Falling for the Bad Boy

by Kennedy Fox

  And when she answers me, in that tone and scowl, I know I’m completely right about her.

  The next morning, I wake up with Wilma’s ass in my face. She’s a feisty feline who doesn’t give two shits about personal space or boundaries and wiggles her way under the covers until she’s comfortable. She’s purring softly, which means she’s still sleeping, but that doesn’t stop me from pushing her away.

  “Nice work, Wilma,” I groan. “Woke me up before my alarm, so I’ll actually have time to make coffee this morning.”

  She stretches and meows before rolling onto her back and waits for me to pet her. I give in and then get dressed before I get too comfortable and fall back asleep.

  “C’mon, Wilma. Let’s get breakfast.”

  I slip on my jeans before heading downstairs. The sun is rising over the water and streaks of reds and oranges are shining through the bay windows. It’s gorgeous. My favorite part of the day actually, but since I’ve been working more than usual lately, I’m usually getting up before the sunrise.

  After refilling Wilma’s food and water, I fill the coffee maker and pull out my mug. Just as I’m digging in the fridge for some creamer, a knock at the back door startles me.

  “Shit,” I curse when I see it’s Vada. She looks like she literally just rolled out of bed with messy hair and sleepy eyes. It’s actually kind of cute.

  “You scared the living shit out of me,” I tell her once I open the door. “What are you doing up so early?”

  “Sorry,” she apologizes, pulling her robe tighter around her waist. “I work best in the morning and was trying to get a head start, but…there’s no coffee maker.”

  “And here I thought you were coming for another viewing.” I cross my arms over my chest, emphasizing my biceps.

  “Funny.” She rolls her eyes, swallowing back a groan that tells me she’s not in the mood for any games. “After letting me get swarmed with mosquitos, the least you could do is let me have some coffee,” she tells me matter-of-factly.

  I grin, leaning against the door. “Well…that’s not the least I could do…”

  “Oh, fuck it. I’ll get dressed and go into town for coffee.” She turns, but before she can walk away, I step forward and grab her arm.

  “Oh, come on.” I chuckle, finding everything about her amusing. “You don’t need to go into town scaring the locals with your raccoon eyes and rat’s nest. I made coffee.”

  She studies me for a moment, staying silent. Her eyes roam down to where my fingers are gripped around her wrist. I remove them and wait for her to say something. Her breath hitches and I wonder if it’s because our bodies are so close—we’re nearly chest to chest—or if it’s from the loss of my touch. Either way, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

  “Fine,” she grits between her teeth. “Only because I’m desperate.”

  I cough to cover up a smile as I widen the door and wave her inside.

  Once she steps in, I shut the door behind her and point a finger to the cupboard near the fridge. “Coffee mugs are in there.”

  “Thank you.” She walks over and reaches inside for one of my mugs, wrapping her fingers securely around it and studies it. “These are spectacular. Where did you find them?” She brushes her fingers across the markings and smooth surface. Tilting it over, she reads the bottom. “Paris?”

  Clearing my throat, I adjust myself, so we’re parallel from each other. I lean up against the island and watch as she admires the mug. “There’s a shop in town that sells them. I probably have a dozen or so.”

  “Wow…I’m impressed.”

  I arch a brow and smile. “With the mug or that I actually own a piece like that?”

  She grins. “Both.”

  The coffee maker beeps, signaling it’s finished brewing. She pours herself a cup, reaches for the creamer in the fridge, and sits down at the breakfast bar. I follow suit, filling my own mug and then sit down on the stool across from her.

  We study each other as she blows carefully in her mug, and before either of us speak up, Wilma makes herself known and rubs up against Vada’s dangling legs.

  “Oh, hello,” she coos in a soft, sweet voice. “And who are you?” Wilma reaches up and paws at her, begging for attention as usual.

  “That’s Wilma,” I tell her. She brings the mug to her lips and takes a small sip as I continue. “She’s the only pussy allowed in my bed, so don’t get any ideas.”

