and murmured, “Not bad.”

  It only took one bite of the mushy pasta for her to know he was lying. She’d been telling the truth when she’d said she was a lousy cook. She looked at him apologetically. “It’s kind of overcooked.”

  He took another bite. “It’s fine.”

  “So, how was your day?” she asked politely.

  He paused with his fork midair. “Good. Yours?”

  Katja couldn’t keep her gaze from darting to her things behind the kitchen door. Her guitar case stuck out. Micah’s gaze followed hers.

  “What’s up?” he asked.

  “I got kicked out. I couldn’t pay my part of the rent… again, and my roommates tossed me.” She folded her hands on her lap and stared at the floor. She felt embarrassed and ashamed. What would he say to that?

  “Would you like more salad?”

  She looked up, shocked, and shook her head. “No, I’m fine.”

  He set the bowl down. “How old are you, Katja?”

  “Twenty. You?”

  “Twenty-six.” He went to the fridge and removed a bottle of sparkling water. “Want some?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have something stronger, would you?” She flashed a crooked smile. “It’s been a hard day. Well, week, actually.” She grinned wider. “Okay, month.”

  He smirked but shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t drink. I have orange juice. Would that do?”

  She nodded feeling mildly disappointed. “Sure, thanks.”

  She watched him as he drank his water. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and she wanted to reach over and loosen his tie. His coal black hair had been professionally cut at one point, but was growing out, and curls formed on his forehead. He moved wayward strands off his brow with one hand. His eyes were a warm, dark brown, yet unreadable.

  She couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  It drove her crazy.r />
  “What do you want from me?” she blurted.

  He sat his water on the table. “What do you mean?”

  “I told you I got kicked out. Should I leave? Do you want me to stay? Do you want…?”

  He held her gaze, making her squirm. “No, yes… no.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t want you on the streets. There’s plenty of room here. You can stay until you find something else.”

  “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch.”

  She studied him. There had to be a catch. There was always a catch.

  Micah started in on the dishes afterward, but Katja stopped him.

  “I’ll do it.” It was the least she could do for the inconvenience she was causing. “You’ve had a long day already.”

  “I don’t mind,” he said, his eyes moving from her to the mess in the sink.

  “Neither do I.”

  He left without another word, and soon Katja heard the sound of the news broadcasting on the TV.

  She took her time. It wasn’t like she had anything else to do. Micah’s flat was spacious, but it didn’t actually have a lot of rooms. The living room and kitchen were connected, and there was a short hallway with doors that led to the bathroom and Micah’s bedroom. And one other. Perhaps a storage room?

  Once the dishes were washed and put away and the counters and table wiped clean, she stood in the middle of the room with a tea-towel in her hand. She didn’t want to interrupt Micah, but the living room was the only place left for her to go, unless she holed up in the bathroom. She found a broom in a narrow kitchen closet and attacked the wooden floors. With that done, there really wasn’t anything left to do, unless she polished the appliances or washed the windows.

  “Looks great.” Katja jumped at Micah’s voice. “Why don’t you come relax now, too?”

  As usual, Micah’s expression was blank. Katja couldn’t tell if he really wanted her to join him, or if he was just being polite.

  “Are you sure? I can…” She waved a hand at the spotless room.

  “It’s clean enough,” he said, then returned to his place on the sofa.

  Katja wasn’t sure if she’d just been invited or instructed to follow him, but she had no reason not to do as he asked.

  She sat stiffly on the sofa opposite the chair where Micah sat and steered her gaze to the TV. Her fingers rested on her jeans, and she shifted to get comfortable. Her eyes wouldn’t stop veering over to her host. Despite the fact that he rarely smiled, Micah wasn’t hard to look at. His brown eyes were accentuated by dark eyebrows. He had sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline now covered by a late-day bristly shadow. Katja’s artistic eye captured the details with quick glances, getting caught with her final one. He stared back at her.

  She squirmed, feeling stupid that he’d caught her checking him out. His full lips tightened and his shoulders squared, like he refused to be made comfortable, even in his own home. His tie was still tied neatly around his neck. He made her nervous.

  “Why don’t you take that off?” she blurted.

  Micah’s eyes widened with surprise, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “I meant your tie, not your clothes.”

  His hand reached for his throat. “Oh. Yeah. I’m so used to wearing it.” His fingers slid into the knot loosening it.

  “That’s better,” Katja said. “Now I can breathe.” She thought it was funny, but Micah didn’t crack a smile.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  Micah lowered the volume and tapped his leg nervously with the remote. “Why would you ask?”

  Katja nodded to his jumpy hands. “You seem apprehensive. If anyone should be nervous here, it’s me, right?” She grinned. “I’m the homeless one.”

  His hands stilled. “You are. You’re taking it rather well.”

  Oh, no. He thought she was taking advantage of his hospitality already and they hadn’t even gotten through the first night. She stiffened. “I’ve learned to make the best of situations I have no control over.”

  How did this conversation get turned around to be about her? She tried another tactic. “How long have you lived in Dresden?”

