Bringing Home the Bad Boy

by Jessica Lemmon

  Gosh, he was beautiful. Stole the very breath from her lungs. Messy bedhead, honest turquoise eyes, lips she’d kissed over and over and still hadn’t had enough of. He hadn’t kissed her tonight at all, come to think of it.

  Maybe that was why she felt unsure even after his proclamation in her doorway.

  But what did he need to say that he hadn’t already proven? In the past couple of days, he defended her honor, he came for her, he gave her space when she didn’t need it. And here she sat, staring into his beautiful face, head empty, mouth mute.

  There was only one thing she could think to say. “I’m sorry.”

  This earned her a grunt and a slight lift of his lips. “ ’Course you are.” That tiny lift made her heart do a cartwheel. “You’re sorry about everything. Especially shit you shouldn’t be sorry for.”

  “I said awful things.” She looked at her hands.

  “Yeah. So did I.” He shook his head. “Seeing that asshole with his hands on you… I couldn’t…”

  She lifted her eyes and held his.

  “You deserve better, Ace.”

  She filled the air with a nervous laugh. “I deserve something.”

  His hand covered both of hers. “You deserve me.”

  Her smile fell and her heart pounded.

  “And I deserve to have you. Tonight. Tomorrow. Every day.” He squeezed her hands.

  Her heart did another cartwheel.

  “Know what part of you I love the most?” he asked.

  She clasped her fingers together, felt her eyes grow wide.

  Did he… just say… he loved her?

  Maybe he means as a friend. Don’t freak out.

  Her heart kicked against her ribs.

  Too late.

  She was freaking out.

  “Do you?” he prompted.

  Shocked, she shook her head in answer.

  “Every part. All of them.” His crooked smile slipped and he focused on her so intently, she couldn’t look away. “I love when you get embarrassed when I compliment your body. Love when you gasp when I say something dirty you find secretly sexy. Love that you love my son”—he took his hand from hers and grasped her neck, turning his body toward hers—“especially that part.” He gave her a squeeze. “Love that you apologize for absolutely everything.”

  She was biting her lip so she wouldn’t cry, but she felt the tears building in the backs of her eyes, stinging her nose.

  “Know why?”

  She shook her head again, still speechless. Overwhelmed.

  “Because that’s who you are. Every giving, loving, amazing part of you. And every last part belongs with me.” He paused, pressed his lips together for a second, then said, “I didn’t choose you first, Ace. I can’t change that.”

  Finally, she found words, and the voice to give them. “I wouldn’t want you to. Without Rae, I wouldn’t be me. You wouldn’t be you.” Quietly, she added, “We wouldn’t have Lyon.”

  “We.” His smile widened. “Love that about you, too, Ace.” Palming the back of her head, he lowered his lips to hers.

  She tipped her lips to catch the kiss, the only thought in her addled brain that he loved her. Loved everything about her.

  Oh, her heart. Her pounding, beating, palpating heart.

  “I’d ask if you’d have me, Ace…” he whispered against her mouth. “But baby, you already have me.”

  Grasping his neck, she pulled his lips to hers and crushed into him. When the arm of the chair pushed into her ribs, preventing them from getting closer, he stood and pulled her up by her elbows. Bending, he hooked an arm behind her knees and scooped her up, kissing her again and again while he walked her to the house.

  At the doorway, he teased, “Good to see you agree.”

  “I do.”

  Something serious crossed his face. “I know you do.”

  He did know. He had known. And he didn’t stop in his pursuit of her because he’d known. He’d seen the truth way before she had.

  They belonged together. He loved her.

  He loved her.

  Evan Downey was in love with her.

  The words pounded like the backbeat of a song on the radio, throbbing through her body with too much bass.

  No, not too much.

  Just enough.

  If he could be bold, so could she. She grinned up at him. “Can I borrow your shower with you in it?”

  Still holding her in his arms, he grinned as he pushed open the door. “Hell yes.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  That fall…

  Library Park boasted a banner that read THE COVE’S HARVEST FEST. Pumpkins, haystacks, and scarecrows decorated the park, and the Andersons’ home across the street was decorated as well. Tom had turned it into a “haunted house” for the event, but to Charlie, it looked more Scooby-Doo than Amityville Horror.