  Before I can react, hot coffee spews from her mouth and lands on my bare chest and face.

  “Oh my God!” She covers her mouth and laughs. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “Wasn’t it obvious? To get your hot saliva all over me.”

  She tilts her head and narrows her eyes. “Do you ever stop?”

  I purse my lips as if I’m truly contemplating her question. “Nah. I live for reactions like yours.”

  “For some reason, I don’t doubt that for one second.” She scowls, reaching for the paper towels on the counter and handing them to me.

  “Aren’t you going to at least clean me up? I mean, it was your fault and all.”

  Rolling her eyes, she takes the roll out of my hand and smacks me in the head with it. “Actually, you brought that on all by yourself. So nice try, Casanova.”

  After cleaning up the coffee mess, I sit back and watch as she pours herself another cup. “So what’s with this term of endearment, Casanova? Does that mean you want to be seduced and bedded or you actually think I’m that kind of guy?”

  “Seduced and bedded?” She laughs, walking back to the stool with her mug of hot coffee. I eye it, making sure she doesn’t spontaneously trip and dump the entire thing on me.

  “You sound like you’ve been reading historical romance or something.”

  “Not since I was fifteen and stealing the novels off my grandmother’s bookshelf.”

  “You read romance novels when you were a teenager?”

  “Only in hopes it came with pictures,” I shamelessly admit, mocking the way she’s throwing jabs at me. “That was before online porn, so I had to do what I had to do.” I shrug, and she bursts out in laughter. I like the sound—a lot, actually. Although she’s a bit uptight, I enjoy watching her laugh. The wrinkles in her face, the freckles that move along her cheeks, and the sweet sound that releases from her throat. It’s adorable.

  Once she controls her laughter, she straightens her posture and purses her lips. “And for the record, it’s not a term of endearment.”

  I’m quick to press my palm flat against my chest, showing defeat. “Why must you break my heart?”

  Her head falls back with laughter, louder than before and I can tell it’s genuine. She’s warming up to me even if she pretends she doesn’t like me.

  “As much as I’m enjoying this little early morning chat with you, I have to get back to my laptop and start writing. Otherwise, this entire trip will be a bust, and I’ll never be able to write again.”

  “You just got here, so don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”

  “Says the person who doesn’t write.” She rolls her eyes as she stands up and takes the mug with her. “There’s no such thing as too much pressure. It’s a part of the lifestyle. You’re either writing, or you’re not writing. There’s no in-between.”

  “Fair enough.” I shrug.

  “Thanks again for the coffee.” She holds up the mug in a peace-offering salute. “I’ll be sure to bring it back in one piece.”

  “That’s not even funny,” I say seriously, pointing a finger at her. “I saw the way you stumbled to the guesthouse last night, so I’m not sure how trustworthy your word is.”

  She gasps, and her jaw drops in mock laughter. “I was nearly killed by a swarm of bugs while you just stood there and laughed!”

  “I didn’t laugh,” I defend. “But it was pretty funny considering you were in the middle of scolding me.”

  She sighs and rolls her eyes, giving up the fight. Although we’d just met, I can actually read her qu
ite well. She’s snarky and quick-witted, just like me, except she knows when to give up. Me—not so much.

  She opens the door, and just before stepping out, looks over her shoulder and smirks. “Have a good day, Casanova.”

  3

  VADA

  He kisses her softly, plucking his thumb along her lower lip, and when she releases a hungry, desperate moan, he slides his tongue in deeper. Helena arches her back, and Jordan wraps his arms around her waist, pressing her body tighter against his. She feels his growing erection against her flesh and can no longer resist the temptation to touch him. She’s been waiting years for this moment…

  Writing sex scenes is the hardest part of the writing process for me. Even though I usually have great feedback from my agent, it takes twice as long to write compared to other scenes. It doesn’t help that I haven’t been inspired due to my own pathetic love life.

