A few beats pass, and then, saying nothing, the guy shakes his head and returns to his truck. He opens the door and lifts a leg to get into it, which only accentuates the round globe of his solid ass cheeks.
“Wait,” I say, running my hand through my hair. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
A smirk dances on his lips as he holds me in his sights. Then, right before getting into the pickup, he announces, “Jackson Hunter.”
He slams the door shut, and the engine revs to life.
“It was nice meeting you, Jackson,” I yell from the sidewalk.
He hooks his elbow over the open window, and the truck moves away slowly. He raises his hand, and for a second, it looks like he’s about to wave.
But then…he flips me off instead.
And what do I do?
I stand there, watching him drive away, grinning like the motherfucking lunatic that I am.
2
Maverick
“I think I need to meet this Jackson Hunter.” Ollie’s amused voice comes through my car speakers.
“Which part impressed you the most? Him clocking Ridge Duporth or flipping me off several times?”
“Do I have to choose? Can’t they both be my favorites?” he answers with a smile in his voice.
“Asshole,” I chuckle as I take the turnoff to the winery.
Once Jackson’s truck disappeared out of view, I went back into Bunny’s, reordered another whiskey, and proceeded to stare at it for another hour or so. When I lost all feeling in my butt cheeks, I figured it was time to leave.
I’ve been in Silverstone for five months, mainly holed up at the winery, so I haven’t spent much time in the town itself. I decided to take advantage of the good weather and wandered around a bit. It reminded me why tourists flock here. We may not have the name recognition as other wine regions like Napa, Sonoma County, or Willamette Valley, but Silverstone really is postcard pretty.
The place has a cool, upmarket bohemian vibe, with farm-to-table restaurants, art galleries, museums, and tasting rooms. Very farmhouse meets wine country chic. Rolling hills filled with vineyards spread out in every direction from the historic walkable downtown. Weathered stone walls sit next to whitewashed brick. Shopfronts have hand-carved signs and flower boxes in the windows. Brick pavers line the sidewalks in faded reds and soft browns, the terra cotta roof tiles reminding me of the time we went to Tuscany, tacking on a family vacation to the end of one of Mom’s international business trips.
“And you’re telling me about this guy because?” Ollie’s voice snaps me back to the present.
“I want his last three addresses, credit score, and any outstanding restraining orders by first thing tomorrow.”
“Assumed as much.” Ollie’s cackle bursts through the speakers. Then, a brief moment of silence. “How are you really doing, Mav?”
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, taking in the dark fields to my left and right on the empty road as I contemplate how to answer that. “Let’s just say I’m doing way better than I was in the city. And I’m committed to figuring stuff out.”
“You will. You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I remember when I was your age.”
I roll my eyes. Fucker’s only a year older than me. “You’re twenty-seven. You’re…still viable.”
Another wry cackle. “Tell that to my ankles.”
“Then stop doing parkour,” I reply because running, jumping, climbing, and vaulting through streets and obstacles sounds like my personal version of hell.
“Need to burn off the extra calories somehow.”
“Speaking of burning calories, how’s Derek?”
Ollie has always had a thing for firefighters, and now, his fantasy has come to life. Derek is his smoking-hot, silver-fox boyfriend. They’ve been together for eight months.
“He’s good. He got the promotion.”
