How to Kiss a Bad Boy

by Ashby, Amanda

  She deserved that. “Just so we’re clear that I’m in charge, when I say jump, you say how high.”

  He lifted a bemused eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  Some of the tension eased, and she gave him a reluctant smile. “Okay, no jumping. But you know what I mean.”

  “I do.” He nodded. “I’m going to finish setting up out here, then you run through everything with me.”

  She picked up the box as he began to hammer again. She wasn’t officially in charge, but he didn’t need to know that. She ignored the noise and stepped back into Rosie’s pastel interior. At least they’d come to an understanding, because she had a great summer plan, and she wasn’t going to let anything—or anyone—get in the way.

  2

  “Very handsome.”

  “Seriously?” Jackson joined his mom in their apartment’s tiny kitchen the following morning. She was cutting the crusts off a piece of bread but stopped to nod in the direction of his head. More particularly, his hair, which was liberally coated in thick oil.

  The stuff was like a combination of glue and car grease. His hair could now survive a hurricane. Still, wearing it in a slicked-back style meant he’d managed to avoid dressing up in any of the costumes Lo had presented him with.

  Apparently, his monochrome wardrobe was straight out of a nineteen-fifties greaser’s playbook. Who knew?

  “It’s nice to see your face.” His mom finished with the crusts and took a gulp of her coffee. Like most days, she’d already been out and back from her first cleaning job, and while the caffeine might have kept her awake, it didn’t erase the dark smudges under her eyes. She’d do another shift tonight when he got home, and then catch a few hours sleep before repeating it all over again.

  And even with the extra money he brought in, it still wasn’t enough to pay the bills.

  “Try and get some rest, okay?”

  “With this one?” She arched an eyebrow as his kid sister, Chelsea, burst into the room, her eyes still foggy from sleep, clutching a horrifying doll that had green hair and eyes that seemed to suck out your soul. Chelsea grinned and pointed at his head.

  “Not you, too,” he warned with a growl, which just made her throw herself around his legs. She was only six and was the result of his mom’s short-lived engagement to a guy who was almost as much of a deadbeat as Jackson’s own dad had been.

  But while his almost-stepfather had been a scumbag, Chelsea was an angel. Blonde curly hair and large brown eyes that were impossible to say no to.

  He gave her a quick hug and carried her to one of the mismatched stools. Their mom slid over the plate of carefully cut slices of bread. A second, much smaller one was on a plate for the doll.

  “Here you go, Miss Sparkles.” Chelsea offered the tiny piece of bread to the green-headed creature. He fished in his jacket pocket for his car keys.

  “I gotta go.”

  “Wait. You haven’t told me how it went yesterday.” His mom finished pouring a glass of milk for Chelsea and followed him, still clutching at the coffee cup. It didn’t take her long. The apartment was the size of a cardboard box, with barely enough room to squeeze a table and chairs into the tiny dining room.

  Still, they’d lived in worse over the years.

  And we’ll live in worse again if I mess up this job.

  “It was okay.” He shrugged. “We set up, then went through the menu and how everything’s made.” He didn’t bother to add that Frankie had given him strict instructions about who was doing what.

  She was responsible for all cash and orders, and he was stuck washing dishes, plating cakes, and making pots of tea.

  Not exactly a dream job. Then again, with a father who’d been a convicted murderer, Jackson didn’t exactly have a lot of options. His dad had died behind bars almost seven years ago, but people in Cricket Bay had long memories. To them, he was just Marty Lang’s kid. In other words, he was no damn good.

  “Lo was a couple of years above me at high school, and she seemed nice. Not like some of those snotty b—” His mom broke off and coughed. “Girls. Snotty girls.”

  Chelsea, proving her hearing was like a bat’s, began to giggle. They turned at the same time. They’d both made some bad choices, but Chelsea was different. She was all heart. All good. She also had the survival skills of a sewer rat and quickly resumed her quiet conversation with Miss Sparkles.