  Leaning back in my chair, I stretch my arms over my head and crack my neck from side to side. I can only write for a few hours at a time before I need to get up and walk around. I’m usually alternating between writing and social media, but I vowed to take a social media break while I’m on my mini writing retreat.

  Casanova had mentioned downtown Charleston and all the quaint shops that line the streets. Chicago is covered in shops and malls, but there’s just something about a new city that intrigues me. I close my laptop and decide a short break wouldn’t hurt. Hell, it might inspire me for the first time in weeks.

  After showering and getting dressed, I stop by the main house to ask for suggestions on where I should go, but he’s not home. He must’ve left for work or something, so I schedule an Uber to take me downtown.

  “Thank you,” I tell the driver after he drops me off on the corner of King and Meeting Streets by Marion Square Park. He suggested this area once I told him I wasn’t exactly sure where I wanted to go, and I’m happy to see he didn’t let me down. I can already tell it’s what I was needing.

  “Enjoy yourself,” he tells me with a smile before I shut the door behind me.

  Shops are lined up and down both sides of King Street. The sun is shining brightly above, people are chatting as they walk past, and a high energy is in the air.

  Usually being around a lot of people gives me anxiety, but today I plan to embrace it. Chicago’s always crowded with tourists sight-seeing and locals walking to work, which is why I usually stay isolated in my shoebox apartment. But not here. I want to enjoy the fresh, warm air and all this city has to offer.

  My first stop is a cute boutique with all kinds of handmade goodies. Jewelry and hair accessories, designer handbags, scarves, and sunglasses line the walls and storefront. I barely walk in ten feet before a woman approaches me.

  “Well, hello there.” She greets me with a sweet, southern drawl. “How ya doing?”

  “Fine, thank you.” I smile back. “Your shop is gorgeous.”

  “Thank you.” She beams with pride. “It’s actually my mama’s, but my sister, Cherise and I do most of the customer service duties now that she’s inching toward retirement. Although she still does all the accountin’ and orderin’,” she tells me, but I don’t know why.

  I smile and nod as I run my fingers through one of the scarves on display. “The fabric is so soft.”

  “Oh, that’s because my Aunt Jeannie—she lives across Cooper River o’er there—washes all the fabric in baby oil before sewing the patterns together. Then she steams them, but only using distilled water, and once they dry, she sprays them with organic fabric softener. It’s a process, she says, but she enjoys it, so she keeps doin’ it.” She rambles fast, making it hard to process everything she’s saying.

  Blinking, I bite my lip and nod. “Wow, that’s very cool.” Oversharing must be common around here because you definitely won’t get that in the Midwest.

  Reading her nametag, I see her name is Cherry. Smiling, I walk around the shop as she continues telling me the backstory on every item I pick up. The pair of earrings her Aunt Mae designed, the sunglasses they found in Italy and can barely keep them in stock this time of year, the bracelet her Gram Gram redesigned from a bracelet her mama bought for her many years ago. With how much she talks, I could write an entire novel before I even get a chance to leave the store.

  She asks my name and why I’m visiting. Once I tell her, she goes on and on about how she loved watching My Girl with her kids, who are named Christine and Caitlin, and then proceeds to tell me how she’s read every single Nicholas Sparks novel to date after I tell her I’m a writer who’s here on business.

  By the time I make my way back to the front and checkout with a new scarf and pair of earrings—neither of which I really needed—I know all of Cherry’s pets’ names: Scruffy, Spinner, Spike, and Bella, as well as her thoughts on the annual Labor Day parade that’s coming up. Granted, I was a little put off at first by a stranger telling me so many personal details, but by the time I leave, I’ve actually enjoyed the company—as weird as it was.

  I continue walking down the street, the sun beaming down on me, and decide to tie my hair up into a ponytail. Once I’ve managed to get the hair off my neck, I bend down to pick up my bags when I see the store sign across the street—Paris Pottery & Studio. Recognizing the name from the bottom of Casanova’s mugs, I walk there next.

