Page 19 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

Kyle doesn’t react… mostly, but I can see a little tic in his cheek as my cut hits.

“Sorry,” I mutter, closing my eyes. “I feel like shit. I don’t drink much, hardly ever, so I overdid it last night and I’m taking my bad mood out on you.”

“It’s okay,” he answers, forgiving me easily. “You’ll feel better after you eat.”

He doesn’t mention the multiple other times this week, all of which had nothing to do with alcohol, where I was bitchy when dealing with him. It’s like those have all but been forgotten by him. At least for the moment.

When the waitress comes, he orders for us both. “Two Elvises, a glass of milk, a green tea with milk and sugar, and two waters. And a double side of bacon.” When the waitress rushes off to put our order in, he tells me, “You need water to stay hydrated, but the caffeine in the green tea will help with the headache. The bacon’s a personal fave, but if you want some, go right ahead.”

Normally, I’d bristle at being told what to do, especially since I’ve never had green tea like that, but arguing further at this point seems like overkill. And giving me permission to take some bacon? Definite points in his favor.

Maybe I should just keep my mouth closed until the pancakes get here? That’s probably a smart move or Kyle might leave me with the bill and no ride home. Hell, that might be his diabolical plan, anyway.

But it doesn’t seem like that’s the case. He’s relaxed, an arm stretched out along the back of the booth like he’s right at home in the out of the way, mom and pop diner, and he’s peering at me like we’re old friends, not new enemies.

“If you don’t usually drink, what made last night different?”

He knows. Of course, he does. The plan was to make his life as inconvenient as he’s made mine, and it worked… mostly. But in order to be too drunk to move Nessa’s car, we got started with the sauce way too early and then just kept going.

“Nessa,” I explain, taking a deep breath. “She takes care of her mom, and a night off for her is a rare occasion worthy of celebrating. So, we pulled out the hard stuff after a hard week for us both.” It’s the truth, just not all the truth.

He nods like he’s mulling that information over. "She must love her mom a lot to take care of her like that.” Of all the comments he can make, snarky or not, he sounds sincere, and he might even be complimenting Nessa some. It’s off-balancing.

“Well, yeah,” I answer, dumbfounded. “Of course she does. Wouldn’t you do that for your parents?”

He flinches like the question physically hurts. “Probably not,” he admits before adding, “Wouldn’t have to. One of my siblings would be the first, second, third, fourth, and fifth choice before that responsibility got down to me. Even then, my parents would probably opt for a nursing home over my taking care of them. I’m not exactly the family favorite.”

He chuckles like that’s supposed to be funny, but I can hear the bitterness in his voice. Some people hide their hurts behind humor, and too often, it works. But I can hear the difference in Kyle’s usual good-natured laugh and the harsh tone he has now.

“That’s sad,” I tell him honestly. “My parents aren’t the best, but I can’t imagine pawning them off to a nursing home and not taking care of them myself.”

I don’t tell Kyle this, but when my Papa was in the thick of his sickness and Mama was nearly killing herself to take care of him, I thought about moving in with them. But as much as I wanted to help, they’re too proud to admit they needed it. Instead, I resorted to ‘overcooking’ for the day so I could drop dinner by, and ‘trying out new recipes’ to feed them for the rest of the day. I think I went through a hundred ‘new wrinkles’ on food during that period.

I know my brother gave them some money, help I couldn’t provide, but I did what I could—cook for them, clean the house, and spend as much time as I could with them to make sure they were okay.

Kyle inhales deeply and says, “One of my sisters-in-law, Janey, works at a nursing home. She’s kind-hearted and smart as hell, and the place she works at has daily card games and monthly parties. They’d be looked after there. Hell, I’d live there if I could. All the pudding I can eat sounds like a sweet deal.”

He makes it sound like a resort, which I know it’s not, but for once in my life, I choose not to argue. “You have five brothers and sisters?” I ask instead. “That sounds like a lot.”

“Some days, it’s five too many,” he jokes, but then, more seriously, he adds, “Four brothers—three of whom are married—one sister, one niece, one nephew on the way, Mom and Dad, and a dog. You?”

He rattled it off like a football lineup, which I guess makes sense in his mind, but I’m still trying to make sense of a family that big. Quickly, I reply, “One brother, who’s married. One niece, one nephew, Mom, and Dad.” I don’t want to talk about my family, though. It’s a sore subject, and I’m not clear-headed enough to handle that right now. “What kind of dog?”

It's the right question to ask because he launches into a monologue about his beloved pooch. His blue eyes are bright with affection and his smile nearly radiant as he tells me about Peanut Butter, who not only is the color of the sandwich spread but also has an affinity for it, going so far as to steal the jar out of the pantry at every opportunity. He also apparently doesn’t mind for shit, runs nose-first at your crotch to greet you, and still charms everyone he meets.

By the time the waitress drops off our breakfast, I feel like I know not only more about the dog, but about Kyle.

Kyle runs a finger through the sticky yumminess that’s spread over his stack of pancakes. “He’ll know I’ve been cheating on him as soon as I get home,” he says wistfully before sticking his finger in his mouth, licking the peanut butter from the digit. “I can’t get anything past my boy.”

For some reason, his gesture sends heat through my whole body. I decide I’m having a hot flash, though I’m decades away from menopause, and hope I can squash it with a bite of my own breakfast. I don’t swipe my finger through it, instead going straight for my fork and a too-big bite. But as I start to chew, I moan. “Uhmagawd, thisa falicious!”

Kyle’s smile says he knows exactly what I said. “Told ya.”

He’s not bragging, not giving me a hard time, but rather seems pleased that I’m enjoying it. He waits for me to take another bite before picking up his big fork and digging into his own, not letting any honey or peanut butter escape. And he’s right, the pancakes, tea, and water do help with the hangover.

Not that I’d admit that, especially to him.

“Now for the super-secret, tastebud-bomb combo,” Kyle says, picking up two slices of bacon and crumbling them up, sprinkling the bits on top of his pancakes. “Feeling brave, Miss Becerra?”

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