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KENNEDY
When I was eleven years old, a boy named Hendrix Scott looked up from the ground between my legs and shouted, ‘Unfreeze,’ and changed the world. Well, nottheworld, just my world. That day at Christopher Webster’s birthday party, during that game of Freeze Tag, was the best day of my life. It was the day I met my best friend, the guy who made me laugh until I snorted, fed me an entire gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream the day I started my period, and peed (yes, literal piss) on the first guy to ever break my heart.
We were inseparable, right up until the day he asked me to marry him.
I was on a date and Hendrix was doing what he did best—being cocky. He was already sitting at the bar in the middle of the restaurant when we walked in. His light gray polo hugged his frame in all the right places. Chest. Biceps. Broad shoulders. His dark-washed jeans fit him the way jeans were supposed to fit a man. Tight on the ass and low on the hips. He had messy brown hair and a killer smile.
I saw the way women looked at him when they walked by. Hendrix Scott wasn’t a normal, run-of-the-mill “hot” guy. He was a presence. When he was around, everyone knew it. Everyone paid attention.
He was also completely off-limits. For me at least.
Showing up on my first dates was his thing. Every single time he was there—shooting judgmental glares and sending me text messages. He’d said it was his way of making sure the guy deserved a second date. Like he considered himself the Guardian of my Vagina or something.
My date had pulled out my chair. I took a seat and looked around. I was still trying to figure out how Hendrix got into that place. It wasn’t the type of restaurant people just walked into on impulse. It was a book-two-weeks-in-advance kind of place with sleek glass chandeliers, mullion windows, and their very own guy in the corner playing piano—something bluesy that I felt like I should know the words to.
Then again, he was Hendrix. Nothing he did ever surprised me.
My phone buzzed.
Hendrix: I can smell his Axe body spray all the way over here.
Me: Nice try but he smells like leather-bound books—first editions—pure sophistication, and multiple orgasms. Aka: heaven.
Hendrix: FYI, sex stinks. Or has it been so long since you’ve had any that you forgot?
Me: Bye, Hendrix.
Hendrix: He probably talks to himself. Little Pep talks in the mirror while he shaves. Motivational shit like: It doesn’t matter if your penis is small. You’re a winner.
I’d glanced up at Theo, my current date, hoping he hadn’t noticed me texting. He was still looking over the wine menu.Who does that?What guy actually reads the wine menu?That guy. Mr. Perfect. That’s who.
He’d found me on an online dating site. The first time I saw his profile picture, I was one hundred percent sure he was a catfish. Freaking gorgeous. A lawyer who played on a co-ed softball team and drove a Jeep Trackhawk. I couldn’t imagine a universe in which this guy should be single. So far, he was perfect. Tall and fit but not bodybuilder fit, just toned and lean. Messy blond hair and green eyes to die for. Lips that made a girl want to spend hours kissing them. And an ass that just. Would. Not. Quit.
I shot a look over my shoulder at Hendrix, whose mouth widened in a grin I knew all too well. I closed my eyes and heaved a sigh knowing I couldn’t stop him from doing what I knew was coming next. It was his signature move. He did it every time.
Shit.
Me: Don’t you dare.
Crickets.
I shoved my phone in my purse and tried to focus on the man in front of me. “See anything you like?” I asked as I placed the cloth napkin in my lap.
His gaze lifted above the menu to meet mine. His eyes shined. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Aw, hell. This guy might just end my dry spell.
Before I could continue my shameless flirting, the waitress showed up with a drink. Amaretto Sour. My favorite.
She set the glass in front of me, then nodded toward Hendrix. “The guy at the bar said you should come have a drink with a real man. He made me leave the straw. He said you could get it when you sat down by him.”
Theo followed the waitress’s gaze. He locked eyes with Hendrix, who held up a thin, black straw and then lifted his glass of scotch in a toast.
I shielded my face from Hendrix’s view with one hand, feeling the heat blush my skin from embarrassment. I quietly watched Theo. Waiting. Expecting a string of curse words, the typicalwhat the fucksandthat motherfucker, followed by all the blame shifting on me. That’s what usually happened, anyway.
He didn’t do any of that. Instead, he calmly slid the drink to the edge of the table, his gaze never disconnecting from Hendrix’s. “Tell the gentleman thank you, but the lady won’t be needing his drinks.” He finally broke his stare to look up at the waitress. “Or his straw.”
I hit the motherfucking jackpot.
