Page 17 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

Cracking one eye, I glare at him as if he’s the devil himself. And what does Mr. Loud and Annoying do? He laughs. If he wants to be childish, so can I. I stomp closer, right next to him before reaching to the middle of his handlebars and twisting the keys, switching the engine off myself and yanking the keys out of the slot.

“Hey!” he shouts. “Hands off!”

Guys are like that, I’ve learned. They’ll lose their shit if you dare to touch any of their stuff. But using your favorite cast-iron skillet to make pizza rolls? You can’t get mad about that, or else you’re being a bitch.

And yes, that actually happened to me once and I kicked that boyfriend out of my kitchen, house, and life—in that order—before those little snacks could pop and start leaking their tomatoey filling onto my good pan. I finished that particular incident by throwing barely-thawed pizza rolls, one by one, at the raging, now ex-boyfriend. Got him in the forehead with two before he left, calling me a ‘psycho’ as he peeled out of my driveway. Little did he know, a true psycho would’ve hit him with the frying pan, not the pizza rolls, so he got off easy.

Kyle’s voice is like a needle piercing my eardrum, and I slap my hand over his mouth, pressing hard. “Be quiet. Please,” I beg, my own voice barely above a whisper. And that’s still too loud.

He pulls his head back and twists away from my hand, grinning widely as he taunts, “Feeling extra-good this morning, are we?”

I shoot him a ‘that’s a stupid question’ look, and he grins even more, all too aware that even when he’s not saying anything, he’s still digging sharp skewers into my brain with nothing more than that blinding-white, cocky smile in the middle of his tanned, too-pretty face.

“What if I told you I know a top-secret, sure-fire cure-all for hangovers?” Kyle teases, lowering his voice by half but still looking infuriatingly arrogant. But the carrot he’s dangling is dangerous… and tempting, if only because I feel like there’s an echo in my head when I talk, and the sound of the bike’s engine is still vibrating in my ears.

“If you say ‘my dick’, I will cut it off and throw it in my handy-dandy food chopper,” I vow, making a slamming motion like I’m lowering the lever on the kitchen tool I use every morning for my onions and peppers. He silently laughs like that’s a joke, but I’m dead-serious and absolutely, one hundred percent, mean it.

“Damn, no need for all that. I was actually gonna say something helpful.” He looks like he’s second-guessing that kindness now.

Not sure I believe him, but desperate for relief, I skeptically ask, “What? Anything that’ll help.”

“Hot, fresh, greasy diner food. Best in the entire area.” He pats the seat behind him. “Hop on and I’ll show you.”

A bark of laughter escapes before I can stop myself, and the resulting pain has me hissing and glaring at him like it’s his fault for suggesting something so ridiculous. “Does that actually work for you? Like you tell women ‘hop on’ and they get on your bike?”

He shrugs, not answering, which is answer enough.

Truthfully, I’m not surprised. A guy like Kyle probably can give some women a jerk of his chin in invitation, and they’d be hurrying over, throwing a leg over his bike and then later, over him for a different type of ride. But that’s not me. “Fuck you.”

“Not offering that,” Kyle replies easily. “Especially after that stunt you pulled yesterday. But maybe we can call a momentary truce so I can help? You really do look like shit.”

I blink at his bluntness, wanting to tell him to fuck off, but at the same time, I instinctively reach to smooth my hair, swipe at my face, and straighten my clothes. I haven’t looked in a mirror this morning, so I can only guess what I look like, but I’m guessing my pajama pants with paw prints all over them, oversized black T-shirt with bleach stains, and bare face aren’t exactly my best.

Kyle holds up a hand, proclaiming peace. “I mean, I’m sure you clean up good and all, but whatever you were drinking last night… yeah, not the best choice.”

Hands on my hips, I snap, “Well, what’s your excuse?” I look him up and down, frowning and crinkling my nose like he’s the one who looks awful. Except he looks good. Sexy good, good enough to smear on some toast and gobble up in the morning. He’s obviously freshly washed up, with clear skin and bright eyes. He’s wearing his work boots, but his jeans are dark wash and have never seen a jobsite, and his T-shirt fits across his chest like a hug, reminding me of the tiny barbells through his nipples. Even his hair, which should be a mess from the helmet, is sexily tousled, not a rat’s nest, which isn’t fair.

Why would the hair gods favor him over me?

Futilely, I push a stray lock behind my ear and lash out like my hangover is his fault. Because it is. If he hadn’t screwed up my whole week, Nessa and I could’ve had a pizza and pedicure spa night instead of a drink and shrink one, where we played drunk therapist for each other. “Let me guess, you went home and drank a twelve-pack on your own, cursing me the whole time until you fell asleep in your ratty recliner, only to wake up and decide you were gonna fuck with me in new ways on the only day off I have.”

Instead of responding to my oddly specific insults, Kyle teases, “Did I mention this secret spot I know has the fluffiest pancakes you’ll ever have in your life?”

Ooh, that’s a hard one.

Pancakes? He’s bringing out the big guns, and apparently, Kyle knows my culinary kryptonite, because that’s all it takes to push me over the edge. I’m a cheap slut for carbs, but I can’t care right now. I hold up a finger, taking a deep breath of surrender. “Give me one minute to get dressed, and if these pancakes don’t live up to expectations, I’ll file a permit complaint with the city.”

I know what a hassle that’d be for him, so it’s no idle threat. But Kyle just nods, smiling like he’s proud of me… for coming or for the threat, I’m not sure.

Except then he leans forward and says, “Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…” He raises a sharply arched brow, and I whirl, running for the house.

But I stop before getting three-quarters of the way across my yard because jogging is not a good idea on an empty stomach or with a headache. I glance back over my shoulder to find him fighting back laughter at my predicament.

Inside, I quickly trade my PJ pants for the first pair of jeans I find, yank a T-shirt over my head, and put on tennis shoes. I blindly and expertly pull my hair into two tight, low buns for what I know will be a windy ride, splash cold water on my face, swish some mouthwash, and put on deodorant.

That’s it. I’m not dressing up for Kyle or for breakfast. But making myself minimally appropriate to be out in public seems warranted. I don’t even glance in the mirror. That’s how ‘don’t give a fuck’ I am, I tell myself. But deep down, I might be a little scared of what Kyle saw when I came barreling out the door today.

The one brain cell that’s still working reminds me to tell Nessa where I’m going in case I end up on the side of a milk carton. Snagging my wallet and phone, I quickly type out, Breakfast with Kyle. He bribed me with pancakes bc I feel awful. You okay?

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