Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83501 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
She’s utterly unique with almost raven-black hair cut in shaggy layers around her face and coming down no longer than her shoulders. Her eyes are an unusual mixture of blue and gray, like forming storm clouds. They’re fringed with dark lashes, and she has a nose piercing in addition to several in both ears. I’m guessing Tracy thought she was trashy because she’s wearing a tight Harley Davidson tank top cut low, but not so low you can see much cleavage, along with faded jeans and biker boots. Her arms are a collage of tattoos, her eye makeup is dramatic and smoky, and her nails are painted black. Totally beautiful in a rocker-chick way, and sexy as fuck with that confident strut.
The tray hoisted on her palm above her shoulder sports six shots of bourbon and a bottle of water. She winks at Harlow who’s balancing on Stone’s knee as he sits at the table we’ve commandeered at the back of the building.
She goes to Harlow first, who takes the bottle of water since she doesn’t drink. “Thanks, Stevie.”
Stevie. I love it. That name totally fits.
“Bottom’s up,” she says as she twirls the tray and lowers it before us men without spilling a drop. Her voice is husky, like she’s been singing at a concert all night.
The guys reach in for their drinks until only mine is left. Stevie tips her head and nods down at it. “I heard these shots are in celebration of you cutting toxicity from your life. Congrats.”
Kirill snorts and since he’s the closest to me, I steal his glass right from his hand and offer it to Stevie. “You should celebrate with me.”
Those tempestuous eyes drop to the liquor and then back up to me. Her lips—full, soft looking, and without a trace of lipstick—curve upward. “Not interested.”
She puts the tray under her arm and starts to turn away. I slide quickly to get in front of her, bringing her up short. “I’m Hendrix, by the way.”
I hold out my hand, and I’m surprised she takes it. “Stevie.”
She tries to pull free, but I hold tight. “That’s an interesting name.”
“My dad’s an interesting guy,” she says, our hands still connected. “He named me.”
“Oh, yeah?”
She nods, then turns toward the bar. “See that big dude sitting at the end?”
“The one glaring at us?” He’s massive, and his eyes are narrowed on me.
“He’s glaring at you, not us.”
Hmm… I could probably take him, but I’m far too chill to throw fists in a bar. Also, that’s her dad, and if I want to impress her, I can’t be knocking the guy out.
So I drop her hand. “I’m assuming he’s a Stevie Nicks fan.”
“I’m impressed you even know who that is.” She tucks a hand in the back pocket of her jeans and appraises me. “You look like Justin Timberlake’s more your speed.”
My hand covers my heart and I wince. “That hurts. My Aunt Rory is a huge Stevie Nicks fan, so I can assure you I know all about her music.”
She cocks an already perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’re not just saying that, are you?”
I take my forefinger and draw a diagonal line over my heart and then cross it in the opposite direction. “Like, a serious fan. She always points to Stevie Nicks’s decision not to have kids and just be a crazy aunt who spoils her own niece as validation of her same life choice.”
“That sounds plausible,” Stevie admits, although her expression seems dubious.
“Sure you won’t have a drink with me and talk about it more?” I press.
Her eyes lift up to the ceiling as if she’s considering it, but then slam back into mine with a coldness that dashes all hopes. “Still not interested.”
When she starts to turn away, I scramble. “Just ten minutes of your time. That’s all I want.”
“What could you possibly need ten minutes of my time for?”
“To convince you to go on a date with me.” I offer a very charming smile, but it doesn’t soften the set to her jaw.
“You’d need far more than ten minutes and probably a gallon of booze to convince me.”
“Just ten minutes,” I assure her. “Alone.”
Something sparkles in her eyes and if I had to take a guess, it’s interest. But she shuts me down again. “Sorry. My time’s too valuable.”
“Then let’s wager something for those ten minutes.”
“Like what?”
“How about a game of pool or darts? I’ll let you choose. If I win, I get quality alone time with you to plead my case.”
“And if I win?” she asks, taking a step toward me.
“What do you want?”
She glances around the bar, which is starting to clear out a bit. We’ve done all the pictures and meet and greets with fans. “You have to do the cleanup at the end of my shift.”
“Deal,” I say without hesitation. I’m not afraid of cleaning and if I lose, that still gives me time around her to try to win her over.