Page 31 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

“Afriend?” I echo in confusion.

I’ve never been friends with a guy. Hell, I’ve barely been friends with other women. Too busy, too prickly, too broke to do anything or go anywhere, I’m not exactly on anyone’s short list of fun. Nessa and I have those things in common, which is why we work so well as friends.

But Kyle and me?

I don’t think what I feel about him is friendly. In alternating moments, I either want to kill him with my bare hands or fuck him until we pass out in exhausted pleasure. That doesn’t seem like any friendship I know.

But tonight has been fun. Working alongside each other, we’ve finished what would’ve taken me all evening in only a couple of hours, and I enjoyed our conversation, even though it was about a topic that’s hard for me to talk about.

I hum as if I’m considering his proposal, cocking my head and peering at him like I’m measuring his friend-ability on some meter that only exists in my mind. In response, he leans back against the sink and crosses his arms over his thick chest and one leg over the other at the ankle. His icy blue eyes stare right back at me, a glint of arrogance dancing in their depths. “Well, what do you say?”

“I don’t exactly have a lot of options,” I hedge. “Just Nessa… and you. And she’s never called me a bitch, kissed me, and then told me I need to get fucked.” I hold up three fingers as I make the accusations.

He flashes that cocky grin of his because I absolutely just admitted to being way more affected by that night—and him—than I probably should’ve.

“Sounds like she’s not a very good friend,” he teases before leaning forward to push one of my fingers down, “and to be clear, I didn’t say you needed to get fucked. I said you needed orgasms. The two are not the same, though I can see why you’d go straight to sex.” He runs his hand over his chest like he knows those piercings are my weakness, letting his gaze turn heated and his voice go husky. “Friendship doesn’t have to preclude that, though.”

He's not pushing, but he’s letting me know clearly that he’s open to whatever I am. I think that’s how Kyle lives his life—open to the possibilities. It’s an intriguing approach, one I’ve never had the luxury of experiencing since I fight so damn hard just to make it through every single day. But even being this close to Kyle’s light makes me feel like I’m circling the sun. Potentially getting a Vitamin D infusion, but also possibly getting burnt to a crisp.

“Yeah, I could probably take things to the next level with Nessa,” I muse, looking off as though considering the idea.

He laughs good-naturedly, knowing I’m joking. “Two friends is two more than some people get. What more do you need, then?” As he poses the question, he throws his arms out, as if he’s a prize and he knows it.

I need a lot of things.

I need my family to quit trying to marry me off to the first available man with a steady job. I need my business to thrive so I can pay my bills and prove to myself that I could’ve successfully run the restaurant if Papa had let me. I need the price of meat to stay where it is, or even better, go on sale next week. I need a shower. I need another kiss so good that the world completely stops for a moment. I need a kiss that makes me consider doing something for myself, even if it’s ridiculously selfish. I need orgasms that’ll make my body so boneless that I don’t feel the exhaustion that’s so normal to me that I can’t remember a time when it didn’t exist in the background of my consciousness.

“I need… dinner,” I finally say. “You?”

I told Kyle I wouldn’t feed him or his crew lunch as long as he’s working for Kathy. Feeding him dinner after he helped me with the dishes seems reasonable enough, though.

Kyle groans, the sound vibrating in his chest. “Do you have any of that brisket—or whatever you made today—left? It smelled delicious.” His eyes are filled with boyish hope that makes me smile.

“I might,” I tease. “Rice and beans, too.”

Kyle looks as though I promised him the winning lottery numbers.

Rather than feeling good about putting that excitement on his face, there’s a pang in my gut. Am I seriously going to warm him up a plate the way I judged Mara for doing for Xavier? The way I judge Mama for doing for Papa? Despite all my arguments, am I stepping right into the caretaking role I’ve fought against?

“Woman, you are speaking my love language. Let’s do it,” Kyle cheers, not helping my internalized struggle.

What does help is… him.

Kyle doesn’t sit down at the table, expecting me to serve him. He helps himself to my cabinets, opening one after the other. “Where are your dishes? Ah, here they are,” he says as he spies the stack of thrift store plates I was so excited to find because it was a whole set—matching dinner plates, saucers, and bowls, all with pretty red flowers. Kyle pulls out two large plates, setting them on the counter. “I’ve got serving spoons and forks already. And no worries, I’ll rewash them after we eat so you can close the kitchen for the night.”

That right there. His awareness of what has to be done before I can guiltlessly fall into bed tonight is what sends me over the edge into action. Kyle doesn’t want me to wait on him hand and foot. He wants to have dinner with me, working side by side, doing it all together.

“You thought it smelled good? Wait till you eat it.” I’m fully confident in my food. Mama and Papa might irritate me, but they definitely taught me how to cook like a beast. There’s a reason guys line up for my food, and it’s not because it’s cheap or convenient. Well, not just. It’s because it’s delicious.

Warming the food up doesn’t take long, and in minutes, we’re sitting down at the table with steaming plates in front of us. Kyle closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, and then starts to whisper.

Is he praying?

But then I hear his quiet words, “Don’t shovel it in like you haven’t eaten in days. Go slow, enjoy each bite. And for the love of fuck, don’t chew with your mouth open.”

I bark out a surprised laugh. That sounds more like what I expected from him. “You don’t need fancy manners to eat at my table,” I tell him, already taking my first big bite. There’s no shame in my game. I’m hungry after a long day’s work, so delicate nibbles and putting my fork down between bites isn’t how I roll.

“Thank fuck,” he sighs. Despite looking ready to attack the plate, he scoops up a reasonably-sized bite on his fork and slips it into his mouth. If I hadn’t seen him do that, I’d be worried he was jacking off beneath the table because the moan he lets out is that sexual-sounding. “Holy shit, Dani. This is amazing.” The words are said around a second mouthful that’s shoved in before he swallows the first.

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