Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  “Yep. Tell you all about it on our date,” I say with a grin. “I assume we’re going on a date?”

  “Hell, yes, we are. Right this very second.”

  The stars don’t twinkle at night in New York City, but I swear I can feel them sparkling overhead in the inky velvet sky. It’s that kind of night—a night for starlight and kisses, for holding hands and whispering sweet everythings.

  West drapes an arm around me as we wander through the crowds at the Luna Park amusement park by the beach. “Tell me one more time,” he says, his delight clear in his voice. “What did he do when you called him a twat?”

  “He did this.” I pull a crinkly, slack-jawed face as we make our way to the Ferris wheel.

  He laughs. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I might need you to tell me that story again before bed.”

  I rest my head against his shoulder briefly. “And I’ll happily do it.”

  Ah, bed. We’ll be heading there soon. Together.

  Happy sigh.

  We reach the Ferris wheel and stand in line. As we wait, we are that couple. The one everyone wants to be. Holding hands, touching hair, laughing. As we amble closer, we talk about our favorite bands and singers.

  I learn he loves Radiohead and Rush, two bands I can’t stand, though their music is slightly less disgusting than beets and turnips, an opinion I share with West that makes him laugh again, since it turns out he detests those veggies too. I tell him that I adore Broadway musicals and the swooniest of male singers like Matt Nathanson and Harry Connick Jr. “I also love Sam Smith,” I confess.

  “Then I’ll play a Sam Smith tune the next time I seduce you,” he whispers as we walk up the ramp, closer to the entrance of the ride.

  I tip my face closer to his. “I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. You’ve already seduced me. Big time.”

  “Very good to hear, but seducing isn’t something you check off a list and consider it done, Gigi. It’s a calling of the highest, most noble order to keep seducing your beautiful, sexy woman day after day.”

  Swoon.

  He’s doing it.

  He is absolutely doing it—seducing me over and over.

  The young, tattooed ride attendant clears his throat. “Step right up. No rocking. No troublemaking. And please don’t spit.”

  I wrinkle my nose.

  As we head to the cage, I shoot West a curious look. “Was that really necessary? Do people do that? Spit at the top of Ferris wheels?”

  “Seems they do. If you’re interested, I’m up for breaking the rules. But fair warning, I’m an excellent spitter. Two older brothers and all.”

  “Gross,” I say pleasantly as I run my hand along his arm then squeeze his bicep. “I had no idea this icky, boyish side of you existed. But I kind of like it.”

  “Brilliant. But let’s hold off on the belching contest. I need a pint or two to really perform in that arena.”

  “If you insist.” I laugh.

  “I do insist. From the bottom of my big bossy heart.”

  I tap his sternum, then run my hand over his chest. “It is very big and very bossy.”

  “Just the way you like it.”

  “Guilty,” I say as we settle into the seat, rocking back and forth as the Ferris wheel starts to climb.

  He clasps my hand, brings my palm to his lips, kisses me. “Tell me something I don’t know about you. Have you ever been to Europe?”

  I sigh. “I haven’t. It’s a travesty, but I’ve always been too busy with work. But I would love to see Big Ben and the Eiffel Tower, and I definitely want to go all the way to the top, and I don’t care if that’s cheesy.” I cut a glance his way. “I bet you hate the Eiffel Tower.”

  He smiles and confirms, “It’s my least favorite part of Paris. But I’ll happily take you to the top and stay there as long as you like.”

  I harrumph. “Fine. What’s your favorite part of Paris?”

  As the Ferris wheel circles higher, he runs his fingers through my hair, his gaze holding mine. His dark eyes shine with desire, but something deeper, too. Something that feels powerful and real and like it’s not stupid to imagine seeing Paris with him.

  Seeing the world with him.

  Maybe even my next ten or twenty birthdays with him.

  “My favorite part of Paris is taking you for a visit at your earliest convenience,” he whispers, and I’m done for.