  “She seemed okay,” he acknowledged.

  “Did you meet Angie’s girl? Is it Frankie? I haven’t seen her before. Is she pretty?”

  His fingers tightened around the keys.

  Oh, yeah.

  Smooth olive skin, and eyes like…hell…he didn’t even know what. Blue didn’t seem the right word. Tiny freckles spread across her nose, and straight blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. And legs. Those legs—

  Enough.

  “What does it matter?” he said with more force than he’d intended.

  And it was true.

  No good could come from noticing what Frankie Hargreaves did or didn’t look like. She’d already made up her mind about him. He was a bad boy with a chip on his shoulder.

  It was nothing new. After all, it’s what everyone else thought.

  Frankie was a reminder of what he already knew. Life was always going to disappoint you. Besides, after what happened with Tania, he wanted a girlfriend like he wanted a hole in the head.

  For now, he just needed to keep his nose clean and stay out of trouble. And that meant not thinking about his boss’s niece. Johnny and Lo were the only folks in town who’d even considered hiring him. No way was Jackson messing it up.

  “It’s summer. You’re allowed to have fun. You’re not him.” His mom reached up and brushed his face. He flinched. He wasn’t much for being touched. She sighed and took her hand away.

  He bent to kiss her and reached for the ridiculous pink-and-white binder sitting by the door. Frankie had given it to him yesterday. She’d called it an operational manual, but it was more like a manifesto. Still, if she wanted each cake to sit no closer than one inch to the edge of the plate, so be it.

  He walked out of the apartment and down the three flights of stairs. There were no elevators, and the stairwell was filled with trash and graffiti. Home sweet home. He reached the parking lot and climbed into his car.

  It was a rust bucket with far too many miles on the clock, but it got him from A to B, and that’s all that mattered. He started the engine and pulled out onto the busy road. The apartment block was in a run-down part of town known as the Boards.

  Most folks in Cricket Bay preferred to think the Boards weren’t there, but he used it as a reminder to never forget who he was. After all, no one else would.

  xxxx

  “You’re working with who?” Via screeched from the other end of the phone.

  “I know. Can you believe it?” Frankie turned onto Hope Street toward the town square. It was a ten-minute walk from Lo’s bungalow, and the sun was already pushing through the sky, streaky beams of soft honey heating her skin.

  “Not even a little bit,” Via said. “Lo knows some weird people…but Jackson Lang? I didn’t see that one coming.”

  That made two of them.

  “I just hope he keeps his part of the bargain and stays out of my way.”

  “Speaking of that, have you seen Aaron yet? How’s the plan going?”

  “Pretty good,” Frankie said. It wasn’t quite true, but she was a big fan of faking it until she made it. Or, in this case, kissed it.

  Besides, when it came to planning, she was a master. If she’d learned anything from her mom’s death, it was that you might not be able to control everything, but that didn’t mean you shouldn’t try. She patted the neat list in her pocket.

  “All the same, I wish I was there to help.”

  “Me too.” Frankie sighed. Via and her twin brother, Zac, had been dragged away on their annual camping trip. Though it beat Frankie how they thought Via would respond well to any outdoor activities.
She wasn’t exactly a fan of nature or creepy crawlies. She’d once screamed the library down when a spider had scuttled out of one of the stacks and onto her hand. Being stuck outside in a log cabin was a nightmare for her.

  “So…what’s he like?” Via dropped her voice, as if worried someone might overhear. Frankie came to an abrupt halt.

  “Why? Don’t tell me you’re interested in him?”

  “Of course not,” Via yelped, though it lacked conviction. “I was just curious. I mean, he’s only a year older than us, but he looks different. Experienced,” she added in a dramatic whisper.

  “He only looks older because he has stubble.” She started walking again. And is trouble.

  “Well, stubble or not, you do have to admit he’s cute.”

  “I’ll admit nothing of the sort,” Frankie said firmly. Before her death, her mom had dated more than her fair share of bad boys, and Frankie had seen firsthand just how erratic and unpredictable they were. How they never did what they’d promised. How they let you down.

