Bad Boy’s Cinderella
Raleigh Blake
Contents
Copyright
Get a FREE Bad Boy romance novella!
About Bad Boy’s Cinderella
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
Also by Raleigh Blake
Copyright © 2016 by Raleigh Blake
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
***This stand-alone book is full of shameless instalove, drama, scorching hot sex, and filthy language. If you're not into football, don't worry, this is not a sports-heavy story. It's got little sports but lots of steam! No cliffhanger, no cheating, and a definite HEA.
Find out more about the author and upcoming books online at www.raleighblake.com
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Would you like to receive a full length bad boy novella for FREE? This is the prequel to my book Bad Boy’s Cinderella, called Hard Crush, which is the story where April and Breck meet and fall in love. Just go to this link and provide your email address, and I’ll send the book to you right away!
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About Bad Boy’s Cinderella
Reade Lennox wants to play my Prince Charming? I doubt it. I'm nobody's Cinderella.
Things I need to do to get my life back in order:
1. Get a new job
2. Save some money for my dad
3. Stop being jealous of my BFF's recent wedding
4. Stop. Obsessing. Over. Reade Lennox!!!
He's got those gorgeous All-American good looks. He's the MVP of last year's Super Bowl. And he's on the pages of every tabloid in the country almost every day.
His bar brawls. His team's problems. And—most in your face--his conquests. A new one every week.
Reade Lennox is the last thing I need in my life. So why is it that peeling my clothes off is all I can think of whenever he gives me that look?
He thinks I'm his, whether I accept it or not. Am I ready to be tame this bad boy?
Chapter One
Kylie
Forty-five minutes they’d been at it now. Forty-five long, loud, headboard-thumping minutes. Every time I thought they’d finished—usually in moments of screaming crescendos likely to set off all the dogs in the neighborhood—it started again. Harder.
This was the third time this week my new roommate, Mandy, had brought home this guy. And it was only Wednesday. I was coming to know Mandy’s moans of pleasure better than my own, and the thought made me a little queasy. I’d only met the girl a week ago.
Which only made me think of April, filling me with a soft sort of sadness that was becoming far too familiar.
Her wedding had been beautiful, magical, breathtakingly romantic—but it also had the unfortunate side effect of taking away my best friend and roommate, April. Because April was a happily married woman now, and she no longer needed to live in an apartment shared with her pitifully single friend. She had a new roommate now—one very male and very handsome. Otherwise known as her husband.
I wasn’t jealous, but it had left a little pit of hollow pain in my gut, if I was honest with myself. I was, of course, thrilled for April, with how she’d found her Prince Charming and galloped off into the sunset with him—or to Bali for the three-week honeymoon. But I’d shared my life with April for so long, the two of us glued at the hip since college, so involved in each other’s business that we’d lost our sense of boundaries many years ago. I didn’t know how to live without her.
Which was probably why I’d rushed into getting a new roommate, despite April’s half of the rent being paid up until the end of the month. I could have waited to fill the room; there wasn’t an immediate rush. But I couldn’t stand the idea of coming home to a dark, empty, lifeless apartment every night, nothing but my own thoughts and shadows for company.
I had never tried living alone before, and this wasn’t the time to attempt it. At least not with my salary, and not while I missed my best friend so desperately.
I’d interviewed four people for the available room, and somehow I’d managed to decide that Mandy was the best option. The woman currently hammering a hole through the connecting wall, using her headboard as a weapon.
I had nothing against sex, hook-ups, or fun of any kind—but it was only ten in the morning, and I did have my limits. Mandy had already been at it until well past two AM last night and I had been hoping for a little peace this morning to sort through my accounting.
Sighing, I got up from my desk wedged into the corner of my room and crossed over to the bed, waited for a pause in the cacophony, then gave three sharp thumps of my fist against the wall.
There was a long pause, during which even the room itself seemed to be holding its breath, and then a drawn-out, male groan pointedly aimed at me. That was followed by renewed, aggressive hammering of the headboard, and the distinct sound of Mandy’s breathless giggle.
Dammit. Fine.
I had three choices here: confront them, and by default their nakedness; accept it, and perhaps dig out some headphones; or leave.
I wasn’t prepared to face them in their current state, and I was pretty sure my headphones went missing around the time April packed up all of her things and moved out. Which left option three. And in a fit of irritated grumbling, I gathered my small stack of paperwork and stomped my way out of the apartment, slamming every door as I went. I knew Mandy and her man wouldn’t pay any attention, but it made me feel better.
The air outside was fresh and warm, a wash of blue in the sky dotted with small puffs of white, and if it hadn’t been for the mound of paperwork tucked into the crook of my arm and the tick-tock of the upcoming deadline, I would’ve taken a walk, breathed in the fresh air, cleared my head.
