Page 60 of Hendrix

My heart clenched so tightly that it almost took my breath away. My gaze slid over to Hendrix, who stood at the bar with his club brothers, laughing and shooting the shit.

He must have felt my eyes on him because his electric-eyed stare caught mine and locked.

So much regret pressed on my shoulders that it weighed me down.

Just a few years ago, that man was everything to me. How could everything get so messy in such a short time? And how could I have gotten everything so wrong?

I didn’t blame Hendrix for the mess my life was in, but still, all my bad decisions started with him.

Now they had to end with him too.

Maybe we could have made it work if we tried, but too much had happened, and he’d damaged me. It wasn’t just that I was pregnant with another man’s baby—though that was baggage enough—the fact was, I didn’t trust him. I’d had my big loves, and they’d all shredded me. I didn’t want to go through it again. The thought was unbearable.

I was so tired of fighting for a love that should have been easy. I refused to keep banging my head against a wall when it came to Hendrix.

He’d never change.

Decision made, I tore my eyes away from Hendrix’s beauty and back to Tristan’s hopeful expression. “Book the flights, honey,” I acquiesced. “It’s time to go home.”

————

That evening, Tristan had to make some calls and book our flights, so finding myself at a loose end, I decided to take a walk down to the river and watch the sunset.

I was familiar with Virginia, Maryland, and DC, even though I was born and raised in Charleston, which was about a day’s drive down the coast. My family had friends in Potomac, Arlington, and the capital, and we often used to visit, as well as attend galas and work events connected to my father’s various business and charity endeavors.

Charleston was a bustling city, especially in summer, and had a stunning beach and busy social scene. Arrowhead Point was just as beautiful but quieter. I’d had no time to visit the town, but Colt and Freya already explained it was bigger than Hambleton—though still pretty and quaint—but just a little too far away from the capital’s wealth and exclusivity to be classed as fashionable.

The trail was clear and easy to follow due to the hundreds of years’ worth of people who had walked it before me. The path sloped gently downward and was surrounded on either side by red maple, black oak, and ash trees, their branches stretching high and bowing to meet across the path to form a natural shield from the blistering heat of summer and the ice-cold wintry snow.

As I breathed in the warm spring air, perfumed with the scent of the wildflowers, I noticed the path widening into a clearing. My gaze caught on a well-maintained wooden mooring that loomed ahead of me, leading out to the sparkling blue water beyond, where a small cabin cruiser, a bowrider, and what appeared to be a Coast Guard’s Response boat bobbed on the current.

My breath caught in my throat at the picturesque sight. I made my way to a patch of grass, carefully lowering to the ground and leaning my back against a tree to study the peaceful water.

It reminded me of all the parts of Charleston I missed the most. I loved my home city, but after the breakdown of my marriage and the pressure the two families put on me to stay, I knew my only option was to leave.

Nobody in my family had ever been divorced. The Bouchards fought for everything, except I didn’t believe there was anything left to fight for. After I discovered my husband’s long-term affair (and all the short-term fleeting ones), just the thought of his touch made me nauseous.

How could I fight for that?

And how could I stay?

So, I left Charleston with a divorce settlement that would make most people’s eyes water and a healthy offer of spousal support that I could survive comfortably on for the rest of my life, but only with the condition that I went quietly, of course.

Having nothing in my life except money became old very quickly. I recognized that I needed something to fill my empty days, so I decided to do the only thing that had ever interested me—and incidentally, the one thing my parents had always looked down upon—and I applied to go to beauty school.

My old life had graced me with a few connections, so even though I’d had no experience, I was accepted at the Aveda Institute and was offered a placement at Denver. Five years later, after mastering every hair and beauty technique the Institute offered, including styling, cosmetology, esthiology, and even massage, and then gaining experience in various salons, I met Tristan at a trade show.

The instant we connected, it was like I’d known him all my life. We got to talking, and he told me about the salon in Hambleton where he worked. It had recently been put up for sale, but at the time, he couldn’t raise the funds to buy it.

The town sounded idyllic, and frankly, I had nothing in my life and nowhere to go.

So, I took a deep breath and a leap of faith.

It was in Hambleton I first saw Jameson ‘Hendrix’ Quinn and I couldn’t get him out of my head. I’d never thought of a man as beautiful before, but there was no other word for Hendrix.

The first time I saw him, he was riding his Harley Davidson down Main Street. He wore black jeans and a cut over his muscular, black wife-beater-covered chest. Thick, brawny arms were inked with a myriad of black and grey tattoos. His hair was long and fastened in a man bun, the dark strands lightened by the sun. Bright eyes caught mine as I watched him ride by me as I stood outside my salon, and he shot me a sexy smirk.

I think I fell head over heels there and then.

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