Page 1 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

CHAPTER 1

DANI

Knock, knock.

The banging on the door isn’t a surprise. I’ve been listening for it for at least thirty-two and a half minutes, because Nessa is never late. I’ve run down the emotional spectrum from ‘she’ll be here any minute’ to ‘where is she?’ to ‘getchur ass here now’ to ‘what if she’s dead in a ditch somewhere?’, never mind the fact that there aren’t ditches anywhere near this part of town.

“Where the hell’ve you been?” I ask as I throw a towel over my shoulder and rip the door open with a smile. She’s here, and that’s all that matters now.

Nessa busts in, intentionally shouldering me out of the way like a linebacker with her armfuls of paper bags as if the delay were my fault. “Don’t you dare start with me. Take these so I can get the rest,” she clips out as she shoves my daily grocery delivery toward me.

Reflexively, I wrap my arms around the bags, and she spins on one tennis-shoed toe to return to her car for more bags. Too shocked at her unusual snappiness to really shoot back a quick reply, I decide to give her grace and instead huff out my own frustration as I haul the bags to the kitchen, where I plop them on the table in the middle of the room that serves double duty as my island and prep station.

A moment later, Nessa follows, barging in behind me with another load of bags, which she drops onto the table next to the others with a clang and a grunt. The clang is the bag. The grunt is Nessa. “Two trips’ worth of groceries? Are you for real, girl?” I don’t have to look her way to see the side eye she’s shooting me because it’s entirely audible in her tone.

“Needed what I needed,” I answer, unpacking my much-considered—and again, late—groceries as quickly as I can. I need to start chopping, pronto, because I should’ve been doing that… I peek at the clock… thirty-eight minutes ago.

Nessa doesn’t want my answer anyway because after barely catching her breath, she continues to complain, throwing her now-empty hands this way and that. “First, the store was a freaking madhouse. For why? Who the hell knows because no one should be shopping at seven in the morning. The sun’s barely up! Not like they’re giving away free samples of the good stuff or having a two-for-one deal on toilet paper.” She points toward my neighbor’s house. “Second, that shit over there is ridonkulous. What in the hell is that lady—and I’m using the word loosely—up to now? And of equal importance, how can we get back at her for it? I’ve got my petty confetti ready to throw, just say the word.”

It's not funny, like at all, but a small laugh escapes at Nessa’s neck-rolling, finger-snapping, lip-curling indignation on my behalf. She’s a good friend, and everyone knows the number-one rule of friendship is, the enemy of my bestie is my enemy too. Also known as, I hate who you hate and will back your play on cutting a bitch at the knees and keeping that shit on lockdown if asked about it later.

Well, maybe that’s just us? But either way, Nessa hates my neighbor almost as much as I do. To be fair, it’s absolutely, one hundred percent warranted.

Kathy Wilson—aka The Bitch Next Door, or TBND—moved into my neighborhood about eighteen months ago. Okay, maybe it isn’t ‘my’ neighborhood, but I’ve been here long enough and keep things real enough that the old timers respect me as one of their own. Unlike TBND. When she moved in, she was well aware that it’s what’s politely called a ‘transitional’ area. We’re a few streets outside of the downtown square, with narrow and uneven streets, and every property is at least seventy-five years old, which makes for some odd neighbors. One lot will have a tiny, rundown house like mine, and right next door will be a two-story, historical home that’s been fully renovated in recent years, like Kathy’s.

To be fair, the real estate agent definitely didn’t bring her around during my rush hours of lunch service, but she knew the neighborhood, and despite knowing exactly what she was getting into when she bought her house, she hasn’t stopped TBND from trying to make my life a living hell.

First, she tried to start a homeowners’ association, claiming it would beautify the area. People saw through that real quick and shut it down in a hurry when she mentioned yard mowing schedules, holiday light permissions, and hiding unsightly eyesores like children’s backyard playsets. I have no doubt she would’ve also included backyard grills in her eyesore category because she definitely seems to hate mine.

Second, while we don’t have ordinances against home businesses, she spent an ungodly amount of time bitching about mine at the monthly city council meetings. They finally told her that there was nothing they could do under the existing guidelines, and for a bit, I was afraid she’d decide to run for office and make the rules herself, as a board member. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened, though I’m sure it’s still a possibility in her mind.

Third, there are no laws about commercial trucks driving down the road, despite her pleas (and likely contributions) to our representative in the State House. Besides, the vehicles that come down our street aren’t technically commercial. They’re big trucks for sure, even some long-bed dually trucks, and lots with trailers, but ‘commercial’ is a DMV classification that even Kathy can’t change.

She’s been thwarted at every turn, except one… loudly bitching at me and my customers to the point of daily uncomfortable confrontations.

But I won’t let her stop me.

I didn’t grow up with the goal of opening a home-based, to-go lunch business. No, my plan was to work in my family’s restaurant, helping my father with the daily flood of blue-collar workers who rushed in, slammed down food, and scurried out to continue the afternoon’s work. Our food and our recipes were honest, tasty, filling, and most importantly to our customers, inexpensive.

All that changed when Papa got sick, and rather than letting me run the restaurant the way I suggested, he decided to close it instead, putting us all out of a job.

Customers mourned, of course, but people always need to eat, so they moved on. Especially since hard-working guys require a lot of food. Every day. They especially need it at prices they can afford, from people they trust.

So, while I was pissed as a wet chicken at Papa, I quickly decided that I was the perfect person to fill that void. And I’ve done it in my own way.

By getting my home kitchen licensed as a cottage operation, I can cook for the masses each day, providing hearty, delicious, homemade meals that keep them working on full stomachs while bringing in enough income for me to pay my bills.

Although it seems to have pissed my neighbor off. But since she’s not the one paying my mortgage, I try to ignore her as best I can. Including today, when she’s part two of the reason Nessa is so late with my delivery.

I glare at the clock again, cursing how fast the minutes are slipping away.

I started cooking over an hour ago because my first pickup is usually at nine a.m. Thankfully, there are only a few crews that swing by that early, though. Most of the guys come closer to noon, lining up down the street from eleven until one for their daily lunches. The lineup is the problem, annoying Kathy on a good day or making her stomping, hollering livid on a bad one.

Because of course it does. Everything irritates her. She even complains about the squirrels and birds, for fuck’s sake. Not their noise, but that they supposedly chew on the wood trim of her house. I’ve seen birds and squirrels do all sorts of weird behaviors around the neighborhood, including playing chicken with the cars that speed down the street when it’s not blocked by my customers, but I’ve yet to see them chewing on someone’s trim. There’s more than enough other things to eat around here.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” I tell Nessa, loading an onion into my chopper and slamming the lever down to start making fresh pico de gallo. I glance up to make sure she’s listening before I share the information I got from spying into Kathy’s back yard, first from my kitchen window and then from my back patio where I didn’t even pretend to not be watching with eagle eyes. “She’s getting a pool!”

“Huh?” Nessa asks.

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