She’d been indulged too much. Daddy’s little princess. And now we all suffered her pouts and glares and foot stomping. I hadn’t been looking forward to showing up to the party with yet another bottle of perfume or silk scarf that she’d pretend to like for five minutes, before throwing it aside for the more valuable gifts presented to her. But I was pretty sure I’d just seen the answer to my problem.
There was a dress in a shop window. Slinky and red, and so unbelievably similar to my sister’s style that it was like the fucking skies opened up and shone a spotlight down on it. She would love it; I could already hear her squeal ringing in my ears.
I leaned forward, addressing the back of the driver’s head, quickly checking his name on my phone. “Hey…uh…Kevin, I need to stop by that dress store real quick.”
Kevin glanced at me in the rear view mirror, and then out at the street. It was obvious he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, but he gave a curt nod anyway, every bit the professional. “But I can’t really stop here,” he said, and he was right—the traffic was flowing thick and freely, and there were no parking spaces for us to slide into without causing an obstruction. “I know a parking lot farther up that’s usually pretty empty, if…”
“I don’t mind walking,” I said quickly, and a few minutes later Kevin swerved us into the parking lot of a ratty convenience store.
I asked him to wait and then left the car and paced back down the street, heading for the shop, fighting the urge to smile like a damn lunatic. I didn’t get to do this often—stroll through downtown, window shopping and people watching. My schedule didn’t allow it, and while the world was at its most active, I was usually at practice, six to eight hours a day. Sometimes ten. My freedom came after dark, and not always every day. I hadn’t walked past an open ice cream shop in weeks—I was almost tempted to go inside, if it wasn’t for the Uber driver back in the car, dutifully waiting for me.
My stomach dropped when I found the dress missing from the window, the headless mannequin now standing naked and a little frayed around the edges. Inside, a woman leaned behind the cash register scribbling something on a piece of paper—and there was no one else in the store. Whoever had bought it must’ve been one of the world’s fastest shoppers. Maybe if I could get a description of the purchaser, I’d be able to catch up to them and make them an offer. No price was too steep if it meant keeping my bratty sister off my case.
I cleared my throat and approached the register. “Hi there,” I said. The woman looked up at me, glasses perched on the edge of her nose, attached to a gold chain draped around her neck. She looked like a vaguely irritated librarian, and I found myself swallowing awkwardly, without any real idea why. She clearly had no idea who I was, thank God. “Uh. I saw a dress in the window a few minutes ago. Red, maybe silk…?”
“Yes,” she said, tone clipped. “A customer is trying it on right now, sir.”
“Oh.” It wasn’t too late. I was pretty confident that whoever came out of that dressing room would be willing to let the dress go once they saw me and I made an offer for it. Or when I explained the nightmare of my sister to her, if my charms failed.
As if on cue, a large wooden door at the back of the store flung open and a woman shuffled through it, looking down at herself as she tugged the hem of the red dress into place over her delectable curvy body. Sizable, round breasts—my favorite kind. Hourglass figure. Bubble butt. The skies were smiling down at me.
I froze on the spot.
The golden tan to her smooth shoulders, the flash of jade-green eyes… I recognized her immediately, and my vision almost clouded just as quickly as my groin tightened at the sight of her in that dress.
She hadn’t spotted me yet, too occupied with pulling the dress into place, and I took the opportunity to watch her shamelessly, the sexy sway of her hips and the golden curves of her calves and waist. She was fucking breathtaking—I’d thought it back then, during our first meeting, and I thought it now, twice as hard. Hard being the operative word. Because it was just the two of us now, and this might be the chance I needed to turn my luck around.
“Barbara,” she was saying, “do you have a pair of shoes I can try with—oh.” She’d stopped and looked up, and her cheeks flooded with instant flush as she caught my eye.
I tilted my head, trying to keep cool even as my blood rushed in my ears. “Kylie.”
“Hi.” She ran her hands down the front of her dress—a nervous gesture, serving only to highlight the beautiful slopes of her waist and hips. “Reade, is it?”
It fucking stung a little, I couldn’t lie—the way she appeared to barely remember me. But the glint of something hot in her eyes told me it was a front. She knew exactly who I was.
“You’re wearing my dress,” I said by way of answer, and then winced internally as the words registered in my brain and she raised an eyebrow. “The dress I was going to buy,” I clarified. “For someone.” Fuck, now she’s going to think I’m buying it for a girlfriend.
She hesitated, something almost possessive flashing over her face as she pressed a hand to the front of the dress, fingertips hooking over the edge of the neckline. “You want to buy…this dress?”
Right now, I wanted to watch her remove the dress—slowly and preferably in my bedroom. All of my fantasies of her were creeping into my mind, the many ways I’d imagined seeing her again, how I’d lay her out on my bed, the sweet taste of her skin as I mapped a path down her body…
“Of course it’s yours if you want to purchase it,” I said quickly. She wasn’t under my command. I couldn’t just demand she remove the dress and hand it over—and neither did I want to. The dress molded to her like it was made for her body alone, and as much as I wanted to watch her peel it off, I was very much enjoying seeing her in it. A little too much, if you asked my impatient cock.