  Jackson Lang would be the same. He’d already shown his true colors in the cafeteria fight. She didn’t need to see anything else.

  “Fine,” Via grumbled. “You don’t like him, but just remember you have to work with him all summer. Don’t go weird on him, okay?”

  “He’s the one with a bad attitude and gets into fights, and I’m the weird one?”

  “You know what I mean,” Via said in a calm voice. Frankie let out a little sigh.

  Okay, yes, she had a tiny totally-under-control problem when it came to the presentation of all the cakes and sandwiches. But, in her defense, why shouldn’t a person take an extra couple of minutes to make sure they looked gorgeous?

  Not that Kenneth had ever paid any attention to her, despite the detailed binder she’d given him. But she was going to make sure Jackson did.

  Nothing weird about that.

  “I promise,” she said just as Via let out a long groan. “Hey, are you okay?”

  “If by okay you mean am I being summoned to take part in an inter-campsite tug-of-war? Then yes, I’m great.”

  “You poor thing. But you’ll be home in a few weeks, and we can both get our summer plans back on track.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Via said before finishing the call.

  They’d met when Via had walked up to her on Frankie’s first day at her new school and gave her a tiny flower to put on her mom’s gravestone. They’d been inseparable ever since.

  She swallowed down the memory as she reached the town square. Large sweeping willows dotted the borders, and in the middle was a fountain of a mermaid spouting water out of her mouth.

  For most of the year, Cricket Bay was relatively quiet, but each summer tourists descended for the sandy beaches and the fresh seafood that came in with the fishing boats.

  It was also why the square was now home to a makeshift stage for nighttime concerts, several food carts, and Rosie.

  There was no sign of Aaron at the surf store across the street, and Frankie hurried on.

  A couple of tourists jogged by, pausing to glance at her.

  Well…probably at her dress.

  Because Lo never did anything by halves, Frankie had to wear original fifties-style dresses every day. This one was blue with tiny yellow flowers; it went in at the waist and flared out. There was no hoop underneath the skirt, because it would have been too hard to move around the small space inside Rosie, but the dress was still flouncy.

  The grass was dewy, and she was pleased to have broken protocol and worn her Vans instead of the slip-on pumps Lo had suggested. Her feet would have been soaked.

  She finally reached Rosie.

  Boot-shaped footprints in the grass led in the direction of the storage shed at the other end of the square. A couple of tables were leaning against the food truck, waiting to be put up. Jackson was here?

  He appeared a moment later, walking back from the shed with a canvas bag over one shoulder. His dark hair was slicked back from his face, rockabilly-style, and his black leather jacket had been discarded to reveal a white T-shirt.

  He had surprisingly muscular arms.

  Despite Frankie’s misgivings, Lo had given him his own set of keys, and he was early. Technically, she was too. But Lo was her aunt, so Frankie had a reason. He stopped a couple feet away and lowered the canvas bag to the ground.

  “Hey.” He nodded his head as his eyes seemed to take in her dress. “No cutoffs today?”

  “I’m trying to give them up,” she said in a light voice. “You know you’re not meant to start until nine, right?”

  “I was awake. Figured I’d come down. Just in case you were worried I might turn out like Kenneth.”

  Frankie swallowed. “You heard our conversation yesterday?”

  “You weren’t exactly quiet.”

  Oh. What were the chances of the earth opening up a nice convenient hole for her to climb into? The conversation flooded back into her mind.

  Kenneth wasn’t the only thing she’d talked about with Lo.

  She’d also said Jackson was trouble.

  That he shouldn’t work there.

  Heat stung her cheeks. “I’m sorry. It was none of my business.”

  “Forget it.” He opened up the canvas bag to unroll the awning. She made a quick escape into Rosie to start getting prepped for the day.

  See. This exactly proved her point that the whole thing was a bad idea.