  I’m in complete awe as I walk inside and look around. Everything looks so clean and artistic. Lining a dark navy-blue accent wall are wooden shelves stocked with clay mugs, bowls, and plates. On the other wall is a display of mugs, similar to the ones in Casanova’s cupboard. I walk toward that side of the store before anyone can stop and tell me their life story.

  A sign on display reads Original Paris Mug, and I pick one up and look at the bottom to see the same Paris logo.

  “Those are South Carolina’s most popular mugs,” a female’s voice comes from behind. I spin around and see a young woman smiling at me. Her name tag reads, Hilary. “Made locally right here in Charleston.” She politely folds her hands in front of her and waits for me to speak.

  “I borrowed one this morning actually,” I tell her. “I was hoping to find one for myself.”

  “Sure, darling. Ethan has a large variety of mugs. I’m sure we can find one you’ll like.” She winks, reaching for one on the shelf. “No two are the same.”

  “Ethan?”

  “The potter. It all started with the Original Paris mug. At first, they were only available online, and it was more of a hobby than a career. He would do live videos of him throwing clay, and people just went crazy over it. Not to mention, he’s not bad to look at either.” She winks, and I’m starting to notice a pattern. “His videos and mugs started blowing up the internet, and soon he was selling out every week.”

  “Wow, that’s amazing,” I say in complete admiration.

  “Oh, that’s just the beginnin’, darling. An investor swooped in so he could make this a career and throw clay full-time. He continued making his mugs and customers wanted more. The demand was so high, he opened up this studio and hired interns to run it.”

  “So you’re an intern?”

  “Yep, from the art institution,” she proudly responds.

  I smile and nod, appreciating the history behind the mugs and studio.

  She starts talking about the process of each one, and it’s all fascinating and overwhelming at the same time. By the way, she talks about him, I imagine this Ethan guy to be early-thirties give or take, obviously good with his hands and gorgeous. If he’s anything like Casanova, probably an arrogant asshole, too.

  “So do you see anything you like?” she asks me, and after taking another look, I pick out two of my favorite.

  “Make sure to hand-wash only,” she reminds me as she hands me a cream-colored bag with the word Paris written in script on both sides. I love all the cute touches this shop has from the personal customer service, the easy shopping experience, and the modern look mixed with the southern decor gives it a rustic vibe.

  “Will d
o,” I promise. “I can’t wait to bring these back to Chicago with me.”

  “Enjoy, sweetheart.”

  After thanking her again and grabbing my bag, I start to head out. Before I open the door, a plaque on the wall grabs my attention. A plaque with Casanova’s face on it.

  4

  ETHAN

  By the time the sun sets, I’m absolutely fucking exhausted. Running a business—a successful one, at that—isn’t easy. Regardless if it’s my passion or not, I want nothing more than to go home, pour a glass of scotch, and sit in the garden. Usually, when I’m anxious or worked up, viewing the flowers and listening to the cicadas in the late afternoon help me relax.

  As soon as I get home and walk in, I go straight to the kitchen, throw some ice cubes in a glass and pour a double of Johnny Walker Double Black. Wilma comes trotting down the stairs and rubs her body against my legs. Bending down, I pet her and place some treats on the floor before walking outside. She’s too busy eating to even notice me leave.

  Finally, I let out a deep breath. I sit on a bench close to the fountain I had installed last summer and listen to the water trickle down the rocks. Just as I put the glass to my lips, Vada comes waltzing by, and I swear she’s purposely shaking her round ass. As soon as she turns around, I’m halfway through an eyeroll. I’m actually kind of getting used to her death glare.

  “No hello or anything?” Her hands fall to her hips, and I have a feeling she’s used to addressing people this way.

  This woman has no filter and calls it like she sees it. After only twenty-four hours, she calls my bullshit like she’s known me for years. Not many people point out my antics; most just look at me with sorrow in their eyes. I push those thoughts away as quickly as they came. Giving a smile that doesn’t affect her in the least way, I realize I may have met my match.