"He's troubled," my mother says, as she applies another coat of mascara to her lashes. She's half-bent over the vanity in her room, wearing a dress that's cut down her lower back, barely covering her rear, garish and more appropriate for a twenty-year-old than for her. Sometimes I think that my launch to stardom just gave her a reason to relive her youth. That's been doubly true since she met the Colonel.

At least the Colonel is somewhat responsible, better than the sperm donors that fathered my sister and I. Fathered is hardly the right word. They haven't been involved with us since they did the deed and left my mother. The Colonel might be okay. He's stiff as a board and doesn't smile much. And he makes everyone call him the Colonel, even though he's not in the Army anymore. So those are reasons to dislike him.

On the other hand, he does occupy my mother's time, gives her a distraction from micro-managing my life and career. So that's definitely a reason to love him.

But my mother and I aren't talking about the Colonel. We're discussing the Colonel's son Hendrix, who is tattooed and angry and the most gorgeous boy I've ever laid eyes on. "What do you mean, he's troubled?"

My mother gives me a long look, and for a second, I'm afraid she can read my mind, that she can see the very inappropriate thoughts I've had about Hendrix, that she can somehow sense the rush I get when I hear his name. I try to sound casual, nonchalant when I ask about him, try to give no indication of my curiosity.

My mother waves her hand dismissively and sighs. "You saw him, Addison," she says. "Tattoos and…well, anyway, you saw him."

Yes, I did see him. Hendrix Cole looks like trouble with a capital T.

Why does the thought of that thrill me?

* * *

I stare at the menu, trying not to look at Hendrix, especially since I can feel his gaze on me without even glancing up. My body is still warm where his hands were when he carried me out of the building, and the thought of his arms around me sends a trail of goose bumps over my skin.

My cell phone vibrates, and I scroll through my unchecked messages, all about last night. Five from Jared the ex-boyfriend, none of which even apologize for getting a blow job from a redhead in the bathroom of the club. Two from my friend Sapphire: "OMG what a FUCKING TRIP. Sry @ Jared. U kno he's a player. U need 2 have revenge sex." One from Ada: "Sorry you had a fight. Jared will get over it."

Jared will get over it? He's the one with his cock in some other girl's mouth, and he's the one who'll get over it?

I put my phone in airplane mode. Screw Jared - and my so-called friends with their crappy advice. A waitress arrives at the table, and she stares at me for a minute, chewing her gum loudly. She taps her nametag, Beatrice, with the eraser end of her pencil, before directing the pencil at me, her eyes narrowed. "Anyone ever tell you that you look like that singer, Addison Stone?" It sounds more like an accusation than a question.

Hendrix peers over the edge of his menu. "Does she? I can't see the resemblance."

"She lives in Nashville, you know," the waitress says with a shrug. "That's what I've heard. I've never seen her around here, so it's probably not true. She seems more like a Hollywood type anyway."

"I've heard she's a huge diva," Hendrix says, and I kick him hard under the table.

"Anyway. Y'all ready to order, or what? I've got someone waiting for a to-go order. You want your usual?"

His usual?

Hendrix holds up his fingers. "Two," he says, taking my menu from my hands before I can protest. "And coffees."

Beatrice doesn't answer, just strides across the room, headed toward the cash register.

"You think maybe I wanted to decide on my own food?" I ask.

Hendrix shrugs. "Why, so you can order some low-fat egg white thing and vegetables?"

"You don't know that's what I was going to order."

He laughs. "Sure you weren't," he says. "I bet you're eating steak and eggs every morning. That's why you're skin and bones."

"You're so annoying. I'm hardly skin and bones. Two weeks ago, the tabloids said I was too fat." I glare at him.

"They're blind. You need some food."

He's so infuriating, bossing me around five seconds after showing back up in my life, but I know better than to bother arguing with him. "Why did she ask if you wanted your usual?"

"She wanted to know if I wanted the same thing I order every time I come here."

I exhale, exasperated, and throw a packet of sugar across the table at him. "Yes, I understand what 'the usual' means. You know what I'm asking. How long have you been back in Nashville?"

Hendrix gives me a long look. "Six months."

"What?" He's been back in Nashville for six months and I'm only just finding out about it now? Not that I'd want him to show up on my doorstep or anything. Not after the things he said about me right before he left. I remind myself that I hate him. But doing that is harder than I thought when he's sitting across from me, looking at me the way he is right now.

Like he's hungry and I'm what's on the menu.

"Did you miss me?" he asks, grinning.

"Oh my God, you're still as arrogant as you've always been," I note. "I've had a lot of stuff going on, in case you didn't notice. My world doesn't revolve around you."