  She shook her head at the skeleton in the yard wearing a pink dress.

  A pink dress.

  Not that haunted houses were particularly scary before nightfall, anyway, she reasoned.

  Evan palmed her ribs and tugged her close as they walked through the crowd. She wanted to release a long sigh as she curled into him, so she did. She pretty much did whatever she was feeling with him since the night he came for her. She’d promised him he’d never have to come for her again, and he told her, “I’ll come for you always, Ace.”

  Was it any wonder she had agreed to marry him?

  After dinner tonight, they walked down to the park with Lyon, along with almost every other ’Greener who had braved the slightly chilly air to buy a caramel apple, spiked apple cider, or—yikes—a scoop of sauerkraut ice cream being offered at Jack’s Shack.

  Evan’s fingers gently grazed the tattoo just under her breast. The tattoo he’d added to since, his latest embellishment happening a few days ago.

  He’d drawn in a thick stroke of blue around the camera. He’d been adding paint strokes one at a time since he branded her. The first time, she’d come into the studio to tell him good night and he pulled her into his lap, kissed her, and murmured, “Have an idea, Ace.”

  She thought he meant another roll in paint on a canvas, but instead, he’d laid her on his chair and added watercolor-style brushstrokes of color to her body. She requested more last week, and as any good tattoo artist and man who was happy to brand his woman, he agreed.

  She loved it. There was something special about having her passion blended with his. There was something special about them period, she thought with a smile.

  This morning, he surprised her again. He’d added another tat to himself a week ago, sneakily keeping it from her. A bandage over his left pec disguised the surprise for an entire week. He fibbed by saying something about a “freak bacon-frying accident” to cover for himself.

  Then, while she was getting dressed today, he tore off his T-shirt while she struggled to maintain some semblance of calm. She’d never get over seeing his naked chest. His naked anything.

  He stood over her while she sat on the edge of the bed pulling on her socks.

  “Gotcha something, Ace.”

  Then he took the bandage off his skin and showed her that “something.” The letter A and a heart inked into his skin. Over his heart.

  An Ace of hearts.

  She’d made it onto Evan’s canvas.

  Fingers to her lips, she’d smiled up at him. “Really?”

  He brought his forehead to hers. “Really, Ace.” Then he pushed her onto the bed, put a knee between her legs, and kissed her.

  They were both later getting to work than they’d anticipated.

  “Aunt Sofie!” Lyon looked up from his iPad. He was now consumed with some game featuring towers of fruit—and about nine hundred levels of difficulty. He needed a new distraction ever since he saved the queen on Clashing Clans. Charlie had insisted on commemorating the feat by hanging a photo in Lyon’s room—a photo of Rae in her wedding dress, wearing her “crown.”

  Charlie had worried at f
irst how Evan might react, but when he caught sight of it over Lyon’s dresser, he pulled her close and kissed her, much like he’d done a moment ago.

  Rae’s wedding picture hung right next to a photo of Evan, Charlie, and Lyon. They stood on the dock looking very much like a family. When she told Evan as much, he’d corrected her with, “We are a family, Ace.”

  Then he’d proposed, and before she could answer, Lyon was shaking her arm shouting, “Say yes, Charlie!”

  Sofie Martin, event planner extraordinaire, was all smiles when she stopped in front of Evan, Charlie, and Lyon. She had been asked to plan the festival, so she should be. This was a huge coup for her business.

  The “aunt” thing was new for Sofie. Maybe Lyon had needed a replacement aunt since he’d stopped referring to Charlie as “aunt” last month. Not that Evan or Charlie had asked him to stop. It had happened naturally, like a lot of things between them did.

  “Hey guys,” Sofie said.

  “Everything looks great,” Charlie told her, gesturing around at the decorations.

  “Except for the deep-fried beets.” Sofie wrinkled her nose and pointed at a cart across the way. “And thank you. It’s been… interesting working closely with Mrs. Anderson.”

  Charlie felt the low rumble of Evan’s laughter at her side where she was pressed against him.