  That’s it. I’m waving the white flag. Throwing in the towel.

  I am head over heels in love with this man. It’s only been six days, but I don’t care. He’s the man of my dreams. And it’s time for me to tell him so. To take the first step.

  To put my heart on the line.

  Because I feel it.

  And most of all because it’s true to the better, brighter version of myself I’m becoming.

  Less afraid. More daring.

  But still, this is so damn hard. I do my best to swallow down the nerves and the giddy butterflies, except they’re fluttering inside me in equal measure. I run my thumb along his jaw, then cup his cheek. “West Byron, magnificent spitter, wonderful human, person I am so glad I met over a Rubik’s Cube… I am falling madly in love with you.”

  His smile is melting chocolate. “What do you know? I’m falling madly in love with you too, Gigi James.” Then he kisses me just as we reach the top of the Ferris wheel, with all of Brooklyn spread out below and the stars sparkling just for us, even if we can’t see them.

  As we kiss, the Coney Island firework show begins.

  It is a perfect night.

  Wait. No.

  It’s even better. It’s just so.

  26

  West

  The next week is the best week. Ever.

  Life is fucking beautiful and I’m fucking in love and fucking the most amazing woman in the world and if I weren’t already running fucking late after a fucking scone-related emergency at work—note to self, do not let Abby near the oven again, even with pre-mixed dough and detailed instructions—I would insist on fucking Gigi up against the wall by my front door in that fucking fantastic dress.

  “Fuck,” I groan as she lifts the hem of the slinky, emerald-green number, revealing sheer black stockings and satiny garters.

  Garter belts.

  “Fuck, fuck, holy fuck,” I mutter again.

  She laughs as she lets the dress drop back into place around her legs. “You say fuck a lot when you’re stressed.”

  “I’m not stressed.” I run a hand over my rumpled, kitchen-scented hair. “I’m hard. And it’s your fault.”

  “It’s your fault for asking to see my stockings. And if you’re not stressed, you should be.” She glances at the delicate gold watch on her wrist. “You have exactly seventy minutes to shower and get your sexy ass to the venue. And traffic is awful heading to Williamsburg at rush hour on Fridays.”

  “I’ll take the tube,” I say offhandedly, earning myself a frustrated sigh from my oh-so-sexy partner in crime.

  Ah, partner.

  I like the thought a little more every time it drifts through my head.

  “No, West,” she says patiently, “I told you, there’s no easy way to get there from here on the subway. You’d either have to go all the way into Manhattan first or transfer twice in Brooklyn and then catch a bus and you’ll—”

  “Never get there on time,” I finish just as a car horn honks outside. I shoo her off. “Go. Get settled. I’ll see you there.”

  She hesitates, her brow furrowing. “Maybe you should just come with me in the car now. You look better with a five o’clock shadow and sticky kitchen face than most men look after an hour of primping.”

  “There’s plenty of time for me to primp. Go.”

  “But I—”

  “Go,” I insist. “I’m a big boy, I can take care of myself and you later tonight, after I win and you do a striptease for me to celebrate.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Silly, man, I’m doing a striptease for you no matter who wins.” Then s
he winks, blows me a kiss, and hurries out the door to the car.

  I watch her through the glass beside the door for a moment.

  She looks damn good walking away from me. And even better headed back the other direction.

  Making a mental note to ask her to move in with me as soon as it’s remotely appropriate—two more weeks? Maybe one? Or tonight?— I take the stairs two at a time and rush through a shower.

  Seventy-five minutes later, I’m stuck in traffic at least ten minutes from the venue—a hotel in Williamsburg with a large rooftop beer garden where we’ll be cooking as the sun sets.

  But it’s fine. It’s not like I need a tour of my station this time around. I know the ropes, and I’ll be there long before the actual cooking starts.

  Still, I pull out my cell and text Gigi.

  West: In the car. Going to be a few minutes late, but almost there.

  She texts back quickly.

