Bad Intentions
Bad Housewives Club, Book 1
Carmen Falcone
Contents
Untitled
Summary
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Bad Intentions
By
Carmen Falcone
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any locales, or persons living or dead is coincidental.
Copyright ©2020 Carmen Falcone. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, and transmit in any form or by any means. For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the author via her website: www.carmenfalcone.com
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Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition February 2020
Edited by: Bootcamp Edits
Proofread by: Rebecca Lynn
Cover Design by Cover Couture
www.bookcovercouture.com
The following info is for the stock used:
Photo (c) Shutterstock/LightField Studios
Photo (c) Shutterstock/VectorPocket
Summary
Divorced mom Nikki Brady is about to kiss her play-by-the-book ways goodbye. When her best friends challenge her to buy a hot stranger at the bar a drink, she reluctantly agrees. To her surprise, the man is not only gorgeous, but makes her smile and feel long dormant emotions. Too bad she doesn’t know the out-of-towner is there to shake up her job at the retirement community.
To repair his estranged relationship with his father, Cole Myler must focus on a deal to relocate a retirement community. No problem, right? If only the sassy brunette at the bar didn’t turn out to be a human resources director dead set on thwarting him and delaying the project. Still, he’s determined to resist his scorching attraction to her and follow through with his plan. She plays dirty, but he plays to win. And if it’s up to him, she’ll be doing a whole lot more than working overtime.
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1
“This feels so different without her.” Nikki Brady tapped her fingers on her glass of club soda. She shifted in her seat, her gaze traveling to the three women sharing the booth at Splurge, one of the many upscale bar and restaurants in Tulip, California.
Violet acquiesced, taking her glass of Chardonnay to her lips. Strands of her Barbie blonde hair fell down her slim shoulders. Next to her sat Brit, with a puzzled look on her beautiful, round face.
“It’s only been a month,” Lara, second-generation Brazilian and first-generation kickass vegetarian, said, then shrugged.
A wave of sadness washed over Nikki. She clenched the glass, wishing she’d ordered a stiff drink instead. How else could she observe the one-month anniversary of Noelle’s death? Noelle, the good friend who had created The Bad Housewives Club—the moniker they used to call their group who met every Friday to forget about work, spouses and kids and enjoy some fun time watching movies, having drinks or getting mani-pedis while drinking dirty martinis. A tragic car accident had claimed Noelle’s life suddenly, leaving the rest of the group uncertain and in mourning.
Brit downed her cocktail and straightened her shoulders. “You guys, she wouldn’t want us to mope around. She’s gone, but we’re still here.”
“Barely,” Violet said, her voice above a whisper. She took another sip of her wine. For the duration of dinner, she had been quiet, with her blue gaze staring at nothing in particular.
Nikki swallowed. “Everything okay? I mean, besides the usual?” Violet had a six-month-old boy, Trevor, and also a five-year-old girl, Amanda, who was good friends with Brit’s daughter Libby.
“Yeah. Everything’s good,” Violet said in that elegant, upper-crust New York accent that lingered even after living for so many years in the West Coast. “Just tired.”
“I don’t blame you.” Lara nudged her. “I don’t have kids, and I’m already exhausted from listening to you guys.” Lara joined the club when she became engaged to a guy who was no longer in the picture—Noelle’s brother. Because of her spunky personality, she remained in the club. Only twenty-three, she was also a few years younger than the others.
“I’m tired too. I guess losing Noelle made me realize how sucky my life is. We talked a lot on the phone, and now I have all this extra time after the boys go to bed,” Nikki said. A small smile formed on her lips when she thought of the best part of her day—telling stories to David and Henry, then kissing them goodnight when they weren’t at their father’s house.
“Because you want to,” Lara said. “You’re twenty-seven, good looking with a stable job. Why can’t you allow yourself to date more?”
Oh, that godawful question. Even her grandmother berated her with it from time to time. “I can’t just go out with the first guy that I—”
“Maybe that’s exactly what you should do,” Brit said. “When was the last time you had sex?”
“I don’t know. The twins are five, so hhmmm, almost six years?” Nikki did the math in her head. She’d been divorced for about five, but her sex life had died after pregnancy when her then-husband Luke discovered he was into guys.
Violet squeezed her hand lightly, as if she just said she’d lost an important organ. “Oh, honey.”
Easy for her to say. Violet’s plastic surgeon husband was one of the hottest men in the entire state. She probably never experienced dry spells.
Brit waved to the waiter. “This stops tonight.”
“What?” Apprehension formed a lump in her throat.
“You were the one who said tonight feels different. Well, that’s because it is. Noelle helped us get out of our boring lives. She ziplined in Costa Rica. She had both kids without an epidural. She attended a tantric course with her husband,” Brit said.
