Page 18 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

I don’t wait for her to answer. Knowing Nessa, she’ll start celebrating that the retooled version of my plan she concocted last night is working out. But mine did too—annoying Kyle and fucking up his day the way he keeps messing up mine.

Out front again, his eyes drop from my face, over my body, to my shoes, and back up again. He doesn’t even try to hide the slow perusal, but he nods approvingly. “Better.”

I match his action, letting my eyes drift down his body again before returning a hard-eyed glare to his eyes. “Still the same.”

He chuckles at the repeated insult. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

I don’t know what to say to that. I am prickly more often than not. It’s not because I want to be, but because I’ve had to be. Some might call it a defense mechanism. I call it survival.

He holds his helmet out, and I shake my head. “No, that’s yours. You wear it.”

His full lips press into a thin line. “Fuck that. I’m hard-headed and too stubborn to die if we crash. You’re wearing it or we’re not going. And do I need to remind you… fluffiest pancakes of your life.” He shoves the helmet another inch my way, and when I still don’t take it, he sets it on top of my head and pulls it onto me himself.

It must be the hangover because instead of fighting him off, I stand there and let him adjust it on my head, snug the strap firmly beneath my chin, and tap me on the head like a dog. “Good.”

When I move to climb on, he asks, “Have you ridden before?”

I nod, the helmet heavy. “Ex-boyfriend,” I explain, and I swear tension shoots through his shoulders.

“Good.” This time, the word is more of a growl, and he doesn’t sound like he means it. At all. “Hang on tight.”

I don’t want to. I’d rather slap the shit out of him, but I know if I’m timid about holding him, I could go flying off the back of the bike. So I chant, ‘pancakes, pancakes, pancakes’ and wind my arms around his waist, keeping my hands high over his abs and touching him as lightly as I dare.

“Keep reminding yourself that the pancakes will be worth it,” he recommends, and I realize I was saying my mantra aloud. But he sounds amused, not grumpy, so it’s a small step up. With a twist of his returned keys, a thumbed ignition, and a smooth shift into first gear, we’re off.

Unfortunately, I have to clasp him tightly as we speed away from my house and through the neighborhood, Kyle turning here and there like he knows exactly where he’s going. Then again, he has been coming to work here for days now, and it’s not like I live in an old-fashioned labyrinth.

I can feel the bumps of his washboard abs through his shirt, but I keep things as polite and professional as possible considering I’m straddling his back with my hands mere inches of decline away from his dick. Maybe even less depending on how big he is and whether he’s a grower or a shower. I think that’s what makes riding on a motorcycle so sexy. It’s basically foreplay—bodies pressed together, with what feels like a couple hundred horsepower rumbling roughly between your legs as you lean with each other like you’re one person. Not that I’m playing, fore or otherwise, with Kyle. He’s a means to an end—pancakes.

I have no idea where he’s taking me. His back is so wide that I can’t see a single thing in front of us, so instead of fighting for a view over his shoulder, I press my head against his back, close my eyes, and listen to the rushing thrum of my heartbeat inside the padded helmet. The cushioning closes off most of my hearing, and the cool morning air feels good on my face. After a while, it even feels relaxing, like a rare chance to simply exist in the moment, my constant stream of thoughts and to-dos drowned out by the roar of the bike and the road.

But then the bike starts swaying and I’m reminded of my alcohol-filled stomach. I try to breathe so I don’t puke and hold on tighter, as if Kyle is the stability I need to not lean so much, but he’s shifting back and forth too.

Eventually, we stop and he turns the machine off. I feel his back flex and realize how forcefully I’ve been pressing my head against his upper back. It must have been agonizing now that I think about it, but he didn’t say anything. He just accepted the weight of the helmet, and my tight grip around his waist, and rode like it was nothing.

“You okay?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned. “I tried to take it easy on ya. The switchbacks are usually fun, but probably not with a hangover.” He scratches at his lower lip with his thumb, like he’s reconsidering the last ten minutes of our ride.

Switchbacks? Yeah, that’s probably what did it. I bet he took that route on purpose to fuck with me.

I glare at him, not able to verbally crucify him the way he deserves right now. “Feed me,” I grunt, sounding like a bossy troll. Taking the helmet off myself isn’t easy—the plastic buckle is stiff as hell—but I manage.

Kyle takes it from me, hooking it over the handlebar with a little smirk that seems different from his earlier ones. “Yes, ma’am.”

He helps me off the bike, opens the diner door, and leads me into a small, brightly-lit restaurant that smells like heaven. And butter, which in my educated opinion is pretty much the same thing. I’d know, given how much of my life I spend in front of a stove, oven, and grill. Your abuela might say all good food starts with love, but she’s wrong. All good food starts with one thing… butter.

As we walk in, a waitress, who’s busy running two armfuls of plates to various tables, calls out, “Sit anywhere and I’ll be with you shortly.”

Kyle leads me to a booth, waits for me to sit, then sits across from me. It’s a little surprising. I wouldn’t have expected him to be this gentlemanly. But he’s definitely showing signs of it by helping with the helmet, holding open the door, and now, handing me the menu. It’s a teeny-tiny tally mark in the good column, but it does little to balance out all the anger-filled tallies on the bad side.

“They have a bunch of options, but my favorite is the Elvis version,” Kyle says conversationally. “I know it sounds disgusting—peanut butter, banana, and honey—but it’s so good. Damn near orgasmic.”

He says it casually, but my body reacts like he promised more than carby goodness. “Fine,” I reply as if I’m not already starting to drool. And I’m not talking about in my mouth. “But if they suck, I’m blaming you.”

I’ve been called bitchy before. Too many times to count, actually. Usually, I chalk it up to guys who expect me to be subservient, which I’m not. At all. But I’ve never felt bitchy until right now, as the words leave my mouth with a lot more acid on them than they should.

I’m not fighting for survival here. I’m being flat-out rude.

Kyle’s brought me to a place he enjoys, recommended a favorite, which does actually sound delicious, so of course I respond by snapping back with a snide, hateful response when my body’s reaction to his voice isn’t his fault.

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