Instead I piled into my beat-up old Nissan and drove a few blocks, windows rolled down and radio jacked up. It was early and I was tired, but the freedom of the road made me feel lighter than the clouds in the sky.
A parking spot in the cute shopping area I was headed to was a rare commodity but I found one outside the pharmacy, collected my things and squeezed out of the gap between my car and the gleaming Toyota next to me. Then I strolled to Java Joe, my coffee house of choice when looking to do work somewhere other than the solitude of my apartment.
Or what was once the solitude, back when my old roommate had things to do in life—things other than ride the bones of her boyfriend at any hour of the goddamn day.
The dress caught my eye.
The dress always caught my eye.
Red, slinky, draped over a headless mannequin inside the window of the town’s chicest boutique—I had coveted it for weeks. This was probably the tenth time I’d stopped to stare at it, world falling away around me as I took in the perfect lines of the material, the way the front dipped just low enough to draw the eye. Maybe a little too low, to be honest, yet it was s
o damn sexy and sophisticated at the same time, it was hard to not covet it.
I wasn’t usually interested in fashion on any level, but there was something about this dress that had me captivated. And I’d made it my mission in life to afford it. I’d tried it on, once—back when I had first seen it, fallen in love, and almost tripped over my feet to get to it. Tried it on, stared at myself in complete awe, and then promptly choked on a stifled gasp when the sales lady showed me the price tag.
I needed to save for it, and save hard. Realistically, I knew the dress probably wouldn’t wait around for however long it took me to gather together that ludicrous amount of money, but I lived in hope. I had to, because I wanted that dress more than I’d wanted anything for a long time.
Unfortunately, the chances of my saving up enough money any time soon were slim. My catering business, once holding so much promise, now only brought in enough for me to get by—and barely that. I’d poured every extra cent I had into it, even the modest inheritance my grandfather had left me, but nothing I did seemed to work. And I was pretty sure I knew why: my heart wasn’t really in it, not anymore.
Sure, I loved catering events, cooking up the food and impressing clients. But I didn’t love the legal side of things, the finances, all the admin and paperwork and accounting. All I really wanted to do was cook. It’d been my dream to become a chef at an upscale restaurant somewhere uptown, but I’d somehow managed to sort of fall into catering instead, intending on bridging a gap that then became the framework of my career.
Except I didn’t want it as a career. I wanted to cook, not fill out spreadsheets. I’d never imagined myself spending more time in front of a desk than a stove.
I also never expected to sink all of my money into something I knew I didn’t want, but I’d been left with little choice. I couldn’t take the risk of throwing away my only source of income in the hopes of finding a chef job, not when I wasn’t the only one relying on that income. If I stopped earning money, even for a week, then my dad suffered. And I couldn’t have that on my conscience.
Plus, no one in town was hiring. I’d kept my ear to the ground for months, hoping and praying that something would come up—even a sous chef position, or a kitchen assistant. Anything that would get my foot on the ladder, bring me closer to my dream. But there was a brick wall erected between my reality and my ambition and I had to live with it, and I had to scrape by, and I had to stare in wonder at a dress I would likely never be able to afford.
That didn’t mean I couldn’t try it on again, though. If nothing else, it would cheer me up.
These days, I couldn’t help but think I needed a lot of cheering up.
Chapter Two
Reade
“Another piece in Sports Illustrated,” Jacob said, strolling into the locker room and brandishing a small stack of clippings. “Plus you’re on the front page of ESPN Online, Huffington Post, and…Yahoo! News. And Debra said she saw something about the New York T—”
I subconsciously curled my fingers into fists. “What do they say?” I asked my team’s PR rep.
Jacob didn’t miss a beat, answering in his usual emotionless, no-bullshit tone that I was usually thankful for. This time, however, I could’ve done with a little softening of the fucking blow. “The usual. San Francisco Dragons face fresh scrutiny as reports emerge…yada yada…recent evidence once again pointing at potential bribing of at least one of the referees…you know how this goes…accused of buying off…et cetera, et cetera. Do you want me to go on?”
“Nope,” I said. “That’ll do.” I sat back on the bench, staring out at the row of lockers, my temples starting to throb.
This wasn’t really a disaster. Things like this happened all the time in pro football—accusations, allegations, hiccups big and small, all evolving into national sports news. I just needed to figure out the problem and then ride it out.
But that didn’t mean it was fucking easy.
Dammit, I could handle it—although I could do without the media picking up on it, dragging my name through the bullshit accusations in pursuit of a story that had no legs. Sometimes being the captain and the quarterback of a pro-football team was more stress than it was worth. And not just for me.
“Take the day off,” I said, looking back over at Jacob—who, like a robot, hadn’t moved an inch since he’d stopped talking. Probably hadn’t even blinked. “I know you’ve been working your ass off with our PR team to put out these fires—”
“Reade—”
“Debbie told me you were here until well past midnight last night,” I said, raising an irritated eyebrow.