  Sofie addressed Evan. “The reveal’s in ten minutes, you know.”

  “Right.” Evan’s eyes slid to Charlie. She hadn’t seen the painting he donated yet, but he assured her that Mrs. Anderson was getting what she requested: art.

  “I have a few minutes on my hands if you want me to take Lyon over to the haunted house,” Sofie offered.

  “Dad! Can I?” His eyes were wide and his smile huge.

  “Nightmares, bud,” Evan said.

  “Nuh-uh,” he argued. “Nonna gives me cookies and milk to keep the nightmares away.” Pat and Cliff were due any minute to pick up Lyon for the weekend.

  “Lionel—” Evan started.

  Charlie squeezed his side. “Oh, come on, babe. This is the Anderson house we’re talking about. How scary could it be?”

  He lifted an eyebrow suggesting she might be eating those words. Mrs. Anderson was pretty darn scary on her own.

  Lyon dropped his head back on his neck and looked up at her. “Mom. Can I?”

  Mom.

  Charlie looked into Evan’s son’s pleading eyes and pressed her lips together. She wondered when it would happen… sooner than she thought.

  “I promise I won’t have nightmares,” he added with an eye roll. As if the haunted house was the most pressing issue at hand. As if he didn’t absolutely define her world and future with one word.

  “Mom,” Lyon said, stabbing her right in the feels again with the three-letter word. “Is it okay?”

  Evan’s palm slipped up to Charlie’s nape where he gave her a light squeeze. “Yeah, bud. It’s okay with your mom and me.”

  Gosh. She blinked rapidly. She might just lose it.

  Sofie placed a hand on Lyon’s shoulder and gave Charlie a knowing grin. “We’ll meet you after.”

  When they left, Charlie had a serious, silent discussion with her tear ducts, instructing them not to ruin her makeup.

  Evan lowered his lips to her forehead and kissed her, whispering, “Natural progression, Ace.”

  “I know, I just…”

  She looked at the engagement ring on her finger. Thought of Evan’s proposal. “Promise you forever, Ace.”

  She’d said yes to him then. Then she’d said yes a dozen more times in their bed that night.

  Natural progression.

  “Bound to happen,” Evan said to her now. “He loves you. I love you.”

  Her heart fluttered. She looked from her ring to his handsome face. “I love you, too.”

  “I know, baby.” Another gentle squeeze to her neck. “Better go in. We’re late.”

  They crossed the park and entered the library where a small crowd had gathered for the “big reveal” of Mrs. Anderson’s penance painting from one-half of the Penis Bandits.

  Real art for the library’s wall.

  Evan and Charlie positioned themselves near the back of the crowd, behind a short bookshelf filled with children’s books—Evan’s included and proudly displayed face-out. Mrs. Anderson tugged the sheet and the crowd gasped when it piled to the ground, revealing the painting.

  Charlie gasped, too.

  “Beautiful,” someone said.

  “Amazing.”

  “An original,” said someone else.

  It was original, all right. A touched-up, refinished original she wasn’t sure was safe for public consumption.

  “Evan,” she hissed.

  His arm wrapped around her shoulders and tugged her close, his low, sexy male chuckle reverberating against her ribs.

  She stared at the painting.

  Oh boy.

  The very painting she’d asked him to burn. He’d wanted to hang it in the living room, which had earned another “no” from her.

  “You didn’t, baby,” she breathed.

  “Penis Bandit, Ace.”

  In other words, you can’t take the bad out of the boy.

  And maybe that’s what she loved about him. People continued to murmur their appreciation, nodding with admiration.

  Charlie turned her lips to Evan’s ear and whispered, “Crude.”

  He smiled down at her. “You love it.”

  She did. And she loved him. Which is why he’d known she’d forgive him.

  “A huge gratitude to Mr. Evan Downey, commissioned to do this amazing and artful painting,” Mrs. Anderson announced with a flourish of her hand.

  The crowd clapped and he lifted his hand in a small wave.

  Then a voice cut in, “Ava, is that… a nipple?”

