Flowers in Her Hair by Liza Mitchell

She’s one hell of a free spirit and he’s determined to catch her…
“I know who you are. And I couldn’t care less,” she answered. Her eyes bore into his, silently challenging him. He knew his bandmates would have flipped their shit over a chick saying something like that to them. To Wilson, it sent a charge through his body.
He leaned toward her and whispered conspiratorially, “This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me your name.”
She mirrored him and came close, bringing her face just inches from his. She smelled like campfire and clover fields and patchouli, like a wild woman. She looked like a wild woman too—her hair hung to her waist in messy, careless waves, and strands of white flowers, picked from the field, were woven throughout her curls. There wasn’t a stitch of makeup on her face, and her wrists were layered with bracelets that clinked as she moved.
Her breath rolled across his cheeks in gentle puffs. “This is the part where you learn the tough life lesson that you don’t always get what you want.”
Oh man, did he want her. Maybe he was an entitled rock star who only wanted what he couldn’t have. Or maybe she was the first person in a long time to say no. He loved a challenge. When was that last time he actually had to actually seduce a girl?
He couldn’t even remember.