Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

My jaw’s so tight I can barely eat.

Then, as we’re clearing the table, a bug crawls in my ear asking, what if Gen actually likes this bastard? What if she’s falling for his bullshit, eating his game with a spoon? Maybe she wore some sexy outfit with the intentions of leaving it on his bedroom floor. Maybe later tonight, she’ll be dragging her nails down his back.

I nearly put my fist through the wall, curling both hands over the countertop as I help Mac load the dishwasher.

And what happens if Gen and this guy get together for real? It’s one thing if she dated someone in Charleston, because I wouldn’t have to see it. But she’s home now. If she finds a new guy, I’ll be forced to watch them walk around, rubbing it in my face while I’m at work, fixing up her dad’s house? Walking in on them in the kitchen suddenly trying to act chill with that flush on her face that says she just had his fingers inside her? Oh, hell no. I’d end up taking a hammer to his hand.

“We’re going for a walk on the beach with Daisy,” Mac says, neatly folding the dishcloth and placing it next to the sink. “Wanna come?”

“Nah. I’m good.”

I’m not good. I’m not good in the slightest.

The moment Cooper and Mac exit onto the back deck, I grab my keys and head to the front door.

In no time at all, I’m riding into town on my motorcycle to see for myself. Damned if I’m going to be made the cuck.





CHAPTER 11

GENEVIEVE

“I think I screwed up,” I whisper to Harrison as the waiter in a white dress shirt and black vest lays the linen napkin in my lap. There are already three sets of glasses on the table and we haven’t even ordered anything yet. When the waiter offered us still or sparkling water, I asked for the free kind. “I had no idea this place was so fancy.”

Or expensive. It only opened recently, and I noticed it as I passed by the other day. When I was concocting this diversion for Evan earlier, it just popped into my head. Now, I’m wearing my best summer dress, even put on makeup and did my hair, and yet I still feel underdressed.

For his part, Harrison does a decent job of passing as one of the yacht club guys that wash into Avalon Bay for the season. Button-down shirt and those damn khakis with a belt that matches his shoes. It works for him, though.

“I don’t mind.” Harrison pushes some glasses out of the way to make room for his menu. “I don’t eat out much. It’s nice to have an excuse.”

“Okay, but I’ll obviously split the check.”

With a Disney Channel smile, Harrison shakes his head. “I can’t let you do that.”

“No, seriously. I wouldn’t have suggested this place if I’d known. Please.”

He sets the menu aside and meets my eyes with stern conviction. It ages him ten years. “If you keep trying to shove money in my pocket, I’m bound to get offended.” Then he winks at me, those boyish freckles blossoming on his cheeks, and I realize he’s putting me on.

“That’s your cop face, isn’t it?”

“I’ve been working on it in the mirror,” he confirms, leaning in with his voice hushed. “How am I doing?”

“I’d say you’ve got it down pat.”

Harrison sips his water as though he’s just remembered that first dates are supposed to make us nervous. “There was a little old lady the other day I pulled over for running a stop sign. I made the mistake of asking if she’d not seen the sign, which I guess she took to mean I thought her vision was the trouble, and so this woman gets on the phone to the sheriff telling him some high school kid’s stolen a cruiser and a uniform and is out terrorizing the community.”

I burst out laughing.

“Anyway. I’ve been told I better figure my way to looking more the part,” he finishes.

The waiter returns to take our drink order, and would we care for a bottle of wine? I wave off the wine list when Harrison offers it to me. My experience is generally limited to the five major food groups: whiskey, vodka, tequila, rum, and gin.

“Hang on, I got this,” Harrison says, getting excited as he scans the list. “I watched a wine documentary on Netflix once.”

A smile springs free. “Nerd.”

He shrugs, but with a satisfied smirk that says he’s quite proud of himself. “We’ll have two glasses of the 2016 pinot grigio, please. Thank you.”

The waiter nods his approval. I consider speaking up to refuse, but what’s the harm in one glass of wine? It’s not like I’m pounding shots or downing cocktails. I won’t even get a buzz on a stingy pour. Besides, I don’t want to dive headlong into the details of my reputation recovery before we’ve even ordered food. Not a great conversation starter. I think of it like an accessory to complete my ensemble of mature adult Gen.

“I think that went well,” I tell him.

“I was nervous there for a minute, but I think I pulled it out in the end,” he agrees with a laugh.

Honestly, as far as fake first dates go, this one’s off to a better start than I had any right to expect. We ended up meeting at the restaurant instead of him picking me up, and part of me worried he might walk up holding flowers or something. As he’d kissed my cheek in greeting, he admitted he’d considered bringing a bouquet but realized I wasn’t the type, and it’d probably embarrass both of us. He was right, and the fact that he figured that out put him in an entirely new perspective. Now, the vibe is chill and we’re getting along. None of those uncomfortable silences and darting glances to avoid eye contact, while we both struggle to devise an exit strategy. Dare I say, I’m having a good time. Strange as that is.