Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“You want to take a walk?” As though he’s spent this whole time mustering the courage, he offers his hand. “I don’t think I’m ready to go home. Besides, we didn’t make it to dessert. I bet the ice-cream place might still be open.”

My first instinct is to say no. Just go home and nurse my anger. Then I remember what Alana said. If I’m going to walk a different path, I have to start making different choices. And I suppose that starts with giving Harrison a chance to change my mind.

“That sounds nice,” I say.

We stroll down the boardwalk toward Two Scoops, where he buys us a couple of ice-cream cones. We keep walking, passing families and other couples. Teenagers running around, making out in the shadows. It’s a balmy night with a warm breeze of salt air that offers the slightest relief from the heat. Harrison holds my hand, and while I let him, it feels wrong. Unnatural. Nothing like the feeling of anticipation and longing that comes with touching that person you can’t wait to kiss, the one who sets your nerves racing, gets your fingertips excited.

Eventually, we end up in front of the old hotel. Last time I saw this place, it was gaping open, walls collapsed, with furniture and debris pouring out. The Beacon had been all but eviscerated in the hurricane. Now, it’s like it never happened. Practically brand new, with its sparkling white façade and green trim, shiny new windows, and a roof without any holes in it.

Now that Cooper’s girlfriend owns this place, I’ll probably never be allowed to step foot inside.

“It’s remarkable what they’ve managed to do with the place,” Harrison says, admiring the renovation. “I heard it’s supposed to open in the fall.”

“I loved this place when I was a kid. For my sixteenth birthday, my dad brought me and my friends in for a spa day. Got our nails done, facials and stuff.” I grin at the memory. “They gave us robes and slippers, water with cucumbers in it. All that fancy stuff. It probably sounds stupid, but I remember thinking this was the most beautiful place. All the dark wood and brass, the paintings on the walls, the antique furniture. It was how I imagined palaces must look on the inside. But, you know, kids are stupid, so …” I shrug.

“No, it’s not stupid,” Harrison assures me. “We had my grandparents’ anniversary dinner here years back. They served all this really pretty-looking food—real rich-people stuff, because my family wanted to give them a special party—and my grandad got so mad, kept yelling at the waiter to just bring him some meatloaf. I swear,” Harrison laughs, “he left that party like it was the worst night of his life. Meanwhile, the family spent a small fortune to cater the thing.”

We trade a few more stories, and eventually he escorts me back to my car parked outside the restaurant. While much of my irritation with the ordeal from earlier has dissipated, nothing makes this part of the night any less awkward.

“Thank you,” I say. “For dinner, but really for being so nice. You didn’t have to be.”

“Believe it or not, I had a great time.” His earnest expression tells me he actually means that.

“How are you even like this?” I demand, befuddled by him. “So positive and upbeat all the time. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Harrison shrugs. “Seems like a lot of work being any other way.” Like the true gentleman he is, he opens my door for me. Then, with a tentative gesture, he offers me a hug. It’s a relief, honestly, not to do the whole dance around a kiss. “I’d like to call you, if that’s okay.”

I don’t get a chance to contemplate the possibility of a second date.

“Step away from the car,” a voice shouts.

Frowning, I turn around in time to spot Deputy Randall crossing the street. He’s got a mean way about him. A look that intends to do harm.

“Put the keys on the ground,” he commands.

For fuck’s sake. I shield my eyes as he approaches with a flashlight shining in my face. “It’s my car. I’m not stealing it.”

“I can’t allow you to drive impaired,” Randall says, resting a hand on his utility belt.

“Impaired?” I look at Harrison, seeking confirmation I’m not hallucinating this. Because Randall cannot be serious. “What are you talking about?”

“Rusty,” Harrison says timidly, “I think you’ve made a mistake here.”

“I clearly observed the young lady standing in an unsteady manner and leaning on the door for support.”

“Bullshit,” I spit at him. “I barely touched a glass of wine over an hour ago. This is harassment.”

“I gotta say, Rusty, I’ve been with her all night.” Harrison is soft-spoken and polite, presenting a nonthreatening contradiction to Randall’s nonsense assertions. “She’s telling the truth.”

“Told you before, kid,” Randall says with an almost gleefully cruel sneer. “This ain’t one you want to waste your time on. If she’s awake, she’s either drugged out or drunk, making a sloppy embarrassment of herself all over town.” He huffs out a sarcastic laugh. “If drunk and disorderlies were frequent flyer miles, she could book a trip around the world. Ain’t that right, Genevieve?”

“Fuck you. Asshole.” I know I’ll regret the words even as they’re coming out of my mouth, but I don’t bother clamping my lips shut. It feels good to let it out, ineffectual as it is. A brief fantasy of snagging his pepper spray flickers through my mind.