Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  But not for me. For Gigi. For the woman I adore, who left her parting orders—Kick Hawley’s arse.

  Mission accepted.

  Now, as the sun dips toward the horizon, pulling the day away with it, I send out a wish—on my mother’s memory and on the love she left me along with her soufflé recipe—that the rest of the evening will go as I hope.

  Mr. Skips huddles with the judges then clears his throat and approaches the microphone, ready to announce the winners.

  He stands before the crowd in a seersucker suit and a panama hat, beaming with pride. But there’s disappointment too, likely over Gigi’s ousting.

  I get it. I feel it. Justice didn’t win out today, and the only way to make that even slightly more palatable is if someone other than Hawley wins the prize.

  Please, let it be someone other than that fucking weasel…

  Please don’t let him win. Not when I’m out of flour and sugar and all other easy-to-dump-over-an-asshole’s-head materials.

  Though, I do a have a few leftover eggs I can toss if needed…

  “Every day is better with a little sugar in it,” Mr. Skips says, patting his rotund belly. “Believe me, I know.” He holds for polite chuckles from the audience parked at the picnic tables scattered across the roof. “But I have no guilt about my love of sweets, cakes, chocolates, and treats. Like my grandmother, the wedding cake queen of Brooklyn, always said: The world can always use more of two things—love and frosting. And that’s why she started this contest, to celebrate the sweet things in life. So, without further ado, I’m pleased to announce our top three contestants. In third place is—” He takes a beat to scan his index card. I clench my fists, nerves tearing through me. “Frederick James Ebenezer Hawley.”

  Ha! Brilliant.

  Bloody fucking brilliant!

  I stifle a whoop of victory as I whip my gaze to the tosser. Hawley’s doing a stellar impression of a beet, slowly turning red as embarrassment floods his neck, his face, even his beady little eyeballs.

  The sore-loser scarlet matches his polo shirt perfectly as he pastes on a thin-lipped smile, giving a simpering thank you nod that makes me want to punch him. But doesn’t everything?

  Now I have a very real shot at the top prize.

  Like Gigi wanted.

  Like she hoped.

  But all I can think is that she should be here.

  That she would love to see this.

  And then, a vision in emerald emerges from the elevator.

  Is that…?

  I squint as the redhead steps onto the rooftop garden with her hand raised to shield her eyes from the fading sun as she scans the line of chefs gathered in front of our stations.

  It’s her.

  My Gigi.

  She’s a little messy—dress wrinkled, hair pulled into a crooked ponytail, mascara smudged beneath her eyes—but she’s still beautiful.

  Maybe even more beautiful.

  Because I know she showed up messy and in a rush for me. So we could share this victory—or defeat—together.

  But I honestly don’t care anymore which it is. All I want is her.

  It seems she feels the same. The moment our eyes connect, she starts across the garden at a jog.

  I jolt away from my station but stop myself before I go more than a few steps. I don’t want to steal Mr. Skips’s limelight.

  The older man’s clever eyes bounce between the two of us, and his lips stretch into a sly little smile. “Just a moment, sweet-lovers of all ages. There’s a very close call here for first and second place. I’ll need to confer with the judges for a moment.” He trundles over to the judge’s table, giving me all the opportunity I need.

  I close the distance to Gigi as she rushes to me, throwing her arms around my neck and pressing a kiss to my cheek. “I need to tell you something important,” she says, her words spilling out at Mach speed. “I love you. And I’d still love you if you didn’t have a library, or if you lived in a tiny room in the back of Tea and Empathy and your clothes always smelled like scones. I’d love you if you didn’t wear suits. I’d love you if you didn’t drink fifty-year-old whiskey or have the world’s greatest board game collection. Because the way I feel for you has nothing to do with any of that.”

  She clasps my face, stroking my jaw as she delivers the very best love speech. Better, even, than the one on the Ferris wheel. That was fantastic, but this is one for the ages.

