Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

“Or mine, but you know what I mean.”

“You looked pretty comfortable in those clothes with him.”

And we were having such a nice time.

I swallow a sigh. “Do you really want to talk about Harrison?”

Evan seems to consider this for a second, then dismisses the thought. “No.”

“Good. Because I didn’t agree to this date because I want you to be more like him. Try to remember that.”

This, too, feels familiar—the somewhat adversarial rapport. Arguing for the sake of arguing because we like getting a rise out of each other. Never knowing when to quit. Wrapped up in sexual tension so that our fights become indistinguishable from flirting.

Why do I like it so much?

“Tell me this,” he says roughly. “Who are you trying to be?”

Hell if I know. If I had that figured out, I wouldn’t still be living at home, afraid to break it to my dad that he needs to move on without me in the family business. I wouldn’t be dating one guy who I know is about as close to boyfriend material as anyone gets, while guarding myself from the million bad decisions sitting across the table.

“At the moment, shedding my bad girl reputation, I guess.”

He nods slowly. He gets it.

And that’s something I appreciate about Evan above all others—I never have to lie to him, or conceal something because I’m embarrassed about what he’d think of the truth. Whether I’m good, bad, or indifferent, he accepts me in all my iterations.

I offer a wry smile. “There’re only so many times a girl can break into the waterpark after-hours to tube down the raging rapids before delinquency loses all meaning.”

“I hear you. This is probably the longest I’ve gone without a hangover or a black eye since I was ten.” He winks at me, which might as well be an invitation to throw my legs over his shoulders. Gets me every time.

“It’s weird, though. Sometimes I’m out with the girls, and it’s like I don’t know what to do with my hands. If every instinct I have is what was getting me in trouble before, how am I supposed to know what the right ones are? What being good is supposed to look like, you know?”

“You’re looking at a guy who Googled model citizen, okay? I’ve narrowed it down to this: Whatever sounds like a good idea, do the opposite.”

“I’m serious,” I say, flinging a sugar packet at him from the ramekin on the table. “What would you and I do on a normal date?”

“Normal?” He cocks his head at me, grinning.

“Normal for us.”

“We wouldn’t have left my bedroom,” Evan says. Deadpan.

Well, yeah. “After that.”

“Hit a bar. A party, maybe. End up in a stolen car doing laps at the old speedway until security chases us out. Getting drunk on top of the lighthouse while you suck me off.”

My core clenches at the naughty suggestion. I pretend to be unaffected by hurling another sugar packet at his face. “You’ve given this some thought.”

“Fred, this is all I think about.”

He needs to stop doing that. Looking at me like he’s starving, with his teeth nipping at his lower lip and those hooded eyes gleaming. It isn’t fair, and I shouldn’t have to put up with these conditions.

“Well, like you said, we’re playing against type now, so …” I gulp my virgin cocktail, still expecting the burn of alcohol and left wanting. It seemed like a good idea at the time—trick my brain into believing it’s getting what it wants—but the overly sweet concoction feels like sucking down a bottle of straight corn syrup. “What else you got?”

“Alright.” He nods briskly, accepting the challenge. “You’re on. For the rest of the night, we do the opposite of whatever our instincts tell us.”

“You sure about this?” I lean in, elbows on the table. “I don’t want to hear about you bailing on the idea …”

“I’m serious.” He’s got that look. A man possessed with a consuming notion. It reminds me of another thing that’s always attracted me to Evan. He’s shamelessly passionate. Even about the stupidest things. It’s endearing. “Prepare yourself for an evening of well-mannered civility, Genevieve West.”

I sputter out a laugh. “Hold on to your knickers.”

“What do you think?” Evan crouches on the worn green turf beside the imitation Polynesian totem. He lays his putter on the ground, aiming the head of the club at the wooden crate labeled dynamite. “Take the left route around the pile of gold doubloons, yeah?”

Bending over beside him, I align my view with his. “I think that patch of old bubble gum stuck at the entrance of the mouse hole is going to give you trouble. The left fork over the ramp is a trickier shot, but once you’re there, it’s a cleaner descent to the hole.”

“Let’s go already.” Behind us, a shaggy-headed kid grows testy. His friend sighs with loud impatience. “I’d like to get through this game while my clothes still fit.”

Evan ignores him. Still evaluating his shot, picking leaves and bits of debris from around his golf ball. “I’m going left. I don’t like the look of that turtle on the right.” He gets to his feet, adjusts his stance. He takes a practice swing and then another.