Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  “I’m Gigi,” she purrs.

  I eye her up and down once more. Her purple dress. Her shoes decorated with comic-book drawings of Wonder Woman, Cat Girl and a mélange of female superheroes. The apple pie charm necklace that rests between the tops of her breasts. “You couldn’t be anything but a Gigi.”

  She flashes an absolutely fantastic grin that makes my skin sizzle. “You get me, I think.”

  Even this woman’s smile turns me on.

  Whatever game we’re playing right now, she’s winning and that’s fine by me.

  Her fingers fly as she leads off the first round for our team of two, starting by lining up the white center then twisting with rocket speed to make a white cross.

  Naturally. That’s the only way to start.

  She shifts another threesome clockwise, then the next one counterclockwise. I glance at the timer, where the second hand ticks mercilessly.

  “Go on—you’ve got this,” I say.

  But she needs no encouragement. She’s a natural, and I’m enthralled with her play.

  Her moves are mesmerizing, her fingers a blur, her eyes intensely focused. In forty-five seconds, the puzzle is gorgeously solid on all six sides. Gigi thrusts it victoriously above her head, then sets it down on the gaming table, smugly triumphant.

  “Done. In less than a minute,” she says with a flutter of her long lashes.

  I high-five her, since that’s what you do here in the States. “Nothing sexier than that.”

  She arches a brow. “Really? Nothing? Are you sure about that, West?”

  Oh, she gives good dirty banter, and I lower my voice to a smoky whisper. “Right. You have me there. Nothing sexier…with clothes on, anyway.”

  “I beg to differ.” She shrugs one bare shoulder, in a deliciously coquettish move. “Sometimes it’s even more fun with clothes on, shoved aside because you just can’t wait those few extra minutes…”

  A groan escapes my lips. This woman owns her sexuality, no doubt about it.

  I clear my throat. “I concede. That is sexier.” I hold her gaze for a second, savoring the glimmer in her eyes—the invitation written clearly in them.

  But the moment ends when the game master shouts. “Teams four, eight, twelve, sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one, twenty-three, and twenty-six—congratulations, you will advance to round two.”

  He slams the bell and it’s my turn.

  Wasting no time, I grab the next cube on the edge of the stage in front of us. The pattern of colored squares may seem frustratingly random, but I see possibilities and permutations, and they unfurl before my eyes. I tackle the cube as I have since I was a kid. Intent on the puzzle, I move the sections around and around, making the orange face, the red one, and so on. In fifty seconds, I’m done.

  “Wow,” Gigi breathes.

  “I told you.” I blow on my fingers. “Under a minute.”

  She hums appreciatively. “And to think I doubted you.”

  “Did you really?”

  She spreads her hands in front of her, a shrug of admission. “Men like to brag, West, but don’t always come through. But looks like you deliver the goods.”

  Delivering the goods is exactly what I’d like to do with this puzzle-solving, bustier-wearing spitfire of a woman.

  “What do you say we lay a wager on the next round?” I ask. “See which one of us solves it faster.”

  She arches a brow, seeming intrigued. “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr. Sexy English Cuber Magic Hand Man?”

  And that seals the deal for me. Any woman who can make a seven-word nickname sound that sexy isn’t one you let slip through your fingers.

  “I lose, I buy you a drink at the bar down the street.”

  She cocks her head. “And if I win?”

  “I buy you a drink at the bar down the street.”

  “Well, it sounds like I’ve already won, then,” she says with a slow smile.

  Or maybe…we both have.

  3

  Gigi

  There has to be something terribly wrong with this man.

  He’s probably an axe murderer.

  Or he eats sardines for every meal.

  Or he trims his toenails with his teeth.

  Whatever it is, it must be truly heinous. There’s no other explanation for why this buff, bearded, brilliant, and naughty man hasn’t already been snapped up by an equally magnificent woman.

  Or maybe he’s just a serial cheater and a commitment-phobe like all the other men you liked enough to go out with more than once.