  It wasn’t even nine and she was already rattled by him. And yes, technically it was her fault, but that didn’t make it any better.

  Inside Rosie, the air was warm from where the kettles had boiled. The binder she’d given him was sitting on the wooden counter and was open, as if he’d been ticking things off. She didn’t know whether she was pleased or annoyed that he was following her directions so completely.

  Probably best not to think about it at all.

  She stashed her purse under the counter and got to work. Lo had driven by earlier and left a rich chocolate fudge cake with mocha frosting and cherries nestled all over it. Frankie’s personal favorite. There were three other cakes, boxes of pastel-colored macarons, and dozens of delicate cupcakes, along with everything they needed to make up club sandwiches.

  Frankie shifted them onto the various tiered plates and cake stands before checking she had enough cream and sprinkles to decorate. Outside, she could hear Jackson humming as he put up the awning and set out the tables and chairs. Out of principle, she refused to look.

  Once she was done, she went outside to find him inexpertly trying to spread out a vintage tablecloth. She blinked. A fine layer of sweat covered his brow, and his black jeans were half hidden underneath a pink and yellow floral apron that was wrapped around his waist.

  “Are you seriously going to keep that on?” She folded her arms. Was he trying to mess with her?

  “It was on page three of your binder. ‘All staff must wear an apron.’ You want me to break the rules?”

  “Well, no.” She studied his face to see if he was teasing her. She’d actually forgotten that she’d written anything about aprons at all. “Aren’t you worried people will laugh at you?”

  His jaw tightened, and a flash of something crossed his face. Hurt? Then he shrugged. “I’ve dealt with worse.”

  An uncomfortable sensation churned in her stomach, but before she could reply two middle-aged women wandered toward Rosie, letting out small squeals of appreciation at the vintage food truck.

  Their first customers for the summer. As if sensing he wasn’t wanted, Jackson disappeared back into Rosie to do the behind-the-scenes stuff while Frankie seated the women and handed out menus. She just had to stick to the plan. The easiest way to survive the summer was to pretend that he wasn’t there.

  3

  “I need two more platters and a chocolate cake,” Frankie said four hours later as she loaded up her tray with teacups and plates.

  He pressed himself back against the counter to avoid touchi
ng her as she went past.

  To say that Rosie’s interior was small was an understatement.

  Could he really spend a whole summer working here?

  It wasn’t helped by the dark looks Frankie kept giving him.

  Scrap that. Those dark looks were definitely helping him to ignore the way the blue dress hugged her waist. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, but it just made her neck look impossibly long, and when she’d been laughing with a customer, there’d been a hint of a dimple.

  Get a grip.

  If she knew he’d been checking her out, she’d convince her aunt to fire him on the spot. He focused on stacking the tiered cake plates with macarons and the tiny sandwiches she’d taught him how to make.

  “No. Not like that.” Frankie appeared next to him. The faint scent of strawberries and vanilla caught in his nose, and his skin prickled. She didn’t seem to notice as she picked up some tongs and repositioned the sandwiches. “See how much better they look now?”

  No. Not really.

  “Er, sure.” He rubbed his chin. “Let me guess. I’m worse than Kenneth.”

  She gave the sandwich one final tweak as her blue eyes filled with surprise. “Actually, you’ve been great today.”

  He had?

  “I’ve been great apart from my sandwich placement?” he said.

  She let out a groan and put down the tongs. “Just ignore me. Via reckons I’m a control freak.”

  Via? The name was familiar, and he vaguely associated it with a small brunette who spent most of her time in the library. They must be friends.

  “For putting a piece of cake onto a plate?”

  “Wash your mouth out. It’s an art form. See?”

  Carefully she slid a slice of chocolate and vanilla torte onto the plate, then leaned forward, her eyes narrowed in concentration. A strand of sleek blonde hair escaped from her ponytail, but she didn’t seem to notice as she piped cream onto the plate and carefully topped it with four blueberries.

  Had she selected them because they were all the same size?