  Gigi: Oh good. I want you to check your station very carefully when you get here. Hawley’s looking far too pleased with himself.

  Grimacing, I reply.

  West: Abby isn’t there, is she? She said she might swing by if things weren’t too crowded at the shop tonight. If she does, and Hawley says something awful to her, or so much as looks at her the wrong way, I might really have to punch him.

  Gigi sends over an angry face emoji, then an explanation.

  Gigi: I’ll hold his arms for you, but no. She’s not here. But I think she’ll be fine if she does show. The fling with the hot bus boy has been good for her self-esteem.

  My eyes bulge.

  West: What? She’s banging the hot busboy? You mean Eduardo? When did this happen?

  My phone rings and I answer it to hear Gigi whisper softly, “Yes, Eduardo. Don’t pretend you don’t know which one is the hot busboy. And it’s been happening for a little over a week and she’s having amazing orgasms and he’s very generous and complimentary and makes her feel beautiful and everything is fine. But now you have to pretend I didn’t tell you. I thought you already knew, or I wouldn’t have said a word. I don’t share girl talk with people outside the girl-talk bubble, not even you.”

  “He’s barely old enough to drink,” I grunt.

  “And she’s still in her twenties, and it’s fine, and you can relax about that. But not about Hawley.” She makes a gagging sound. “Ugh. He’s giving off super oily vibes tonight, like the cat who pooped in the cocoa. Get here and go over everything in your area with a fine-tooth comb.”

  I promise I will, whisper a few PG-rated things about how eager I am to see her in that dress again—my driver doesn’t seem to be listening, but it’s hard to tell—and end the call.

  At the hotel, I bound out of the car and into the lobby, where I’m met by a frizzy-haired woman with kind brown eyes. “I’ll show you up. I’m with the contest organizers.”

  We take the express elevator to the roof and step out into a sun-drenched fairyland.

  This beer garden is truly a garden, filled with planters overflowing with flowers, potted hedges that form natural dividers between the seating areas, and even a few trees that seem to be growing straight out of the roof in the center of the space. The cooking stations are at the opposite end of the open area. Since there isn’t a tent this time, I easily spot Gigi standing next to Mr. Skips.

  Her hair catches the sunset and glows a brilliant ruby red. The light shimmers on her dress too, making it look like she’s glittering all over, like a 1950’s movie star lit to her best advantage, destined to break a million hearts.

  But not mine.

  I know, as soon as she sees me, that bombshell smile of hers will make me feel like I’m the only man in the room. Or on the roof.

  My lips are already curving up at the edges, but when I reach the pantry staging area where the other contestants are selecting their staple ingredients for tonight’s Death by Chocolate challenge, Gigi doesn’t turn my way.

  And she doesn’t smile.

  In fact, she looks like she’s about to be sick. She tips her head down, shoulders curling. She nods at something Mr. Skips is saying and presses two fingers between her eyebrows.

  “What’s going on?” I ask Willow softly once I make my way to where she’s busy by the flour canisters. I nod toward Gigi and Mr. Skips, but she clearly already knows what I’m talking about.

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know. Mr. Skips said he had to talk to Gigi and pulled her aside a few minutes ago. He looked really upset.”

  “So does she,” I murmur.

  “She should,” an oily voice announces behind me. It’s Hawley, of course, sticking his nose where it isn’t wanted. I turn to glare at him—eye to eye—and then turn back around without another word.

  Unfortunately, the Cut Direct doesn’t work this time.

  “Clearly, she thought she could get away with it,” he continues. “But cheaters always get theirs, sooner or later.”

  I whirl back around. “Yes, they do. Is now a good time for yours?” I lift my fists. “I’ve got one for cheating on my sister like the sad, pitiful prick you are, and another for whatever you did to Gigi.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Hawley says, but he takes a step back. “Aside from a little digging on your girlfriend. And I didn’t have to dig very deep. She didn’t even try to cover her tracks. There’s a picture of her with Mr. Skips right on the community page of her website.” His eyes glitter with ugly satisfaction. “She’s holding his hand by a giant pie her mother made for some street fair twenty years ago.”