  Like Nelson, a Manhattan divorce attorney who barked orders at his minions but whispered sweet nothings to me. I stupidly ignored his I-treat-underlings-odiously side. Should have listened to my gut, since he turned out to be odious on every side. Not only did he refuse to ever come to Brooklyn to see me, he also cheated with a client of his, a woman who owns a button shop in the East Village where I sometimes ventured when I needed the perfect button for a vintage ensemble.

  Suffice it to say, I do not frequent her shop anymore.

  But Odious Nelson and his Buttonista are the past, and I mean to enjoy the hell out of my present.

  Meeting West’s gaze over our Scrabble board, I smile. Silly brain, it doesn’t matter what’s wrong with him or if he lives to cheat.

  This isn’t the start of a beautiful relationship.

  This is one night with a magnetic man who’s made me smile more in an hour than I have in months.

  Genuinely smile, I mean. At Sweetie Pies, I’m all over the customer service smile—I have one of the best in the business, if I do say so myself—but it’s been a long time since I felt so…fizzy inside. So excited and eager and filled with anticipation.

  It’s just so easy to be with this beautiful Brit.

  Maybe that’s what’s wrong with him. Maybe he’s only here on vacation…

  “There,” he says, laying down his tiles. “It isn’t as dirty as I’d like, but the letters aren’t playing nice with me this round.”

  “Quiz.” I nod in approval as I add to his point column on our sheet of scrap paper. “Twenty-two points. If you can’t be dirty, go for the high score.”

  “Precisely what I was thinking. Though, I think you should get extra points for nookie.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t need pity points,” I say breezily. “I’ll beat you again fair and square.”

  He chuckles. “I already owe you two drinks. At this rate we’ll both be sauced before the end of the night.”

  I beat his best time at Rubik’s Cube—securing our team the title and a pair of matching T- shirts—and tromped him in our first round of Scrabble. But he doesn’t seem at all miffed by having his fine ass handed to him. Yet another point in his favor. Sore losers are so irritating, but so many men just can’t stand losing, especially to a woman.

  “Well,” I say as I select my tiles for maximum point damage, “there are worse ways to end an evening.”

  “Says the woman drinking black coffee all night,” he teases.

  “Just keeping my wits about me,” I murmur. “For now. So, when do you fly home?” I add casually, as if I couldn’t care less that he’s from a foreign country far, far away.

  “No need to fly. I’m in Brooklyn. Just bought a place near the Church Street Station.”

  I resist the urge to be giddy about the fact that he’s a twelve-minute walk across the park from my place—eight if I skip the entire way.

  This man makes me feel like skipping.

  Which is dangerous, not to mention the opposite of sexy.

  Men don’t like women who skip, even if their boobs are exceptionally bouncy while they’re doing it. Men like women who are serious or sarcastic or glamorous or, at the very least, not silly. I learned that the hard way after I zoomed down the slide on Governor’s Island— New York’s longest—giggling like a madwoman the entire way, and found Theodore waiting at the bottom with a pained, embarrassed expression.

  He did not find my whimsy charming.
>
  He found it so un-charming, in fact, that he broke up with me two days later.

  So, now, instead of giving in to giddiness, I hum beneath my breath, my focus on the board. “Nice. You’re close, then. You won’t even need an Uber to get home after I drink you under the table.”

  He laughs that husky, delicious laugh of his. “Is everything a competition with you?”

  “You started it.” I peer up at him through my lashes. “And no, I’m not all that competitive, really. Just with games. And work. And girlfriends.”

  “You’re competitive with your friends? How so?” he asks, then adds more cautiously, “Like…which of you makes the most money or something?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I scoff. “I’m not competitive with them. I’m competitive about being their favorite. I want them to like me more than any of their other best girls.” I lift two fingers pinched close together. “Just a little bit more.”

  West hums. “Interesting. And why is that, do you think?”

  I bob a shoulder, wishing I hadn’t confessed that last bit. I don’t want to get up close and personal with this man, I just want to ride him all night like the rollercoaster at Coney Island.

