Page 7 of The Bad Girl List

“Yep. How about that for a deal you can’t refuse?”

This is over-the-top generous, even for a family member. Annika’s rent is almost as steep as mine, and her place is smaller. And she’d let me crash here, free of charge, all in exchange for doing the ten silly things on her list? This is better than the clearance sale on holiday decorations the day after Christmas.

“Okay,” I say. This will give me time to find a job I actually like and avoid doing something truly horrendous, like working for a temp agency.

Her eyes light up. “Okay, you’ll do it? You’ll agree to do everything on the Bad Girl List?”

“I’ll do everything on that list. And after I do, I’m moving in with you.”

Annika throws back her head and laughs. “This is going to be the best vacation ever.”

CHAPTER 3

Blue Butterflies

TREVOR

I step out onto the back porch of the vineyard bungalow with my thermos of black coffee. Tequila, my three-legged dog, hops along after me. Since the day I rescued her from a drunken trip to Tijuana with my younger brother, she’s never far from my side. She’s a medium-sized dog with golden-brown fur and a white face. Her dark eyebrows always seem to be on the move.

The morning is perfect. It’s still dark outside, the eastern horizon tinged with the faintest smears of gray. My breath fogs in the air as I exhale and take a seat in my Adirondack lounge chair. I scrunch to one side and tap the cushion beside me.

“Come on, Tequila.”

My dog turns in a happy circle–a move that resembles something out of a twisted circus due to her missing leg–before hopping up next to me. She gives my hand a lick before happily resting her head between her paws. A contented huff escapes her throat as I scratch her between the ears, her favorite spot.

I pick up my thermos and pour myself a cup of coffee and take a sip, sighing in contentment as the warm caffeine washes down my throat.

Morning is my favorite time of the day. Tequila and I have coffee on the back deck together every day and watch the sun come up. The vineyards that have been in my family for four generations come to life with birds and insects.

The best thing about mornings: no people. No annoying tourists blundering around asking drunk questions, no overbearing family members encouraging me to “get on” with my life, and no younger brother trying to wheedle me into his latest bad idea.

Just me, Tequila, and thirty minutes of peaceful, uninterrupted bliss.

Or at least, it’s usually uninterrupted. But as I sit there, nursing my second cup of coffee, the crunch of tires on gravel tickles my ears.

I frown, tilting my head to one side as suspicion makes my neck tense. There are very few people who would be out here on this dirt road at this time of day. Only one, actually, and I’m not in the mood to see him.

Yep, that is the sound of my father’s Tesla. The engine is silent, but in the solitude of the morning, the sound of tires on the bumpy road is like an air horn going off.

“What the hell does he want at five thirty in the morning?” I growl. Tequila’s floppy ears flick backward as her brows lift in concern.

In a high-pitched voice, I pretend to be Tequila. “We’re talking about your dad, silly human. He’s coming to make a sales call.”

“Is there a way to get rid of him?” I ask my dog. “Maybe we can hide in the vineyard.”

“Silly human,” I reply in my dog voice, “you know he doesn’t take no for an answer. Hiding will only delay the inevitable.”

Shit. I run my hand through my shaggy hair. “Come on, girl. You’d better go inside.”

Tequila doesn’t like people. Her life on the streets of Tijuana had left her jumpy and nervous. Though steadfastly loyal to me, she cowers from everyone else and is prone to barking and growling.

Tequila runs inside with her tail between her legs when I open the slider for her. I briefly consider going inside after her and pretending to be asleep, but Dad will never buy it. He likes mornings as much as I do, though for different reasons.

Irritation prickles along my shoulders as I stalk around the bungalow to the front. My morning bliss is shattered by the bright headlights of my dad’s black Tesla.

“Morning, Trevor.” My dad, the charming Tim Moretti, gets out of the car, already dressed for the day in his pressed collared work shirt and slacks. “I brought your favorite coffee. Thought we could watch the sunrise together.” He holds it out like a peace offering, his wide, salesman smile splitting his face.

He’s perfectly aware of my morning ritual–and the fact that he’s interrupted it. “I have my own coffee, thanks. If you’re here to make another sales pitch, don’t bother.”

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