Page 2 of Hendrix

“Won’t do any good,” a deep, husky voice announced from behind me. “They won’t come until mornin’.”

I twisted my neck, the shiver in my belly already telling me who the voice belonged to. “Okay, so I’ll call a cab and come back for my car in the morning.”

Hendrix’s lips tipped up into a sexy grin, and my panties incinerated.

He pulled his cell out from his jeans pocket and clicked on it, then put it to his ear, his eyes still holding mine. “Sparky,” he greeted. “Gordy’s bar just off the road to Mapletree.” A pause. “Yeah, that’s the place. Silver Audi TT in the parking lot with a flat. Bring a tire down and get it sorted.” He finished off by saying, “Good man,” before ending the call.

Pulling my lips into a wry smirk, I asked, “Do people always do what you want?”

He shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly, his eyes traveling suggestively down my body and then back up to my face. “I’ll let you know in an hour or two.”

My heart fluttered.

“Wanna drink?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’m driving, and I’m tired. Not a good mix.”

“I’ll take you home,” he offered. “Could always call Sparky back and tell him to drop your car off at the salon. You live above the shop, right?”

“I do,” I admitted. “It’s my sanctuary.”

“From what?” he asked, nodding to the bartender for a round of drinks.

“Life, parents, sisters and their marital issues, ex-husbands and my ex-marital issues, and all the bullshit they bring. I’m just getting back into town from Charleston. My sister had a meltdown, so I needed to go and see to her.”

“Is it sorted?” he asked.

“Yes, no, maybe.” I shrugged. “Who knows? I’ll probably be dealing with the same crap this time next year. She’s having husband trouble. Once a cheater and all that.”

“Ahh,” he murmured, taking a stool at the bar and gesturing for me to sit. “You sound like you have experience in that respect.”

“I left him five years ago, been divorced four,” I confirmed.

“Sorry,” he muttered, pushing away the half-full whiskey glass that was sitting on the bar.

“S’okay,” I murmured back. “It worked out in the end. It gave me the courage to leave a life where I was wrapped up in cotton wool and finally take some chances.” I tapped the countertop. “Touch wood, it seems to have worked out for me.” My eyes drifted back to his, and I asked, “Are you a risk-taker?”

“If it’s a calculated one, sure,” he replied. “I got married to a military gal when I was a young scout in the Rangers. That was a risk of sorts. Took a lot more in the military.”

I ignored the stab of pain in my chest, instead casually asking, “You’re married?”

“Widowed,” he replied. “My wife died in an IED attack in Iraq.”

Heart squeezing, I instinctively reached out to cover his hand with mine as it rested on the bar. “I’m sorry for your loss, Hendrix. It must’ve been a terrible time for you.”

“Jameson,” he corrected.

My eyebrows pulled together questioningly.

“My name’s Jameson Quinn.”

“It’s a great name.” I smiled. “But I’d peg you more as a Jamie. It’s a fun, unserious name, and you seem like a fun, unserious guy.”

“And you’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured. “Your hair’s the color of the sunset.”

A warm feeling settled over me.

It was the loveliest compliment I’d ever gotten.

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