  I scowl. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “He’s talking about the fact that I’ve known Mr. Skips since I was a kid,” Gigi’s says from my right, her voice tight with choked-back tears.

  I shift my gaze, my chest filling with knives as I see the tragic, shame-filled look on her face.

  “The organizers aren’t allowed to choose family or close friends as contestants,” she continues. “Mr. Skips didn’t think we’d spent enough time together for me to be out of the running, but once someone pointed out how long we’ve known each other…” She shoots a cutting look Hawley’s way. “Well, the other organizers agreed that I should be disqualified.” She swallows and says to the group at large. “So… I’m out. I won’t be competing tonight.”

  I go cold, my heart frozen.

  This can’t be happening to my Gigi.

  I have to do something.

  Some of the contestants murmur dismayed, sincere-sounding apologies, but Hawley just stands there, smugly beaming.

  Gloating.

  So bloody pleased with himself for ruining an innocent woman’s dream, for snatching her one shot at something that matters right out from under her.

  I won’t let him get away with it.

  No Cut Direct this time.

  I’ve got another plan.

  One that’ll make all my feelings absolutely clear.

  In seconds, I have the flour canister in my hands and upended over Hawley, raining wheat flour all over his wretched head.

  Oh, well. Who uses wheat flour with chocolate anyway?

  He sputters and lets out a shocked, squawking sound. His arms fly out to the sides, and his shoulders hunch as flour slides down the back of his flamingo print button-down shirt to stain the back of his navy pants.

  “You miserable fucking wanker,” he finally sputters out. “But thanks. Now you’ll be disqualified too.”

  “But it was an accident,” Willow pipes up from beside me, steel in her voice I haven’t heard before. “Wasn’t it, everyone?”

  “Yeah, just flew off the shelf,” the young guy in the purple apron says.

  “Must have been the wind,” adds the older woman who specializes in flan as the rest of the assembled crew make noises of agreement.

  Clearly no love lost for Hawley here.

  “You’d better get to your station,” Willow adds in a soft yet slightly ominous voice. “Before something else accidentally falls on you.” Th
en she pelts him with one of the chocolate chips from the cup in her hand.

  It hits him in the neck and lodges in a mound of flour near his collar.

  Hands curling into fists, he storms away with a huff.

  After he’s gone, I realize he’s not the only one who’s made a run for it.

  I search every inch of the rooftop, but Gigi’s vanished.

  Gone. Like she was never here to start with.

  27

  Gigi

  I thought I knew embarrassment when I vomited all over Christy Cannon’s bathroom door during her eighth-grade Christmas party. I’d drunk eggnog, like a fool. I’d wanted to see if I was still allergic to eggs.

  The verdict?

  Disgustingly, violently allergic.

  Half my class saw me yak up a yule log before I could make it to the toilet.

  That felt like a ten on the one-to-ten scale of life’s most horrifying moments.

  Then, there was Theodore, watching me slide with a look that said I couldn’t be more horrifically uncool or embarrassing if I tried.

  Those moments feel tiny compared to this one.

  As the elevator doors open, releasing me into the lobby, I want to race out of here, tear down the street, leave this all behind.

  But I hate running, and I’m wearing two-inch pumps.

  My heart thrashes inside my chest, mortified by what I’ve done.

  Fine, what I did wasn’t technically awful.

  But the fact that I messed up so publicly, in front of everyone I respect, Hawley aside, is awful.

  The fact that West and Willow and Mr. Skips and the other contest organizers and everyone I wanted to impress saw me step in it makes me feel so very small.

  And it’s my fault.

  I didn’t pay close enough attention to the rules.

  I missed the caveat. The catch.

  And now I just served up my aching, tender heart on a platter for everyone to feast on. Hi, I’m Gigi, and I’ve been disqualified for being an idiot.