I didn’t even want to mention my sister to her, or make her some kind of cash offer. The dress was hers, designed to highlight every exquisite curve of her body. My sister could have another bottle of perfume and be happy with it.
“I mean, you’ve got it on, after all.”
I could see it pass through her eyes like a miserable picture book—she loved the dress, but she couldn’t buy it. For whatever reason, this dress was out of her reach. I don’t know how, but I could tell.
“I’ll go take it off,” she mumbled, before turning and heading back to the dressing room. I watched her go, admiring the sway of her ass and the bare length of her toned legs, caught in her spell a little too long, until Barbara cleared her throat next to me. She didn’t even bother to act as if she hadn’t been listening. She was scowling at me over her glasses, silently judging me.
I was pretty sure I went red, like a fucking loser, and in an effort to bring her to my side, I muttered conspiratorially, “I think she really wants that dress.”
Barbara made an unimpressed “Mmhmm” sort of sound.
“How much is it?”
She told me, making me suck air in through my teeth. Why did women’s designer dresses cost so damn much? It was pocket change to me, but I had no doubt that it was the kind of treat someone like Kylie only bought herself once every few years. Not that she looked poor, but she could probably get a decent amount of rent out of the same chunk of money. No wonder she had looked almost pissed when I’d told her she had the first right to buy the dress, and then now, emerging from the dressing room, looking pretty much miserable in some faded jeans and a loose white sweater, the coveted red dress hooked over her arm.
“Here,” she said on a heavy breath, holding it out for me to take from her. “Hope whoever you’re buying it for enjoys it.” She stared at it for a long moment, then fluttered her eyes shut for an instant and turned away, clearly pained.
Then she picked up a small stack of paperwork from the side of the counter, hooked a purse over her shoulder, and offered both me and Barbara a sad little smile before she headed for the door. Her eyes caught on mine for a moment too long, and maybe
I imagined it, but I could’ve sworn there was a tiny spark there as we exchanged glances, and it was that flicker of connection that had me saying, “Hold on.” Because no one gets away from me twice. The chances of me running into her in another store, on another random Wednesday morning, were too slim for me to take the risk. I had to have her.
She paused and looked over at me, brows raised in expectation, and I twitched my fingers around the dress in my hand.
“What if you could have this dress?”
She stared at me, clear suspicion on her face, even as a glimmer of hope lit her up as she glanced down at the dress. “What do you mean?”
“There’d be a catch.” I gave her one of my most charming smiles. “A date,” I added. “I’ll buy you this dress if you go on a date with me.”
Chapter Three
Kylie
Did I hear that right? There was a rush of white noise in my ears, making me think I’d imagined the words I’d just heard spill from his lips.
He couldn’t…? Surely not.
I swallowed past the sudden flutter of my heart and clarified, “If I go on a date with you, you’d buy me that dress?” He nodded, and I caught sight of Barbara squinting suspiciously at his back. I kind of got Barbara’s point, even as my stomach gave a slow, swooping lurch. “Sounds a little…”
Mild horror passed over his face as realization caught up with him, and he raised a hand. “All above board. I promise.”
I wanted to believe him, since I was pretty sure this wasn’t some kind of weird escorting situation, a payment-for-services-due sort of thing. Still, though—who bought expensive dresses for women on the off-chance they’d get a date out of it?
Football players, my subconscious whispered to me. Whose fathers owned a multi-million dollar football teams and stadiums. They could do anything, pay anything, own anything. I was standing in front of one of the richest men in San Francisco, and he wanted to buy me a dress.
Not just that—he wanted to go on a date with me.
My knees weakened.
Of course I knew about Reade Lennox. Everyone did. He was the most eligible bachelor in the city and I couldn’t crack open a newspaper or load a media website without seeing his face. It was alway a photo of him with some model, or an article about some bar brawl he was in. And I was pretty sure his team was having some troubles right now, although he wasn’t showing it right now—his eyes were bright, his smile flirty and charming, and he was looking at me as if I was the important thing here, not the dress. He definitely knew how to play the game, and he was famous for it. Everyone knew that.
He’d tried this before. Not the dress part, but asking me out. We met at April’s wedding, and he must’ve gotten my number from Breck. He left a voicemail suggesting a dinner. And I’d ignored it. I didn’t even really know why, because I certainly found him attractive, with his broad shoulders and model-perfect face angles, the brush of stubble on his jaw and the brown eyes so dark they were almost black. Right now as I tried not to stare at him, his t-shirt was just tight enough, straining over a muscular chest, and the v-neck showed a hint of bronzed skin that left my mouth a little dry.
I was insanely attracted to him, and he’d been nothing less than pleasant when we’d met, but still I’d ignored his follow-up call. Something about how much my life sucked right now, the roommate situation, my dad, my work—all of it leaving me feeling as if going on a date with someone from such a vastly different world would be too much for me to deal with. Plus, he was a literal man-whore. I was pretty sure I’ve seen him photographed with every Victoria Secret model there was. And everyone knew he had anger management issues. I did not need that in my life.
Aside from that, I couldn’t help but let my nerves run rampant at the idea of dating someone so high-profile. He wasn’t just some guy. He was the guy—the one every single woman for miles around wanted on her arm. And he’d fixated on me.
