Her Hi-Fi Hunk

By Abby Knox

Rock legend Jed is ready to heal the broken heart that has fueled more No. 1 hits than he can count. Record store owner Dusty wonders when someone is going to put her little business on the map. Little does she realize the anonymous person who has been helping to keep her store afloat is also a guitar god, for whom women the world over swoon. Is she ready to accept her fate and all that entails?

 

FINE PRINT: This is a later-in-life romance for both MCs. The book begins with the hero coming out of a failed marriage. There is no cheating. The MCs do not meet in person or become romantically involved until after the hero is divorced. No cliffhanger, but this is the companion book to Her Vinyl Vixen. Each can be read as a stand-alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Author Abby Knox, LLC
• Release date: Aug 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9798215157091

Abby Knox

Abby Knox writes feel-good, high-heat romance that she herself would want to read. Readers have described her stories as quirky, sexy, adorable, and hilarious. All of that adds up to Abby’s overall goal in life: to be kind and to have fun! Abby’s favorite tropes include: Forced proximity, opposites attract, grumpy/sunshine, age gap, boss/employee, fated mates/insta-love, and more. Abby is heavily influenced by Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Gilmore Girls, and LOST. But don't worry, she won’t ever make you suffer like Luke & Lorelai. If any or all of that connects with you, then you came to the right place.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dusty

2004

By the time the black Suburbans begin their slow, winding ascent up the mountain, one clueless young mother at the top of the ridge is at her breaking point with commune life.

That’s me. I am the clueless young mother.

I hate broomstick skirts, I mutter as I hike up my flowing garments between my legs and stuff the hemline into my belt. Why do the women have to wear the skirts if we have to do all the work around here?

The tucking is essential to avoid splashing frigid water onto my clothes during the pre-dawn task of pumping water. Chores suck. But, being off-grid, hand-pumping the water is essential for cooking, drinking, washing dishes, the most basic sanitation. And occasional bathing. Oh yes, we all stink.

I miss running water. I miss hair dryers. I hate being cold. I need a hot shower. Fuck being off the grid, I think as I work at the rusty metal hand pump at the edge of the camp.

Everyone else is still asleep, and so I am the first to hear the engines. The noise is so jarring to the peaceful little fossil-fuel-free settlement.

I peek down the slope of scrubby trees and watch the imposing vehicles snaking slowly up the treacherous, narrow path. Hairs stand up on the back of my neck. Squinting, I can just make out the letters: ATF, FBI, DEA.

Shit.

Time to get the hell outta Dodge. I thought I’d have more time to stash away some more cash.

I drop the ungodly heavy buckets of water, letting the precious water spill onto the scrubby ground. Fuck it.

I run back to our family tent and silently grab the three most precious possessions: a duffel bag full of money, my seven-year-old daughter Zara, and a pair of eyeglasses.

The last thing on that list is chosen solely out of spite.

Who knows, maybe the glasses will turn into a little bit of windfall for Zara’s benefit. If they are the real deal, I could, someday, get a crap ton of money for them on the black market.

Everything else, I leave behind. Our clothes. Zara’s special blanket. Water. Everything.

Mommy, I need my fuzzy blanket.

Zara looks pitifully up at me.

I chew on my lip anxiously for a second. We need to get gone, fast. If we leave right now, we might reach the scrabbly little town down in the valley in time to catch the first bus out this morning. But if I grab Zara and run for it, I risked making a seven year old scream for her blanket and wake the whole camp.

I squat down to eye level with Zara. Baby, what I have in this bag will buy you seventeen new special blankets. Actually, a lot more than seventeen.

Zara isn’t hearing it. Auntie made me that blanket.

Auntie. That could be any one of the completely random and not-blood-related women who live with us at the campground, who pass the time knitting, crocheting, weaving—and a lot of other crafty shit that I can never get the hang of.

I sigh. Stay quiet and move fast.

I wait outside the tent while Zara goes in to fetch her blanket.

I prayed to whoever will listen that Zara remains quiet enough not to wake Walter.

Then comes the sound of the gravelly male voice. What you doin’, girlie girl?

Shit. Walter’s awake. I hold my breath and try to stay calm. I listen as Walter and Zara talk back and forth.

After what feels like a millennium, Zara exits the tent, clutching her blanket to her chest. From inside, Walter makes the all-too-familiar sound of rolling over to go back to sleep.

The two of us, mother and daughter, descend the mountain on foot, the duffel bag of cash in my left hand, Zara’s hand in the other hand, and the glasses in my pocket.

Chapter 2

Jed

2008

The gold and purple sunset and the aroma of steaks on the grill always draws me outside without much coaxing, even when I’m in a bad mood.

Carrying my six-pack of Bud under my arm, I cross through the gate that connects my beachfront property line with that of my friendly neighbors.

Those neighbors have become great friends over the years to me and Darlene. They have even stuck with me after our recent contentious separation.

Over the span of my music career, I have seen so many couples in the business get busted up over one thing or another, it makes my head spin; and always, the couples’ friends choose a side. More often than not, they choose the wife. When Darlene moved permanently into our Texas ranch last year, these neighbors stuck by me.

I can hardly blame Darlene. She is a true, old-school yellow rose of Texas and a decent guitar player in her own right. We’ve been sweethearts since she kicked my ass senior year in the Battle of the Bands competition back at good ol’ Plano Senior High School. I’d rather not say what year. Suffice it to say, I’m fuckin’ old.

Old enough that if you play my greatest hits online, YouTube will start showing you PSAs on how to recognize the signs of a stroke. Fuck that though; my blood panels are just fine.

Darlene hates life on the road and always preferred to stay in one place to raise our two boys, Nelson and Watts. On top of that, she hates California, whereas the West Coast lifestyle agrees with me. I’m always up for a bottle of Shiner and a toast to Texas Forever,