  “I love everything about you. Your witty brain and your gorgeous face and your big heart, and the way you keep things in perspective, even when it’s hard,” she says before adding with a soft smile, “And I love that you insist you aren’t running late even when you are. And that you refuse to stress even when you probably should. And that you look down your nose at bankers, even though you used to be one, and that you are very snotty about socks.”

  I hug her closer. “My feet demand a certain standard of heel cushioning and reinforcement.”

  “I know they do,” she says. “And I love that you insist on getting what you need, even when it means leaving for your morning run when I’d rather you stay in bed and snuggle.” She sighs and her brows pinch together. “I just…wanted you to know. That I love you like that. And that I’m kind of hoping you might love me the same way.”

  Before I can insist that I adore every fucking thing about her from her poise, loyalty, intelligence, and killer sex-appeal to the way she leaves empty coffee cups all over the house and constantly misplaces her purse, Mr. Skips returns to the microphone. “All right, we’re all sorted! In second place is West Byron.”

  I freeze, then blink.

  Well…

  Good.

  If things pan out the way I think they have, this is actually quite good.

  As if reading my mind, a wide-eyed Gigi lifts her crossed fingers between us.

  “And the winner, for her absolutely incredible, sinfully delicious chocolate indulgence molten cake, is”—Mr. Skips takes a dramatic beat—“Willow Thompson.”

  “Oh, my.” Gigi claps her hand over her mouth, clearly thrilled. Then as she joins in the applause echoing through the garden, she glances up at me. “You’re not upset, are you?”

  I shake my head. “Couldn’t be less upset, in fact. You?”

  She beams. “No. Not a bit. She totally deserves this. One hundred percent.”

  As soon as the clapping and cheering dies down a little, Gigi takes my hand and pulls me over to Willow, throwing her arms around the dog-loving cupcake baker. “I’m so happy for you! You’re going to be an incredible Mrs. Sweets.”

  “Thank you. I can’t quite believe it yet,” Willow says in an awed voice. “I never expected I might actually win.”

  Gigi smiles. “I did. You’re an incredible baker. And your cupcakes are the best in the city. We should celebrate! You want to get lunch tomorrow?”

  “I would love to,” says the once shy, still shy, but now bolder woman.

  When a beaming older couple—Willow’s parents I’m guessing—whisk her away for pictures with Mr. Skips, I guide Gigi to a quiet corner of the garden, gather her into my arms, and return all my attention to her. “What’s come over you, woman? Where’s my ruthless competitor? My Scrabble destroyer?” I ask with a laugh.

  She shrugs coquettishly then leans closer, whispering just for me. “Oh, she’s here. She’s definitely here.” Her tone turns serious, a touch emotional. “And I was really upset to be disqualified, but I didn’t want to let that keep me from being present for the people I care about. Like Willow. And you. Especially you. You’re so...good, West. Honestly, sometimes I think I don’t deserve you.”

  I furrow my brow. “Nonsense. Stop that. That’s not true.”

  She presses her hand to my chest. “No, I want to say this. I can be foolish and silly sometimes.”

  “Silly in a good way,” I insist.

  Her lips quirk. “Thanks, but silly in a bad way, too. I know that. That’s just…part of who I am. Sometimes I’m going to make emba
rrassing mistakes or have it less together than I’d like. And I will probably never be as cool as you are.”

  I start to scoff again, but she continues, “I hope that’s okay. I want to be open and honest with you. I just want to be…me. And for you to be you. And to know we’ll forgive each other when we fall short and maybe even love each other more for it.”

  My heart soars. I came to New York determined to keep my dating life casual and uncomplicated. But that determination is long gone. I want complicated. I want happy and sad, rain and shine, good and bad with this woman.

  “I want all of those things, with you and only with you. Always with you.” I run my knuckles along her cheek. “And I think you’re the cool one.”

  She huffs. “Yeah?”

  “The fucking coolest.” I tuck her hair behind her ear. “You’re wonderful, even when you’re messy.”

