Page 3 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

“Fuck boy,” we say in unison, dismissing the only possibly viable candidate. I know the type from years of working at my family’s restaurant—the guys who fuck to get themselves off and never call afterward. Nessa knows because I bitch about them.

We laugh simultaneously, and Nessa throws me a wave as she hustles to her car, off to continue her day’s work. I throw a glance next door, roll my eyes, and head back to the kitchen to get back to work myself. I’ve got pico de gallo to finish, and my first customers will be here in… I check the clock… “Shit, eighteen minutes!”

CHAPTER 2

KYLE

“Boss, you’d better get over here to the Riverdale jobsite. There are… issues?” Wayne informs me, sounding like he expects me to read between the lines as if he’s spewing Shakespeare. He’s my second-hand man, but I would prefer he get on with spitting out the facts and not tip-toeing around shit. Though that’s why we work well together. He’s the smooth to my rough, the slick to my fuck shit up.

Which makes it interesting that he wants me to come handle something. I’m usually the wrecking ball of last resort.

“What kind of issues?” I ask, half distracted by the bid I’m trying to finish up. My crew went to the Riverdale site to get started this morning while I met with another potential customer to go over what they want in a ‘luxurious, resort-worthy backyard oasis’.

Not my words, but the homeowners’. What did I hear in that description? Cha-ching! Anyone asking for those things, and contacting my company, knows what they’re getting into. My jobs start at six figures and go up from there, plus, your design has to interest me, and you’ve got to wait for me to be available. I don’t do dig-and-drop style pool projects. Something that can be done with an excavator and a concrete truck alone aren’t my thing. Still, my wait list is currently sitting at over six months out. It could be longer, but I’m picky as fuck about what jobs I want to take these days.

I’m not a pool guy. I’m the pool guy. Anyone within three states who wants a high-quality pool, deck, or back yard area knows that I’m the final boss when it comes to this sort of stuff.

I figure Wayne’s gonna complain about Kathy Wilson, the homeowner on Riverdale. She’s a pain in the ass, flat-out, but her job is large-scale. Again, read… money. I’m not greedy, and I definitely don’t spend my life chasing the all-mighty dollar, but it does make the world go round, and it keeps my guys happy and loyal to me. I haven’t lost a crew member in four years, which is an eternity in this line of business.

“Parking?” Wayne ventures, still sounding unsure.

I’ve been down Riverdale Street three times already—to do the quote, to deliver the bid, and to meet with the permit guy from the city. There should be no problems with parking, not even for our big trucks and trailers. “Let me guess. Somebody hit a mailbox?”

It sucks, but it happens. Surprisingly, Wayne doesn’t hum in agreement. “No, but uh… can you just come see for yourself?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh, even though stopping by Riverdale was on my to-do list today. Gotta do the smile-and-shake-hands shit on day one of a new project. But I usually stop by later in the day to see how things are going and reassure any nervous homeowners. “I’m not too far. Gimme twenty.”

Wayne chuckles under his breath. “See you in like thirty, maybe forty-five.”

He hangs up, leaving me confused. What the fuck? Like I said, I’m not far, and I’m not a liar who exaggerates and leaves my guys hanging. Going out to my truck, I climb in and start it up, mentally already telling myself that I’ll make it in fifteen to spite Wayne and whatever’s crawled up his ass.

Twenty minutes later, I know exactly what he was talking about.

I’m trying to turn onto Riverdale Street, but there’s a backlog of big trucks lining the roads all around it. There are trucks parked all along the curbs too and crews of guys hopping out and hustling toward Riverdale.

What the hell is going on? Is there some Snap-on Tools sale or free energy drink samples up ahead?

I slow-roll my way through the traffic until I get close enough to see that all these trucks seem to be stopping at the house next to my latest job.

Fuck!

Kathy Wilson is bad enough, but if she’s got a neighbor running some sort of construction crew midday party, we’re gonna have problems.

I make my way up to the house and pull over to the curb when another truck pulls out. I yank my ballcap on my head and get out, looking up and down the street in confusion. The truck that’s been behind me for the last thirty minutes honks, and I glare at the guy behind the wheel. He gestures to the house behind me like that’s supposed to mean something to me.

“Marco!” the guy in the passenger seat yells loudly.

“Uh, Polo?” I mutter, not sure what that’s about.

Then, from inside the house, a voice shouts, “Honk at me again and your ass won’t be getting lunch for a month, Marco!”

Whoever it is, she sounds pissed enough to carry out that threat. A few seconds later, a woman stomps out the open front door with fire shooting out of her eyes as she finds her target—the guy driving the truck behind me. He holds his hands out innocently, silently apologizing to the woman, and then he points at me.

She turns a narrow-eyed, sharp scowl my way. “Who are you? Is that your truck? Move it.”

Having apparently said her piece, she walks right past me and up to Marco’s passenger window where she passes over a huge stack of Styrofoam boxes and a few items wrapped in aluminum foil. She talks to them for a second, clearly negotiating something. Since I can’t hear her, I look her up and down.

She’s sporting a huge, jet-black bun neatly coiled on top of her head that tells me she has either lots of hair, long hair, or both. Her eyes are dark and surrounded by thick lashes. And her loose T-shirt and yoga pants do nothing to hide her full breasts and nice ass.

---