He pulled up his faded blue jeans ever so slightly to show off identical cherry-coloured Doc Martens and my heart sang. It was destiny. It had to be. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. I may have swooned out loud. I clenched my own empty fingers, wishing they could touch his hair, too.

‘We’re holding a meeting here shortly,’ said Matthew, clearing his throat. ‘You know, about the new band?’

‘Ah, that’s right,’ I said as if I’d forgotten. As if I could forget. Matthew had talked about nothing else except ‘the new band’ for months now and had been scouring every avenue for the right talent to join him. ‘Is there anything I can do to help, apart from make tea?’

Matthew looked at me wide-eyed.

‘Er, no.’

I knew this was code for ‘Piss away off, sister, or just get the drinks in’, but I wasn’t taking the hint.

‘You know, I always wanted to play the drums, ever since I saw the gorilla in the chocolate ad banging out the beats to that Phil Collins song,’ I sighed, leaning on the doorframe. I even pouted a little. Boy, I hadn’t flirted like this since forever.

Tom laughed, in an endearing way.

‘And Larry Mullen Junior from U2, of course,’ I added, trying to redeem myself. ‘He’s a really good, um, drummer too.’

Matthew was gritting his teeth. ‘I didn’t know you wanted to play the drums, Charlotte,’ he replied swiftly. He seriously looked like he was going to throw something at me now.

‘I do,’ I lied, knowing I was really pushing the boundaries at this stage. ‘Do you teach drumming, Tom?’

Tom was still staring back at me, smiling, his chest moving up and down, and I knew for sure now, as much as my brother was about to kill me for my blatant flirting, that Tom liked me as much as I liked him. He slid out of his heavy jacket and I gulped at the sight of his tanned, toned arms under a khaki green T-shirt, his gaze never leaving mine with a smile that made my stomach do a backflip.

‘I could certainly try to, er, teach you,’ he said, and his voice cracked a little when he spoke. ‘So, you’re the budding songwriter then? Matthew was telling me that you—’

I was just preparing my response when we were both ever so rudely interrupted.

‘I was telling you she writes country songs about men in Stetsons who drink too much beer and break too many hearts,’ said Matthew, clearly put out by the chemistry in the air. ‘She’s not a real—’