  But there’s no way to steal the words back, so I figure I might as well answer honestly. “I just love them so much. Adore them, really. They’re such clever, kind, creative, funny people. It feels good to be special to someone like that.”

  “So, which friend do you like the best?”

  I blink, horrified at the thought. “None of them. I like them all exactly the same. My heart has room for dozens of favorites.” I see his point and wrinkle my nose at his smug—but still oh-so-handsome—grin. “Right. Thank you for your insight, Mr. Magic Hands. But I think you should pay less attention to the conversation and more to your final word score.” I place my tiles and glance up at him with a triumphant grin.

  “Zax,” he reads with a heavy sigh.

  “It’s a—”

  “Tool for trimming and puncturing roof slates. Yes, I know. I’ve played that a time or two myself.” He cracks his knuckles. “Nineteen points to you. Which means I need a solid fifteen or more for my next word or I’ll never catch up.”

  “It’s all on the line now,” I say breathlessly.

  It’s ridiculous to be turned on because he knows the definition of “zax.” Or because he can do math in his head, and quickly too.

  But hello, tingles running down my spine.

  A man who knows his numbers just rings my bell.

  “Time to do or die,” he agrees. He plucks two tiles from his own tray and lays them down next to my Z without breaking eye contact.

  Cheeks flushing, I glance down to see he’s played “zek” and whisper, “An inmate at a Soviet labor camp.”

  He makes a soft, almost pained sound beneath his breath, and I look up, nipples tightening in my bustier as his gaze bores into mine. “You are…the sexiest woman I’ve ever met. I concede.”

  “You can’t concede,” I say, fighting a smile. “I haven’t beaten you yet.”

  “Oh yes, you have. I’m utterly destroyed,” he murmurs. “And there’s only one thing that might ease my suffering.”

  “And that is?” I arch a brow, electricity dancing over my skin as he takes my hand across the board.

  “You. Me. Dark corner booth at the bar. Bourbon apple ciders with extra whipped cream. On me.”

  My brain conjures an image of West naked, with whipped cream topping the part of him I can’t wait to get my hands—and my mouth—on. I smile what I’m sure is a wicked grin. Absolutely positively wicked.

  And excited.

  And oh-so-ready to be somewhere dark and cozy with this man.

  “That sounds perfect.” I give his fingers a squeeze. “Just let me settle my tab, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  “No, I’ll settle it,” he says. “I’m paying tonight. One of the perks of victory.”

  As a successful business owner, I can absolutely pay for my own coffee and spiked cider—and anything else I need, for that matter—but it’s been ages since a man offered to treat me. Every guy I’ve dated recently prefers to split the check or let me pay, something I always offer to do if I’m the one to suggest the restaurant or bar.

  If West wants to pamper me a little, I won’t object. “All right. Thank you. I like perks.”

  “Good, because the perks are just getting started,” he says with a wink that would seem cheesy from any other guy.

  But this man can pull off a wink, wear the hell out of a suit, and master a Rubik’s Cube. Plus, he knows all the high-scoring Scrabble words by heart. Maybe I am going to ride a unicorn tonight. A hot, bearded unicorn.

  As I watch him walk to the bar, I decide that, with a backside like that, he could probably pull off just about anything. And of course, to me, his nerdy side is nearly as attractive as his drop-dead sexy exterior and swoon-worthy accent.

  Nearly.

  West pays the check, returns my un-swiped credit card, and pulls my chair out in a display of manners that’s also sexy as hell. If he offers his arm and insists I walk on the side of the street farthest from the curb as we transition to the bar, I might faint.

  Or spontaneously orgasm.

  Preferably the latter.

  Wait. Nope. I don’t want to trip the light fantastic on a street. I’ll faint, have him catch me, and when I come to in the middle of his bed, he’ll deliver multiples.

  He is good at math after all.

  He pushes my chair in and nods toward the stage. “I need to say goodbye to my friends before we leave. Want to come?”

  I blink and suck in a breath. “You have friends here? God, I’m so sorry. They must think I’m awful, monopolizing you for the entire night.”