Jacob’s jaw twitched. “I knew I shouldn’t have texted her after I saw those reports…”
“Well you did,” I said, “and you let her in on your dirty little secret.” I eyed Jacob with played up severity and said, “You told my father you were out of here by eight.”
“Yes, well.” Jacob shuffled his feet, readjusting the clippings in his hand. “I didn’t think it was any of your concern. Your father is the owner of the team, he should bear the brunt of these allegations.”
“It’s always my fucking concern,” I said. “Listen, all of this will still be here when you get back. Nothing’s gonna collapse while you’re gone. Go.” I gave his shoulder a firm shove, because I could see more protest forming in Jacob’s eyes and I didn’t want to fight the guy. I just wanted him to take a leave me the hell alone for the time being. “I’m gonna head out myself, grab a late breakfast.”
It took another minute of coaxing, but eventually Jacob relented and headed out, muttering something about having nothing to do and it was such a waste and he could rest perfectly well at his desk, he’d have you know…he found dramatic news reports totally calming…
I tuned him out, shoved on my jacket, and booked an Uber on my phone, only two minutes away, then left the musty stench of the locker room for the clean, fresh air outside.
The sunshine almost blinded me, glittering against the sidewalk and cars, and I was grateful for the Ray Bans I remembered to grab at the last minute.
I had requested to go be taken a small restaurant downtown, where I could grab a bite to eat, play some stupid game on my phone, pretend there wasn’t yet another mini implosion going on with my team. Not for the first time, I fantasized about retiring early and buying an exotic island somewhere, far away from the politics of the media and pro sports. If it wasn’t for the fact that I loved the game and my team, I would’ve done it years ago. But I did love my job. Underneath all the bullshit of controversy, questionable practices, and the cutthroat media, I still woke up every morning all pumped to go to practice.
Yet sometimes, like now, I just needed a little break—to switch off my mind and exist in the world as someone other than the MVP of last year’s Super Bowl, San Francisco’s society’s most eligible bachelor, and my family’s jewel in their fucking crown.
The truth was, that was all I had going on in life—because, dammit, my life outside of football was kind of pathetic right now. My reputation as a guy with a bad temper had hurt my overall team’s rep. The tabloid frikken’ loved writing about me losing my cool in public places and throwing my fists around. Plus, I was photographed with a different woman almost every week, and the pressure was on me to find a more or less long-term girlfriend—to help my reputation, as Jacob would tell me. Preferably even a wife, because that would supposedly show the press that I didn’t have an anger management problem, because no woman wanted a husband with a short fuse. That would stop all the rumors about my conquests and quell the press’s need to constantly gossip about me.
But lately, I’ve had failed date after failed date—probably because I wasn’t interested in settling down, why the hell would I do that?—leading to me now becoming something like an object of pity. My buddies had branded me “undateable” and started trying to set me up with random strangers, and I was just bored enough to go along with it. A nice lay is a nice lay, am I right? But no one had caught my a
ttention enough to call them again. Cute girls, for the most part, but that was all—cute. Fuckable, certainly. Every one of them. But no spark, no fire, none of that secret magnetic juice that made me want to chase them.
No one except Kylie Weatherby.
I’d met her at my best friend Breck’s wedding—she was the Maid of Honor, I was the Best Man—and she’d knocked me off my fucking feet. Everything about her, from her jade-green eyes to the delicious curves of her body—all in just the right places—her throaty voice and the big, bright smile that took my damn breath away.
She’d been in my head for weeks, popping up whenever I least expected it—at night before sleep, in the shower, while screwing other perfectly sexy women. There had never before been another girl who’d lingered in my thoughts for so long after I’d first seen her, and I knew I had to lay eyes on her again, speak to her, try to find out everything I could about this hottie and bring her into my world.
She’d gotten under my skin, thoroughly and without mercy. And I knew she felt something like it too, maybe not as intently, but definitely something. I’d seen it in her eyes when she looked at me, the flash of darkness there, the catch of her bottom lip between her teeth.
But apparently she didn’t want to act on it, because I’d gotten her number from Breck, called her, and met her voicemail. And she never returned my call. Not even a text.
I rubbed at my eyes, watching stars burst behind my eyelids and then fading as sunlight filtered back in. Then I saw it—the answer to the other problem that had been plaguing me all week: what to get my sister for her birthday this weekend.
I’d been struggling with it ever since she’d first started dropping hints weeks ago, because she was a difficult girl to please. She was the very definition of the spoiled brat, and I loved her regardless, but she infuriated the fuck out of me, especially when she started whining about gifts and parties and me me me.
Bad Boy's Cinderella: A Sports Romance Page 1