“She lived.” Violet lifted her glass, as in a silent offering to her beloved friend.
“And we lived vicariously through her. Now, it’s time to inherit some of her zest for life and do it ourselves,” Lara said. “Get out of our comfort zones.”
The waiter arrived, and Nikki ordered some red wine. To continue this conversation, she needed more alcohol. “Let’s not go overboard here, ladies. Violet, you have cute kids and a hot husband. Lara, you have a banging body and no children, therefore lots of free time to do whatever you want. And Brit, you’re the best makeup artist who ever graced this town and most women would kill for your big boobs.” I know I would, she thought, instinctively crossing her hands over her chest.
“That’s not the point,” Brit said. “Maybe if we go outside our comfort zones, that will be a good way to honor Noelle’s life and not feel guilty for being here when she isn’t.”
“That’s what she’d have liked us to do,” Lara said.
“For instance. You,” Brit continued, pointing at Nikki, “haven’t dated in forever and always find excuses.”
The waiter brought her wine, and she took a sip. Dropping her shoulders, she avoided looking straight into Brit’s eyes. “It’s really hard to find a sitter these days,” she said. Not a lie. Her kids were only five, and not every teenager in the neighborhood wanted to watch two rambunctious boys on a regul
ar basis. So she managed her schedule around them and preferred meeting her friends whenever David and Henry slept over at Luke’s.
Lara shook her head. “You’re here.”
“Because the boys are with their dad.”
“Who already found himself a hot man. C’mon, now it’s your turn.” Lara pointed at her.
Nikki rubbed her forehead, anxiety slicking her palm. Ah, she hated these conversations. “What do you want me to do? Join Tinder?” God, no. Not Tinder. The guys she’d dated in the past either left her for another woman or a man. Why waste her time?
“No. You’d probably lie to us.”
Lara cocked her head in the direction of the bar counter. “Him.”
Nikki followed her cue, her gaze traveling over to the bar area, and no one needed to point out the dangerously good-looking man sitting at the corner. A punch of awareness heated her bloodstream, and her throat dried. She couldn’t see his face completely, but the profile was impressive, masculine, with a trimmed beard covering what she imagined was a strong chin. A dark grey jacket outlined impossibly broad shoulders, and the matching pants hinted at thick, muscular legs. Even from several feet, he oozed power and virility.
“Daaaaamn.” Brit slurped her drink.
Lara lifted her eyebrow. “I want you to go over there and say hi.”
“Can’t I just wave from here?” So much better. With any luck, the handsome beefcake would not even see her and she’d get along with her evening.
Lara lifted her chin, her beautiful bone structure on display, along with a glint of challenge in her eyes. Crap, she wouldn’t let this go. “No. I want you to take a seat next to his and chat. Have him buy you a drink.”
God, this got complicated by the minute. She drank more of her own wine, then drummed her fingers on the table. The wine rolled down her throat, thicker than the first sip, probably because now the idea of walking up to a fucking stranger suffocated her airways. “Can I buy him a drink instead?”
Brit waved her off. “Sure. As long as you give it a try.”
“What if he tells me off?” A guy like that wouldn’t look at her twice. He could have any woman he wanted, which meant he had an obnoxious personality most likely. Either way, he most likely wanted to date one of the Hadid sisters, and not Anna Kendrick’s off-brand look-alike.
“You splash the drink on his face,” Lara said.
“What if he doesn’t tell me off?” Nikki asked. This possibility sank her stomach to the floor and scared her a bit more than a straight-up “no.” She peered at Violet, who sat back quietly and mouthed an “I’m sorry,” like she wouldn’t save her from that mess.
“Exchange numbers. I’ll babysit for you if he asks you on a date,” Lara said.
“Babysit hmmm?”
“I’ll throw in free babysitting for you for a month so you get to know him better,” Lara said.
Most people wouldn’t want to babysit her twins even if paid, unless they were blood relatives. But with her grandma in a retirement community and estranged parents living in Florida, she really didn’t have many options. Hmmmm. “Fine.”
“Great.”
Without her consent, Brit removed the rubber band from Nikki’s hair and fluffed her hair, finger combing through her tresses until waves framed her face like she’d just tumbled out of bed. Focused, Brit reached into her bag and produced a tube of gloss, which she lifted and opened to stain Nikki’s lips. The shimmery cherry red certainly was a bit brasher than her go-to nude colors.
“Show some skin.” Lara opened the top two buttons of her white blouse, and a cold breeze caressed her skin. “You have a graceful neck. Why do you hide it? You’re not Diane Keaton.”
Nikki lifted her hand in denial. Think fast, lady. She usually came up with decent plans when anxiety knocked at her door. What option did she have now? “I’m good. I’ll go over to talk to him.”