"It used to," Hendrix says softly.

I feel my cheeks flush warm, and I open my mouth to respond, but Beatrice chooses that exact moment to set two cups of coffee down with a ker-thunk. The liquid spills over the rims of the mugs, pooling onto the table, but she's gone without a word. I soak up the mess with a napkin, grateful for the distraction. I'd forgotten what a complete and utter jackass my stepbrother used to be -- clearly, he's still just as arrogant as ever. "I don't know what you're implying," I say, my tone imperious, "But if you think my world ever revolved around you, you're completely delusional."

"That's right," he says. "You used to despise me."

"Used to?" I ask, reaching for the basket of sweetener on the table. Hendrix grabs it before I do and slides it just out of my reach. "Hey, I need one of those for my coffee."

Hendrix tosses a packet of sugar at me. "Don't tell me you're still harboring old grudges," he says.

"I'm not harboring anything," I say, sighing. Why does Hendrix have the ability to put me on edge so easily? "Will you just give me the sweetener? I don't use this sugar."

"A little sugar would do you some good, sweet cheeks," he says, giving me a long look. Why is it that everything he says sounds like an innuendo?

The truth is, a little sugar probably would do me some good. It's not like I've had any luck in that department lately. The ex-boyfriend wasn't exactly a winner when it came to sex. Probably because he was too busy getting it from other girls.

Hendrix finally relents, sliding the basket of sweeteners across the table, and I rip open a packet. "You never answered the question," he says.

"What question was that?" I ask. "The one where you asked if some sugar would do me any good?"

"No," Hendrix says. "The one where I asked if you're still harboring an old grudge."

I shrug. "Can't harbor something you never cared about to begin with."

I'm lying. Hendrix was the biggest dick ever, but especially in the months before he left for the Marines, when he apparently decided he was just too cool to hang out with the wholesome little country singer. But that didn't erase the months before that, when we became close friends. And all that time I fantasized about being more than just friends. And that one time, when he kissed me, when we were much more than just friends.

But Hendrix Cole's sugar is exactly the last thing on God's green earth I need to be thinking about now, after what just happened with the record label.

"Well, I was a dickhead," Hendrix says.

"Past tense?" I ask.

"You know, all the shit I gave you, I never --" Hendrix clears his throat and leans forward, his forearms on the table. But, with perfect timing, the waitress interrupts him again.

"Well, now, I've got your eggs and bacon and sausage and biscuits right here," she says, setting the plates down in front of us and dropping a jar of syrup on the table in the middle of the array of plates.

"You eat all of this every time you come here?" I stare at the pile of food in disbelief. "I'm not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed."

"Now, hang on," Beatrice says. "That's not all of it. I didn't have enough room on the tray for everything, so I'll be back with the pancakes and pie." She flounces off.

"Did she say pancakes and pie?"

Hendrix grins. "They have good pie," he says.

"Who eats pie for breakfast? And who eats pancakes and pie?"

"I can have pie with breakfast. I'm an adult."

"You sure could have fooled me," I say, taking a long gulp of my coffee. I don't know whether I believe there's a new and improved grown-up Hendrix lurking under that muscled exterior.

But Beatrice brings the pancakes and the pie, and I suddenly realize I'm ravenous. We dig into the food and Hendrix is Hendrix -- inappropriate and stupid -- and soon I'm forgetting everything that's passed between us, and I'm laughing so hard I snort coffee up my nose, which makes me laugh even harder. It feels good to laugh. It's been a long time since I laughed the way I'm laughing now.

And then we're finished eating before I remember that I've forgotten to ask what the hell the plan is here.

* * *

"Well, fuck me sideways," Hendrix says, whistling as he stands in the foyer to the apartment and looks around.

"You're very classy."

Hendrix shrugs. "I don't know if you've noticed, but I've never pretended to be classy, sweet cheeks."

"Stop calling me that," I say, shutting the door. "It's too – "

I pause. I want to say that it's too much like something a pet name a boyfriend would use, but just the thought of equating Hendrix with my boyfriend makes my heart race, and I don't know why.

"It's too what?" he asks. "I can't just call you Addy all the time. What would be the fun in that?"

I roll my eyes. "I call you Hendrix."

"That's because you're boring."

"Whatever. I'm a music star. As if you're more interesting than I am."

Hendrix laughs, and as annoyed as I am with him, the sound immediately fills the room with warmth. "Sure you are, sugar tits."

"That's a much worse nickname."

