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    His Vinyl Vixen
    His Vinyl Vixen
    His Vinyl Vixen
    Ebook120 pages1 hour

    His Vinyl Vixen

    By Abby Knox

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Zara has no interest in making the same choices her mother did at her age. Which means staying far, far away from men. Even that man is a hard working new employee at her mom's record store who's extremely easy on the eyes.

     

    When drifter Kai spots a cute record store clerk on his first day in Sea Grove, he changes his plans to busk his way up the California coast. Zara makes it clear she doesn't trust his type, but Kai will do anything to win her over. Even get a real job. 

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAuthor Abby Knox, LLC
    Release dateSep 25, 2022
    ISBN9798215043189
    His Vinyl Vixen
    Author

    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.

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      Book preview

      His Vinyl Vixen - Abby Knox

      Chapter 1

      Zara

      If it were possible to roll one’s eyes in disgust before even opening them first thing in the morning, Zara Rhodes might achieve it with a flourish.

      The seagulls called. The California sun shone down on Beach Avenue. The street performers strummed guitars and slapped bongos. All of the serene things of a quaint beach community conspired to wake Zara up too early from her slumber in the small flat she shared with her mother, Dusty.

      Twenty-one years old and freshly graduated from college, Zara was not accustomed to waking up early. She was deeply entrenched in a season of life in which her body really, really enjoyed sleeping. A lot.

      But she couldn’t go back to sleep with the hippy-dippy music assaulting her. It was the sound of acoustic guitar out on the sidewalk, a sure sign that she was indeed home for the summer. The weather was getting hotter, and the buskers were starting early.

      Well, shit.

      Zara snapped the shade open with a testy flick of her wrist, as if taking out her anger on window coverings might give her any satisfaction before she had consumed any coffee. She looked down to the street and expected to find the old, familiar faces from last summer, with their threadbare Grateful Dead tee-shirts and Birkenstock sandals and graying, bleached-out beards.

      But this one was new. She couldn’t see his face because he was bent over while strumming a Martin N-20 acoustic guitar. Good taste in instruments, anyway, she thought. His hair was long and sandy, with random streaks of pure gold. He wore a pale woven Baja tunic that had seen better days. That 1990s relic of a garment probably reeked of pot, she thought.

      Zara sighed. She didn’t trust hippies.

      She glanced at the hip-swaying Elvis clock on the wall. May as well get started early on work. Mom’s books are probably in disarray. Zara dressed in her favorite plaid mini and fishnets. She had to look the part to sling records all day; yes, actual 12-inch vinyl records that were regularly bought up by retired, tanned baby boomers with too much money and time on their hands.

      As she slipped through the great room she flipped on the stereo, where Never Mind the Bollocks by the Sex Pistols was already queued up. Zara padded into the kitchen, made coffee and poured it into her stainless mug. It had been a high school graduation gift on which she had immediately slapped on her favorite band stickers and scrawled it all over with anarchy symbols in permanent marker. Juvenile? Yes, but she thought it was a nice antidote for being a scholarship college student in possession of a $50 coffee mug.

      Once in the bathroom applying her look—assertive lines of black kohl eyeliner and red lips—she heard her mother’s footsteps come shuffling down the hall.

      Buskers are awake. Guess I better go open the store and help them make some money, Dusty said with a yawn and a smile.

      Ma, why do you put up with those guys? They’re essentially panhandling for money right in front of your store. Which is, in case you forgot, a store that depends on you making actual money off the same people giving money to buskers.

      Dusty cocked her head to one side and said, Oh, Z, when are you gonna start calling me Dusty, like everyone else?

      Zara returned to penciling on her severe black eyeliner in the bathroom mirror. When hell freezes over.

      Dusty smoothed a hand over Zara’s sleek dark locks. You have such pretty hair. While Zara had a degree in economics, Dusty had a degree in non-sequiturs. Wanna let me put some Dutch milkmaid braids in it?

      Zara moved on to her lips. She turned two tubes of lipstick upside down and read the names of the shades. ¡Olé! and Red Flag. She was definitely feeling more ¡Olé! today.

      Thank you. Hard pass on the milkmaid look, she said with a smirk.

      Dusty shrugged. Suit yourself. She turned sideways in the mirror next to her daughter. Dusty had a pretty banging figure at 42. Bra or no bra today?

      Ma.

      Oh come on, Z.

      Ma, nobody wants to see your nipples. Especially not on my birthday.

      Dusty sucked in her belly. You know, for an economics major, you understand very little about what sells vinyl records to a bunch of old rock music junkies. Nipples, baby. Nipples.

      Zara blotted her lipstick and replied, And now I’m scarred for life. She snapped the cap back on the lipstick and dropped it into her makeup bag. OK. I’m gonna go open the shop. See you down there, slut.

      Anybody else’s mother would have been offended. Dusty was not anybody else’s mother. Dusty called after Zara, That’s my girl! Oh, Happy 21st birthday, by the way!

      Zara called over her shoulder from the front door as she slipped into her Union Jack Doc Martens, There’d better not be any cake; I’m off sugar!

      Dusty followed her into the great room and replied, You know, just because you’re in California doesn’t mean anybody wants to hear about your diet. Excuse me, ‘eating plan.’ Ooh, coffee. Thank you! And then a moment later she added, That’s was sarcasm. Everybody talks incessantly about their food plans these days, so you’ll fit right in here.

      Dusty gave her daughter a peck on the cheek. Love you so much, sweetheart. Thank you for coming back after graduation.

      Zara muttered but could not help the smile creeping across her lips. Love you too, bye!

      She headed downstairs and thought, At least I don’t have a typical Southern California commute to work. The storefront of Vinyl Vixen was literally underneath the walkup flat.

      However, after Zara exited the staircase that led to the side street, she realized she did have to walk right past the two-tone blond busker and his guitar. She took a deep breath, resolved to avoid conversation with any new hippies at all costs, and marched around the corner to Beach Avenue. She tightened her grip on the set of keys laced through her fingers as precautionary little spikes of self-defense. Not that she would likely have to use her keys as a weapon on a mild-mannered guitar-playing beach bum in Sea Grove. But, one never knew. Best-case scenario, he would get the hint that she didn’t want a new friend.

      But, when she came around the corner, the busker wasn’t there. That’s odd, she thought. Well, in my experience, they never stick around for long.

      And then all of a sudden, a man’s deep voice came out of nowhere. Walk of shame?

      Zara spun around. Excuse me?

      The blond hippie dude was standing there with two cups of coffee in his hands and his guitar slung over his shoulder. He was taller than she had expected. And hotter. Way, way hotter. He had deep, soulful brown eyes and a built, sun-kissed chest that peeked through the opening in that god-awful woven tunic. He looked like a chill, California version of a Viking.

      I’m sorry, he said. That was a joke.

      Zara shook her head and mumbled, Every-damn-body’s got jokes today.

      Uhh… the blond hippie man stammered. I dunno what to say to that…

      Zara raised an eyebrow. "I’m shocked. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just rocket right past the Walk of

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