Cole glanced at his empty glass of scotch. He could be anywhere in the world, relaxing next to a gorgeous woman, preferably without clothes. But he committed to seeing the takeover of the company through, and work had taken him away from L.A. to this nauseatingly quaint town. He tapped on the glass. His father had asked him in person to do this—as a way to get more involved with the family business and possibly selling his stocks. His father had never asked him much. In fact, ever since Keith’s death a couple decades ago, his father hadn’t even spoken to him unless necessary. He reached for the tie at his collar, untying it, but it only made him feel his pulse racing in his veins. Because of him, his twin brother had died. No small favor would ever erase this truth. Besides, having an affair with his father’s assistant months prior hadn’t exactly helped change his father’s perception of him.
“Hey. What are you drinking?” asked a sensual female voice.
He shifted to face the woman sliding to the seat next to his. Within a few seconds, he registered the brunette’s pretty face and slim body. “Scotch.”
She waved at the bartender, mouthing, “Another one of what he’s having and I’ll take another glass of your house red.”
The bartender nodded and turned around to prepare the drinks.
“Trust me, you don’t want to pay for my scotch,” he said. “It’s one hundred dollar per dose.”
She withdrew, eyes widening. “Is it steeped in gold? Did Mick Jagger personally sign the bottle or something?”
He chuckled. “Aged to perfection.”
She straightened her shoulders. “Well, maybe the one hundred bucks will be justified. Listen, I need for you to talk to me for a few minutes and act like you’re interested in me,” she said, glanced around, then her attention returned to him.
He angled closer. Was she for real? “Shouldn’t this happen organically?” he asked in a casual voice. Though the place looked decent, crazies were everywhere and last thing he needed was a stalker.
She reached for his elbow, but not sexually. She rested her hand there and didn’t move her fingers as if she wasn’t sure what to do next. “No. See, my friend dared me to come over here and say hi. She means well but meddles a lot. Anyway, all you have to do is talk to me for a little bit.”
“Then what?”
She removed her hand from his arm, abruptly. “Then we walk out of each other’s lives. But guess what? I’ll tell her we’re still dating for three, maybe four times, and during that time she’ll babysit my kids. Which means I’ll take up a class, or get a massage, or catch up with old college friends. I can volunteer at a cat shelter,” she said, touching her chest and sighing. “The world is my oyster.”
He slanted a look to his side to make sure there were no cameras around. They made reality shows out of everything these days, and this woman provided serious entertainment. “What’s in it for me?”
“You pay it forward and go to bed with a good conscience.”
He’d rather go to bed with a bad girl, but she wasn’t it. Still. A part of him throbbed. Something about her piqued his interest, like a new song that kept ringing in his ears. “Wouldn’t this be easier if you came up to me and talked for a few minutes?”
She shot him a glance over the brim of her glass. “No, because they could sense from where they’re sitting that you aren’t into me, which means they’ll sign me up on some desperate matchmaking app and my babysitting is off the table.”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be into you?”
“It seems like I’m not your type.”
Did she know who he was? That he’d started a vending machine business from the ground up and made his own fortune, despite his father’s criticism? He’d given some interviews to specialized business publications. What if she read them and fooled him with this charade? Curiosity stabbed at him. “How do you know who’s my type?”
“Well, I’m usually the girl guys want to take home to introduce to their parents, not necessarily throw over the table and—”
He leaned closer, catching a whiff of her feminine scent of warm vanilla and wildflowers. Images of
him throwing her over a table, bunching her dress over her waist and then fucking her quick and rough populated his thoughts. Blood rushed in his ears, and his pants felt tighter. “And?”
She threaded her fingers together. “You know.” She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “Anyway, I haven’t seen you in Splurge before. New in town?”
“Yeah. Came here for work.”
“Must be something fancy to be able to afford these expensive drinks.”
He lifted his tumbler and stared at the amber contents. Mentioning the vending machine empire was out of question—why would he? If she somehow knew about it, the information would mean nothing. Besides, a chance at repairing his relationship with his father brought him to Tulip. Not money. Though he’d work to represent his father’s affairs, he didn’t need a cent from him. “You could say that.”
She fished out her phone from her purse and glanced at it. “Just so you know, we’re doing great with time. A few more minutes and this will really work.”
“I don’t remember the last time a woman checked her phone so eagerly when she was with me,” he said out loud. A second later, regret poured over him. Was her insecurity contagious? He shook his head to himself. Nah. He cleared his throat and stared deep into her eyes.
She shuffled on her stool, meeting his gaze for a serious moment, then her expression softened. “Oh. You’re a bit cocky, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “Just honest.”
She chewed her lower lip. “I didn’t mean to be rude. Sorry.”
He took another gulp, the liquid rolling smoothly down his throat and leaving traces of a smoky aftertaste. “What’s your name, paranoid lady?”
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