  He smiles as he takes my hand, sending another sizzle up my arm. “Not at all. They’re newlyweds. Repulsively in love. Barely notice if there’s anyone else in the room. You know the type.”

  I laugh. “I do, actually. But I’ll wait by the door if that’s okay. I need to hit the ladies before we leave.”

  “All right,” he says, releasing my hand with a squeeze. “See you in a bit, then, Gigi.”

  “In a bit, West,” I echo and head to the line for the restroom, even though I don’t really need to go.

  Meeting his friends might make this feel like more than an easy, breezy thing, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to feel stressed or nervous or pressured to score another date. I’ve had enough of that. I simply want to be in the moment and enjoy tonight.

  And if it leads to something more than a night…well, that would be nice, I guess. But if it doesn’t, I’m okay with that too, as long as I get to play naked Twister with West while I have the chance.

  Or naked dominoes. Or naked poker.

  As long as we’re naked, I’m guessing any game we play will be ten times as fun.

  4

  West

  In the main gaming room, I peer over Graham’s shoulder as he rolls the die onto the Clue board—Cluedo in the UK—at the high table.

  “I vote for Miss Scarlett. It’s always Miss Scarlett,” I whisper unhelpfully. “With the candlestick.”

  Graham sears me with a look.

  His wife tsks. “West, don’t give it away. Graham is just learning how to play Clue.”

  I jerk my head back. “You don’t know how to play Clue?”

  “I know how. I’m just not obsessed with board games like some people,” my American friend says, pretending to search for someone in the crowd.

  “No idea who you might mean.”

  “Also, I prefer strip Clue,” he mutters as he moves his game piece to the library.

  “Sweetheart, you wouldn’t be any better at that,” CJ says sympathetically then adopts a cheery grin. “Which means we should go home and play right now.”

  Graham shifts to her side of the standing table to loop an arm around her waist. “And it’ll be my wife in the kitchen with my candlestick.”

&n
bsp; She swats his shoulder as I roll my eyes. “Like I told my new friend—revoltingly in love, you two.” That gets CJ’s attention. “Is the new friend of the female variety?”

  “Yes. A lovely, brilliant one. We’re off to grab a nightcap.”

  Graham points to the door. “Why the hell are you talking to us, then? Get out of here.”

  “Just letting you know I’m taking off.”

  CJ shoos me with both hands. “And now you may go. Be on your way.”

  “So much for manners,” I say.

  CJ scoffs. “No need for niceties when there’s love in the air.”

  “Love?” I voice the four-letter word like it tops the lot of them. Because it does, along with tuna and iron. If I never eat sushi or flatten my own shirt collar again, I’ll consider myself a lucky man. “No, none of that nonsense. Just a good time with a great woman. See you two later.”

  The last time I felt the inklings of something more than like, I learned Olivia was only interested in a five-letter word. Money. Another reason why I have no patience for dating games.

  When I leave The Library, I find Gigi outside leaning against the brick wall, holding her phone out in front of her, arm outstretched.

  Is she taking a selfie?

  Odd.

  Despite the showy clothes, she doesn’t seem like an Instagrammer. A selfie seems against her code.

  If pressed, I would have said selfies were beneath her.

  But maybe I’m doing that thing again, that thing where I think better of people than they deserve. I’d hoped to leave that habit behind me in London.

  Gigi turns her gaze to me, laughs, then rolls her eyes as she waggles the phone. “I was trying to make the font smaller. I have this friend who sends me drafts of her sexy short stories to read for feedback. But they’re in twenty-point font. I have to scroll every other sentence.”

  “That’s quite a large font.”

  She gives an approving nod. “Yes, it is. I’m generally good with…large things. But I like to tease Rosie about being a Gigantic Font Whore. She teases back, saying I’ll be grateful for anything gigantic in my life when I’m her age.” She adds in a confiding stage whisper, “Though at fifty I’m pretty sure she’s getting more action than all of my other friends put together. Her blog is scandalous.”