  Mrs. Anderson turned to her prized possession, tipping her head to study it closer. Evan’s waving hand dropped and pressed into Charlie’s lower back.

  He tilted his chin at the door. “Ace.”

  She didn’t need to be told twice. She moved for the door.

  A second later, Mrs. Anderson’s voice rang out, “Is that a butt cheek?”

  Evan’s laugh cut into the air, making Charlie feel overwhelmingly happy.

  She’d found what she didn’t know she was looking for—a husband, a family, a son.

  Finally.

  Outside, they spotted Patricia and Cliff Mosley at the cider booth. Pat had a cup of cider, but it looked like Cliff had taken a chance on the sauerkraut ice cream.

  On the way over to meet them, Charlie lifted her eyes to the slowly darkening sky, knowing she was where she should be, knowing they were all where they should be.

  Spotting a star, she smiled and whispered up to her friend, “I’ve got this, Rae.”

  FROM THE DESK OF JESSICA LEMMON

  Dear Reader,

  Every good bad boy should have a hangover remedy in his repertoire. Turns out Evan Downey from BRINGING HOME THE BAD BOY has two. One of them is a recipe for seared red potatoes, eggs, and cheese on top, and the other… well, the other one might be heroine Charlie Harris’s favorite.

  But that’s another story for another time.

  In case you don’t happen to have a go-to recipe for when you’ve had too many “Mad Cow Tinis,” I’m going to give you Evan’s. It does employ a bit of skill, so if you’re severely hungover, you may want to have a friend (a bad boy?) make it for you.

  HANGOVER HASH FOR TWO

  4–5 new (red) potatoes, scrubbed and rinsed

  ¼ of a green pepper, cubed

  ¼ of a sweet Vidalia onion, cubed

  olive oil

  2 eggs

  sharp cheddar cheese

  2 slices multigrain bread

  1. The trick, Evan would tell you, is getting the potatoes cooked just right. Place potatoes in a pot and cover with cold water. Put a lid on the pot and bring to a boil. Once boiling, remove the lid and continue to cook the potatoes for
12-14 minutes or until you can stick the tip of a knife in a potato and it slips off the edge. That means they’re done. Remove from water and place on a cutting board. When they’re cool enough for you to handle, cube them.

  2. Put a drizzle of olive oil in a large frying pan and toss in cubed potatoes, green pepper, and onions. Cook over medium-high heat, tossing on occasion. Evan employs the fancy flip-into-the-air move, but he also cooks in his boxer briefs, so you do what is right for you. Employing a wooden spoon is perfectly acceptable.

  3. Put a drizzle of olive oil in a small frying pan and heat over medium-high. Crack two eggs into the pan and immediately lower the heat to medium. You want a runny yoke for this meal, so you don’t want to cook them too fast. Carefully flip so as not to break the yoke. Evan prefers to utilize a utensil for this endeavor since the flip move is a bit risky.

  4. Make toast. Butter toast. This should need no further explanation.

  5. Pile seared-to-perfection red potatoes, onions, and green peppers onto the center of your plate, sprinkle on sharp cheddar cheese, and lay your over-easy egg on top. Serve with toast, making sure to cut them into triangles (no shoddy squares, please) and—this is important—your first bite should be the one where you cut through the center of the egg and yoke runs into the potatoes.

  6. Enjoy! Oh, and don’t forget the coffee. Charlie takes hers with lots and lots of cream.

  Happy cooking!

  ~Jess

  About the Author

  Jessica Lemmon has always been a dreamer. At some point, after she decided head-in-the-clouds thinking was childish, she went out and got herself a job… and then she got another one because that one was lousy. And when that one stopped being fulfilling, she went out and got another… and another. Soon it became apparent that she’d only be truly happy doing what she loved. And since “eating potato chips” isn’t a viable career, she opted to become a writer. With fire in her heart, she dusted off a book she’d started years prior, finished it, and submitted it. It may have been the worst book ever, but it didn’t stop her from writing another one. Now she has several books finished, several more started, and even more marinating in her brain, and she couldn’t be happier. She firmly believes God gifts us with talents for a purpose, and with His help, you can create the life you want.