Quentin Carmody didn’t do early mornings, heights or bossy women.

As an ex-footballer, sometimes surfer and wannabe rock star, Quentin had been fucked by cheerleaders, surfer girls and groupies, but he had never, ever been fucked like that.

She frowned, and the effect was so pretty he wondered if he was going mad. Why did he find this cranky, kooky woman so damned appealing? He knew for a fact he could go out tonight and drag home some hot, willing chick who would stroke his ego and never argue with him about anything. He closed his eyes and remembered just how good that felt. Willing women; god bless them.

He shook his head at her question. Did women really think men cared about that stuff? Did he care if she did this all the time? Definitely, definitely not. He could honestly say he did not give a flying fuck whether this girl dragged guys home every other day to have her way with them for seven hours. He was just glad as hell she’d decided to do it with him. Today. And hopefully maybe again. Sometime.

Quentin had told Spike that inking ‘percussion’ across yourknuckles was kind of lame. It takes more than ten letters to makea badass knuckle tattoo. That was the problem with drummers.They didn’t listen. But they always seemed to get laid anyway.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time, a sure-fire way to impress this girl, who was as cute as hell but wound tighter than one of his father’s antique clocks.

Quentin wasn’t stupid, despite living what his father called ‘a lifestyle unworthy of yourself’.

Quentin flicked a quick glance back at her again. Poppy. This girl had the wrong name. She should have been Rose. Great face, lots of prickles.