He hadn’t let my silent rejection of him knock him back, though, because here he was, again, asking me out. Confidence, they called that. I called it cockiness. It kind of made me a little warm between the thighs, to be perfectly honest.
“My sister’s birthday party is this weekend,” he explained, “and I need a date. If you’re willing to show up on my arm, I’d love you to be wearing this.”
Not a dinner then. Nothing stuffy and awkward. A birthday party—music, guests, chatter, drinks. Something informal and low-pressured. I could do that.
Couldn’t I?
I took another look at that wide, solid-looking chest.
Yes, I could definitely do that.
I cleared my throat and said, “All right.” It came out croakier than I planned, and my cheeks burned an instant red.
His eyes lit up, like he hadn’t expected me to agree. Which didn’t make sense to me, because surely a man like this had no idea what rejection felt like.
Except I’d rejected him, hadn’t I, by not returning his call. I’d already said no to him once before.
“Yeah?” he clarified, and there was something about it that melted my heart a little.
I cocked a smile, and said in a dryly teasing voice, “I really want that dress, so…”
He grinned at that, managing to transform his face into a self-satisfied smirk. My stomach fluttered.
“Can I have your address, so I can pick you up?”
“I’ll text it to you,” I said, and then added with a smile, “I’ve got your number,” putting the whole ignored-voicemail thing into stark clarity between us.
He nodded wryly and said, “You might think about using it next time,” and I gave him my best enigmatic look as I turned away.
“We’ll see.”
I left him shortly after, with him promising to have the dress sent to me in time for the party, and my ears felt warm as I exited the store, the skin on my palms tingling, gut tightening up at the feel of his eyes on me as I left. There was something about him that drew me in, made me want to stay and talk with him, memorize the lines of his face. My stomach twisted pleasantly when I thought of our upcoming date.
The coffee house was thankfully quiet when I set up my work at a back table, working through the various invoices and menu plans I had to deal with for the next few weeks. It left me with a little headache—not the menu part, because I loved that, but balancing the numbers, working out what I could afford, where I would have to cut corners, which clients I would disappoint the most. The fact was, there just wasn’t enough money to deliver the kind of service I wanted to, and at least one client was going to give me an earful for it.
Several cups of coffee later, with a mild well of stress in my gut, I gathered up my things and headed back home, wanting nothing more than to take a hot bath and watch some crap reality TV before heading out to the event I was catering later that evening. I was laying on a Sweet Sixteen for some high fashion model’s daughter, and I’d already clashed with them a dozen times in the past month over menus and dietary requirements. I needed the night to go well.
Unfortunately, my plans were brutally waylaid by a certain semi-naked sex machine currently taking up residence in my kitchen, steadily eating his way through the cake I’d spent hours on yesterday, creating it for the Sweet Sixteen tonight.
For a moment, I couldn’t believe my eyes, and I stood unnoticed in the doorway, watching Mandy’s boyfriend guzzle down the cake like he was the world’s most disgusting vacuum cleaner.
Then reality caught up with me, and I saw red.
“What the fuck—are you kidding me?” I dumped my keys, bag, and papers on the counter and watched as the sounds startled him into choking on his mouthful. He had pink frosting smeared on his lips and some in his hair, with smatterings of sugar dusting his wiry chest hair, and part of me wanted to just walk away from him before I vomited at his feet.
But he regained control of himself before I could act, and he croaked, “Hey, green eyes. This is fucking amazing.”
“It’s for a client, you asshol
e,” I hissed, marching over to him and snatching the fork out of his hand. “I’ve got an event tonight!”
“Oh.” For half a second, he looked chagrinned—and then a nasty smirk spread over his face and he shrugged, dragged his gross fingertip through the frosting left on the plate. Just as he was making a show of sucking my hard work clean off his horrible finger, I felt a sharp snap in my brain, and I was done.
“That’s it,” I said, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him away. “I’ve had enough. Out.” I shoved him, while he continued to grin inanely as if highly amused by my display of anger. “Out!”
Mandy came stumbling into the room, yawning and rubbing her eyes, somehow managing to look entirely debauched in a floor-length pajama dress and glossy hair. “What’s going on?” she asked through the yawn, and I was furious with her too now, angry that she’d been able to sleep away her day after keeping me up all night hammering her headboard into the wall. Angry that she looked so unconcerned with her boyfriend’s behavior. Angry that she’d come into my home and acted with nothing but disrespect from day one.
Angry that she wasn’t April, when I really needed my best friend right now.
“Your boyfriend here isn’t welcome in my apartment anymore,” I growled at her. “I wanted one roommate, not two.”
Suddenly, fiercely, like a splinter right down the center of my rib cage, I missed April more than ever, and I had to fight the urge to deflate under the weight of it. I couldn’t show weakness. These two would walk all over me forever if they saw me soften now.
Mandy crossed her arms over her chest, adopting a deep scowl. “If he goes, I go with him.”
And—okay. It wasn’t what I had been aiming for, but right now, it sounded like the greatest idea in the world.
Bad Boy's Cinderella: A Sports Romance Page 2