  “Four months. You?”

  “Two. I arrived the end of January.”

  “Where from?”

  “Berlin.”

  “That’s where your family is?”

  Again, it was about her. She nodded and returned the question. “And your family?”

  “Hamburg. What’s your last name?”

  “Stolz. What’s yours?”

  “Sturm”

  Sturm. In English, the word meant storm.

  She turned back to the TV, wishing Micah would turn the volume back up. Now he was the one checking her out. She pretended not to notice how his eyes moved from her face, to her chest, along her legs and back again. It both thrilled her and frightened her. She swallowed hard. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “What kind of music do you play?”

  Fine, don’t answer. And if he was going to stare, she’d stare back. “Folk, mostly. A mix of Americana, country, blues.”

  “Do you write your own songs?”

  She nodded. “Yes, but I like to do covers as well.”

  “And this is the… vocation you’ve chosen for yourself?” He tilted his head. “When you’re not attempting the other one.”

  She felt herself blush. Her hands curled and her breaths came out in short spurts. She scowled at him. “Are you judging me?”

  “No, no.” Micah leaned forward placing his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry I know I can come across as abrasive.”

  No kidding.

  “I’m just trying to understand,” he continued. “What drives you to do what you do?”

  “I love music. I love to play it. I love how it makes me feel, and how it makes people feel who listen to me. I want to make my living doing it.” It sounded straightforward to her.

  Again she turned the tables. “What drives you?”

  A shadow flickered across his face. He leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.

  “Micah?”

  He stood abruptly and stared at her with a dark and disturbing glare. “What drives me, drives me crazy. Goodnight, Katja.”

  There was definitely a storm brewing in Micah Sturm. Katja wasn’t sure she wanted to be around when it was unleashed.

  Katja awoke mid-morning the next day surprised to see Micah sitting at the table in the kitchen, sipping coffee.

  Watching her.

  “Good morning,” she muttered, feeling self-conscious. Her hand went to her mess of hair, as if patting it would make it look all right. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “It’s Saturday. I get weekends off.”

  Oh. Katja often lost track of the days of the week. They all started and ended the same for her.

  “There’s coffee,” Micah offered.

  “Thanks. I just need to use the bathroom first.” Katja had her sheets gripped in her fist up around her neck. She wore a long T-shirt and panties, but still felt shy about letting Micah see her in her sleepwear. She was aware of the irony.

  Micah sensed her hesitation and busied himself at the sink, turning his back to her, giving her the privacy she desired. His consideration for her feelings perplexed her. She didn’t understand why he was being so kind and generous without asking for the obvious in return.

  Katja grabbed her jeans and a button-down blouse and moved quickly to the bathroom. She was eager to change and make herself presentable, surprising herself by thinking that she wanted to see Micah before he left to do whatever it was he did on Saturdays. Something drew her to him, though she couldn’t define what it was.

  She felt a strange sense of relief when she found Micah had remained. He sat in his spot at the table with his laptop open, lines drawn on his forehead. He folded it shut when she approached. Whatever it was that he was looking at, he didn’t want her to see it.

  Her eyes scanned t
he countertops looking for the promised carafe of coffee, and she squinted when she couldn’t find it. “Didn’t you mention coffee?”

  Micah sprung to his feet. “This is it.” He pointed to a rectangular appliance. “It makes one cup at a time.” He showed her how to insert the individual coffee pod, placed a clean mug under the spout and pressed a button.

  “That’s easy enough,” Katja said. She took a sip. “Good, too.”

  “You must eat something, as well,” Micah said. He pointed to a small basket of buns on the table. “I visited the bakery this morning.”

  Katja frowned. She was hungry, but didn’t feel right about all this charity. “I have a gig lined up at the Blue Note,” she said, taking the seat opposite Micah. “I can pay you something then. And I’ll keep looking for gigs. And I’ll busk.”

  “Breathe, Katja,” Micah said with a glint of amusement in his eyes. “We’ll work something out later.” He sipped the remains of his coffee before asking, “What do you mean when you say you’ll busk?”

  Katja held back a smile. He probably thought it was related to what she’d offered to do for him the night they met. “It’s an American term; I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s when an artist stands on the street and plays for money. They leave their instrument case open, and if people like what they hear, they’ll drop money into it.”

  Micah nodded. “Oh, I’ve seen those.”

  Katja couldn’t tell if he approved or not. He was staring at her again. Did he not know that was considered rude? It made her uneasy, and she nibbled on her lip ring in response.

  “Did that hurt?” Micah asked.

  “What?”

  “Piercing your lip like that. I got hit in the face with a football once and split my lip. It hurt like crazy.”

  Katja shrugged. “Yeah, it hurt.”

  “Why’d you do it then?”

  “I don’t know. My friend Henni wanted to do it, so I said I’d do it with her.” She boldly held his gaze. “Do you like it?”

  “I don’t like or dislike it.”

  Whatever. Katja grabbed a bun and tore a piece off with her teeth.

  “So,” Micah continued, “what do musicians usually do with their Saturday mornings?”