  Her smile looks like she’s starting over, learning to let go. “Thank you. I’m going to do a better job of that—being okay with a little mess. I hear it makes you a better, happier person.” She arches a playful brow. “Not to mention girlfriend.”

  I lean in and press a soft kiss to those lips I love. “You’re already the best girlfriend, but I love this plan. And I love you. All of you. I didn’t just fall in love with the outside, you know. I’m mad for that fierce, brave, and loyal heart of yours. And I’m going to keep it safe, Gigi. I promise.”

  “Good.” Her breath hitches and her eyes shine. “Because it’s yours, West. It’s all yours.”

  I cup her cheeks, drawing her in close for a kiss as night falls across my adopted city.

  Neither of us won the day, but as I kiss the woman I adore, I know I’m taking home the biggest prize of all.

  Once we reach my place, we fall together onto the couch.

  Her dress comes off. Her bra. Her knickers. My trousers. All our clothes vanish.

  Then my Gigi straddles me and drops down on top of me deliciously. I fill her in one hot thrust, savoring the tightness, feeling like I’ve come home. I run my hands up her back, loving the soft slide of her skin. I make love to her and do all the things we like best.

  I smack her arse, pull her hair, and kiss her madly. I glide a hand between her legs, touching her where she wants me most.

  Like I did the first night. Like I intend to every night.

  It’s a gift when the woman you love shows you all the pieces of herself, and I mean to treasure every part of Gigi.

  To treasure her.

  To give her love and a ridiculous number of orgasms.

  After number five or six, I take her hand, clasping it as I catch my breath with my cock still buried inside her. “You are my favorite thing about New York. Aside from that T-shirt we won on our first date, of course.”

  She nods seriously. “Understandable. That’s a sweet shirt.”

  “Not as sweet as you are.” I kiss her neck and murmur against her warm skin, “Is it okay that I can’t get enough of you?”

  “No,” she teases. “I demand to be sent home right away. No more orgasms, no strip Scrabble in the library, no champagne in the claw-foot tub.”

  I pull back to gaze down at her with a wicked grin. “I’m going to destroy you at strip Scrabble.”

  “Not if I destroy you first,” she says, her eyes glittering.

  “You’re a very bad woman. You know that?”

  She cups my face. “How can I help it, when you make it feel so good? Now, get dressed and take me to your library, you sexy beast, and let’s see how fast I can get you naked again.”

  We do just that.

  And it’s very bad.

  And oh-so-good.

  And something I hope lasts for a very long time, indeed.

  31

  Gigi

  Four months later…

  * * *

  “No. I refuse to cave under your interrogation tactics!” Abby crosses her arms and sits on the wooden stool in the corner of the courtyard behind Tea and Empathy, shivering in the evening breeze. “West will have my head if I tell you anything except that he’ll be here by seven.”

  “No, he won’t,” I say. “He’ll have your head if he finds out you and Eduardo are still having sex in the basement before he gets here every morning.”

  Her eyes go wide. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t.” I bat my lashes. “As long as you tell me what West was up to this morning.”

  “Gigi, seriously. What else am I supposed to do with those twenty minutes?” she deflects. “Sit around and watch the scones bake when there’s a perfectly beautiful man just waiting for me to fly down the stairs and jump on him like a primal tigress? Don’t you agree I have a duty to embrace my inner tigress?”

  I fight a grin. One thing I’ve learned about Abby in the past few months—she’ll say anything for a laugh, and if you let her know she’s getting to you, she’ll never stop.

  It’s amazing to see her blossom post-Hawley. Even more amazing to see Hawley’s frozen food empire begin to crumble after he was sued by three former girlfriends, all alleging he stole not only their recipes, but several family heirlooms.

  But seriously, right now this woman needs to give me the goods before I perish from curiosity. “Of course, I believe in honoring the primal tigress,” I say, “but West is more concerned with health code violations.”

  “Ugh. You’re so right. He’s such a stick in the mud like that.” She narrows her eyes. “Though, if you were waiting for him in the basement, you can bet your sweet ass he’d be violating the health code—and you—ten different ways.”

