Page 6 of Never Kiss the Bad Boy

Regardless, one-nighters, ghosts, or needy manchildren are all I’ve ever known to exist, so I’m not looking for a guy. I’ve got bills to pay, mouths to feed, and my own life to handle. I don’t have time to ‘work anything out’ with the crew supervisor next door, despite those blue eyes, pretty smile, and broad shoulders.

Nessa comes into the kitchen to peer out the window, suddenly not in a hurry the way she was a minute ago. “Which one? Not the fuck boy, right? He’s too young to be in charge. And not the old guy either. Can you say Daddy issues? Ugh.”

I don’t look outside, but I answer easily. “No, he’s not here yet. He’s probably a lazy boss, since he’s late again, just like yesterday.” Lazy is probably one of the worst things I can say about someone in my book. I don’t think I’ve had a day off in… ever. Work, work, work… Rhianna might’ve sung it, but she was talking about me.

Nessa sends me a sly look. “Already memorized the sound of his truck?” she teases. “What make and model?”

“Shut up,” I reply, snapping my towel her way threateningly even though I’m several inches from hitting her with it. Then again, I can identify a lot of my regulars by their engines. Not so much Kyle, but only because I didn’t hear him pull up yesterday with Marco’s crew honking. “He parked on my curb, slowing my whole drive-thru line to a snail’s pace for the lunch rush, so I know which one’s his, and it’s not here yet.”

Like he could hear me talking about him on the nonexistent wind, there’s an unfamiliar rumbling outside. Nessa tilts her head, listening, and then meets my eyes. “Is that him? It has to be, right? None of your customers come this early.”

She looks excited, eager to see this crew supervisor. I roll my eyes, following her toward the open door to see where he’s parked today because his truck’s location is going to determine my mood for the next six hours.

He technically parks illegally, blocking Kathy’s driveway entirely. She won’t like that, but it’s not as if she’s going anywhere while there are workers at her house. But Kyle’s truck is a four-door, long bed, jacked-up number, so his front tire and about two feet of engine and bumper are still over the property line into my space.

Which is still legal because curb parking is allowed in our city, as I’ve reminded Kathy time and time again.

I sigh, gritting my teeth. He might be trying, but it’s not good enough. My drive-thru flow is still gonna be tight today, and I mentally start gearing up for complaining guys, jokes about discounts because of the hassle, and a few offers to teach the crew next door a thing or two.

The last type of guys I don’t mind so much. They’re usually the good ones who’ll have your back in a pinch, especially a younger woman like me whom they feel protective of. Some of them are the reason I do what I do, the men who supported Dad’s restaurant until the bitter end and then encouraged me to pick up a ladle and keep cooking for them. Not because I’m a woman, but because I’m a damn good cook.

Kyle gets out of the truck, taking the big step down from the driver’s seat.

“Whoooa,” Nessa drawls out. “Is that him? Dayum, Dani. Look at those biceps. That man could probably pick me up and hold me against the wall, no problem.” She says it with awe, like as a curvy woman, she wouldn’t expect that to be the case with most guys.

I look at his arms, which this morning are peeking out from beneath a neon orange T-shirt. She’s right, Kyle has ropey, thickly muscled forearms, and his full, round biceps stretch the sun-faded T-shirt’s sleeves to within an inch of its life. He does look strong. And sexy.

Not that I’m looking or care. I don’t even look down to see what color his jeans are—worn and faded blue—or how they frame his crotch and butt.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, but I think I’d be finding a way to work something out with that man if I were you,” Nessa drawls suggestively, reminding me of where this conversation started. “Work it out on the table, the floor, the cab of his truck, the dirty… filthy… bed of that big boy truck,” she basically purrs.

Nessa has obviously never been in a work truck. They smell like sweaty socks, dirty ball sacks, and old gas-station snacks. Plus dirt and metal, usually. Any sort of ‘action’ in the back bed of one of those things is going to end with a trip to the emergency room for a tetanus booster and a penicillin shot.

“You know what they say about guys with big trucks,” I joke, holding up a pinky finger. “Overcompensating.”

“Well, guys with little ones are usually willing to make up for it in other ways,” she counters with a shrug. “I don’t mind a little extra time with a tongue or a finger or two if his dick ain’t all that. Gettin’ off is gettin’ off.”

I laugh, not able to help it because she does have a point. Big dicks and big dick energy can be attractive, but they’re not the be all, end all of a good lover. Screaming his name and wanting to rip the bedsheets in half, no matter how that happens, is.

Not that it matters. Because I don’t need a lover, big- or small-dicked. What I need is a day off to sleep late, take a relaxing bubble bath, and watch trashy TV with a beer in one hand and a taco in the other. Not a figurative one, an actual crunchy shell taco with fresh guacamole that I didn’t have to make.

He must hear me laughing because his eyes jump to the door. He probably can’t see into the house with the light difference, but I feel like he’s looking right at me as he throws a two-finger wave my way. Then he holds his hands out like a game show model, indicating his truck, smiling like he’s proud of his parking job that’s still irritating me.

Nessa laughs, already completely charmed by him. “Dani-girl, you are so fucked. Probably in the good way, though there’s an outside chance it’s in a bad way. Wish I could stay and watch the show to find out, but I’ve got to get back to work.” She swings open the screen door and walks out into the yard. From inside, I can see Kyle’s eyes flare with the opening door, but his smile fades by a few degrees as he sees Nessa instead of me.

He recovers quickly, though. “G’morning,” he calls out to Nessa.

“Good morning to you too, sugarbear,” she drawls in a Southern accent that’s nothing like her own. She sounds like Blanche on the Golden Girls reruns I used to watch with my grandmother. “And it is one fiiiiiiine mornin’ now.” She lets her eyes lick up and down his body in a way that’d have me pissed as hell if someone did it to me, but Kyle holds still, probably flexing a bit while Nessa looks her fill.

Unless that’s what his arms naturally look like in that tight T-shirt.

Frustrated with my own traitorous train of thought, I growl to myself and spin on my tennis shoe covered toe with a squeak. I don’t want to hear the rest of their conversation. I have more important things to do. Or that’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Back in the kitchen, I check the food I’ve already started for today. The beans are going well, and I check the salt level before putting the lid back on. Next, I stir the big, twenty-gallon container of horchata that sells out every time I make it. Then, I scan the veggie haul Nessa delivered, grouping them into bunches for chopping. I’ve made quick work of slicing my way through a dozen limes for garnish when there’s a knock on my door.

“Hi, Miss Becerra,” Kyle says, grinning like my name is somehow funny to him. Or maybe it’s that it sounds needlessly formal when we’re both in work clothes at eight-thirty in the morning with the smell of limes wafting in the air. “How’re you doing?”

“What do you want, Kyle?” I ask, not even looking up from my cutting board as I slice another lime in half and toss it in the pile.

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