"Well, I told you to be happy with sweet cheeks." Hendrix walks across the living room, pulling back the blinds by the window and peering outside, then surveying the room like he's on a mission. I watch him for a minute, before following him into the kitchen and down the hallway.

"Need help with anything?" I ask, not even trying to hide my sarcasm. I was playing nice before, but he's basically invited himself into my apartment and now he's walking around like he owns the damn place.

"Nope." Hendrix peers inside one of the bedrooms.

"That wasn't an offer," I say. "I was being sarcastic. Most people don't just poke their noses around someone else's house. Most people say, oh you have a lovely home, why yes, I'd love a cup of coffee, and then they sit their asses down on the sofa and have a cup of coffee. Or whatever."

Hendrix turns around to face me, and I inhale sharply at his proximity. He smells like soap and aftershave, something clean, with just the hint of cologne I can't quite place. It's woodsy and manly and…I can't help it, I breathe in his scent deeply. Suddenly, I'm some kind of weirdo that goes around sniffing men.

I hope Hendrix didn't notice. How would I explain that? Sorry, I was just inhaling your scent? I promise I don't keep a lock of your hair under my pillow.

I haven't gotten enough sleep. That's what it is. I must be losing my mind.

"You're vulnerable," Hendrix says, looking down at me. His voice is deep, ragged, and electricity runs through my body at the sound, making me jump just as if he had touched me.

"Ex – excuse me?" I choke out the words.

"This apartment," he says. "You're vulnerable to a security breach. Do you know that? Has my dad had this place checked out?"

I exhale heavily. "This place is vulnerable."

"Yeah," he says, stepping back from me. He's already down the hall before I catch my breath again. "What did you think I meant?"

"I don't need security," I call after him, following him into one of the bedrooms. "I don't want security. I'm not a rock star. This is Nashville, not LA."

"You've had crazy fans. I remember some of them."

"That was back in the beginning, Hendrix. When I was a kid." I'd had some obsessive fans here and there, and some that were mentally ill, like the woman who showed up at our house because she swore I was her granddaughter.

"It doesn't stop because you're older, Addy," he says. His voice is softer, and he looks at me now with an expression I can't quite place. "You need to be careful. You have to stay safe."

"I'm fine. I don't want a babysitter," I say. I make my voice firm. I try to sound sure of myself. "Especially you, of all people."

Hendrix narrows his eyes, and the muscles in his face ripple as he clenches his jaw. "What the hell is that supposed to mean, me of all people?"

What was it supposed to mean? "All of this...the meeting, you as my bodyguard...was just thrown at me," I say, my voice a lot steadier now. "I don't want you here."

"Well, I've got news for you, Addison," he says, his eyes steady, trained on mine. "I didn't particularly want to be here either."

"Then why are you here, bothering me?"

Hendrix pulls one of the corners of his mouth up in a smirk. "Well, hell, I didn't realize that's all it took to bother you," he says. "But you want to really see me bothering you, I'll try a little harder."

I feel like sticking my tongue out at him, but that would be especially juvenile. Instead I roll my eyes and sigh. "Whatever."

Hendrix laughs. "Whatever," he says. "That's an awesome comeback."

"I don't know what our parents promised you, but I can tell you I don't need you."

Hendrix leans forward, his mouth close to my ear, and when he speaks, it's a whisper that sends a shiver reverberating down my body. I'm not sure if the shiver is due to anger or arousal. "Oh, let's not kid ourselves. You need me, Addy-girl," he says, using the name he used to call me. Addy-girl. It makes me feel like I'm sixteen again.

Sixteen and wide-eyed and positive, still eager and learning about the industry. Before I started feeling world-weary.

Before Hendrix left and I spent the next five years wondering if he was okay or if he was going to die in Afghanistan.

I shake off the feeling. I refuse to remember how I used to feel about Hendrix. I won't.

Hendrix's voice, low and gravelly in my ear, breaks through my thoughts. "Too bad if you think you don't," he says. "Because I'm back. And I'm not going anywhere."

It takes all the strength I have to tear myself away from Hendrix when I feel pulled toward him by a practically magnetic force. I don't say anything, because I can't think of anything to say. Instead, I take the oh-so-mature route. I just walk down the hallway and shut my bedroom door behind me. The sound reverberates through the cavernous penthouse apartment, an echoing thud that has an air of finality.

The problem is, I think as I sink onto my bed, absolutely nothing is closed between Hendrix and I. I've spent the last five years trying to convince myself it was. And now, it takes one look from him and it's reopened, as if I just saw him yesterday.

Leaning back and closing my eyes, I try to stifle the flood of memories that comes rushing back – and the more than mixed feelings I have about seeing Hendrix again.