  “Or twenty,” I agree.

  “See, total double standard.” Then she thinks for a moment, her brow furrowing, and adds, “Really? Twenty? I can’t think of that many positions off the cuff. You two really are a pair of perverts, aren’t you?”

  “Very much so. Perverts who promised to get kinky together over a few spreadsheets this morning before a conference call with Willow about our cross-promotional flavor selections for December. But instead, your brother cancelled at the last minute, ran out the door like a madman, and has been very cagey about his whereabouts all day.”

  Abby raises her eyes to study the darkening sky. “But that’s going so well, right? The cross-promo customer loyalty thing? The businesses are all growing. Profits are growing. Customers are happy. It’s brilliant, really.”

  “Mr. Skips is brilliant. And you keep changing the subject.”

  She sighs. “Well, it’s something I’m good at, I confess. When you grow up the youngest of four siblings, the only girl, and weirdly small, you learn pretty quickly that disarming your opponent with words is your only path to victory.” Glancing over my shoulder, she spots something that makes her slump with relief. “Speaking of victory, I won this bet, West.” Abby hops off her stool. “You owe me fifty bucks.”

  I turn to see him crossing the cobblestones in his navy three-piece suit, and my heart flips the way it always does. I assumed all the flipping would calm down eventually, but if anything, it seems to be getting worse.

  One look at this man—my man—and I’m as giddy as the night I first brought him home.

  “Really? You didn’t cave and confess?” he asks her as he wraps an arm around my waist.

  “No, she didn’t.” I lean into him, accepting the kiss he presses to my cheek. “But you’d better start talking. You know I hate surprises.”

  He and Abby both laugh. Hard.

  “What?” I frown and amend. “Okay, so I love surprises, but not surprises that take you away from me on our day off.”

  Abby hums beneath her breath as she starts across the courtyard. “Oh, you’re going to like this one.” She pauses in the door leading into the shop. “See you two at Ruby’s gallery later for the opening?”

  “See you there,” West assures her, adding under his breath as she leaves, “Though, I don’t see how we’re all going to fit. The place is the size of a postage stamp.”

  I grin. �
�But a cute postage stamp. And she’s so excited about this series. She’s done portraits of all her favorite Brooklyn restaurant owners as animals. The ones I’ve seen so far are precious. And all proceeds are going to the local food pantry, so…”

  “We’re obligated to buy at least twelve pieces?”

  “I was thinking two.” I arch a brow. “But you do have that entire empty wall by the refrigerator. Pictures of foodie animals would liven things up over there.”

  “Agreed.” He shoots me one of his fond smiles that makes me feel completely adored and so very lucky.

  I know I make him feel the same way, and I’d love to indulge him by being super patient, but… “I really can’t wait,” I whisper as he takes my hand. “I need to know what you were up to before it literally kills me.”

  “Literally kills?” he echoes, leading me into the empty shop. “Are you sure about that?”

  After realizing almost all their business happens before three, Tea and Empathy started closing at three on weekdays and four on weekends. Meanwhile, I hired additional staff to take the shipping arm of the business off my hands and free up my nights for things more fun than bookkeeping and website maintenance. Work smarter, not harder, is our new motto, and we’re both reaping the rewards in more profitable sweet shops and more time together after work.

  “Yes, literal death,” I insist, pressing a hand to my ribs with a wince. “I can feel it now. Need to Know is stabbing my spleen.”

  “And once you lose the spleen, you’re really screwed.”

  “So screwed,” I murmur.

  He turns to face me beside the gourd display by the hostess’s stand. “All right, then. Might as well have at it.”

  I blink, then narrow my eyes. “Have at what?”

  “Your gift. I originally planned to surprise you in the library later, then I realized you’d be rabid with curiosity by this point, so I brought it with me.”

  “Oh, yay,” I squeak, clapping my hands. “Thank you. I really am rabid.”

  He laughs. “I know.” He nods toward the stand. “Pop the top.”