BAD BOY
(THE BLUE COLLAR BACHELORS SERIES - Book 3)
Cassie-Ann L. Miller
Bad Boy (The Blue Collar Bachelors Series – Book 3)
Copyright © 2018 Cassie-Ann L. Miller
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents appearing therein are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be interpreted as real. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status of the various products referenced in this work.
Amazon’s Kindle Store is the only authorized distributor of this ebook. If you have downloaded or purchased it from any other distributor, please note that you have received an illegal copy. This not only violates the author’s copyright, deprives the author of royalties due and puts the book at risk of being removed from Kindle distribution, but it also exposes you to computer viruses, theft of your personal information by book pirates and potential legal prosecution.
Stories by
Cassie-Ann L. Miller
The Blue Collar Bachelors Series
Lover Boy
Play Boy
Bad Boy
Hot Boy
The Dirty Suburbs Series
Dirty Neighbor
Dirty Player
Dirty Stranger
Dirty Favor
Dirty Lover
Dirty Farmer
Dirty Silver
Dirty Forever
Dirty Christmas
The Esquire Girls Series
Amber’s Story
Amber Nights (Amber – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Madison’s Story
For Madison, Always (Madison – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Ruthie’s Story
Ruthie’s Desire (Ruthie – Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Hailey’s story
Moments with Hailey (Hailey - Books 1, 2, 3 & 4)
Esquire HEAT Series
A Very Eager Intern
A Very Frustrated Attorney
Standalone novels
Matteo
Beast
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Bad Boy
The Blue Collar Bachelors Series (Book 3)
BLURB
A good girl. A bad boy. Business and pleasure collide.
I can't stand Clinton Alvarez.
My life was meticulously organized, painstakingly structured and impeccably sanitary...until he rolled into town with his bad manners, his short temper and his cocky smirk. Now, he's opened up his grungy barbershop right next door to my pristine cupcake shop, bringing along his clientele of shady, leather-loving motorcycle guys with broken noses.
He's infuriating. Having him around brings out the worst in me. All of a sudden, I'm acting on impulse. First, I'm flinging a handful of over-ripe raspberries at his back. Then, I'm screwing him on the countertop between the cash register and the cakepop display.
Waking up with a blanked-out memory on his threadbare sheets is unquestionably the low-point of my life. Except now, the only thing I hate more than Clinton himself is the fact that I'm starting to fall head over heels for him.
He has a secret that will rock the foundation of all the things I believe in. But it's foolish to jump to conclusions because, in some stories, it's not easy figuring out exactly who the bad guy is.
Bad Boy is a steamy, laugh-out-loud enemies-to-lovers romance set in small town Illinois. It is book 3 in the Blue Collar Bachelors series.
Table of contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Epilogue
Prologue
Vivian
3:12 a.m.
That moment when you find the first gray hair in your pubes…
I feel the earth shift under my feet as water beats down on the tiles all around me and the suddenly-suffocating steam casts a surreal mist over the narrow shower stall. I'm bent over with the razor in my hand, my attention transfixed to my crotch. The lone, pioneering white strand pokes out of my dark, neatly-groomed rug. Strong and defiant.
A tiny squeak manages to erupt from my constricted throat. I totter, a little unsteady on my feet. My head feels light. I've been blindsided.
Ambushed by my bush.
Nothing quite prepares you for this moment. When magazines and midmorning talk shows tell women about aging, they talk about fine lines and wrinkles, arthritis and osteoporosis, hot flashes and weight gain. I’ve been proactive against those possibilities. I stay hydrated on lemon water and anti-oxidant rich teas. I have a strict daily beauty routine that involves an army of expensive anti-aging toners and moisturizers. I haven’t had a slice of pizza since George W. was president. I’ve mastered yoga to the point where I can comfortably give a pretzel a run for its money.
But they don't tell you about this...Nobody tells you about this. I did everything right. And this is how my body repays me?
My eyes begin to prickle. I feel like I’m watching the final shards of my youthful optimism circle the drain and disappear forever.
Y’see, it’s not about the pube. It’s about everything that it represents. It’s about the painful reminder that my current reality is so very far removed from the vision I had for what my life would look like at 29. (Yes, I'm 29...Wait—how old did you think I am? Oh my god...)
When Ernie came home to Copper Heights for Christmas break during sophomore year, I started hinting at marriage. He and I came up with a plan. We had it all detailed in my neat, cursive handwriting on the elegant crème pages of my Kate Spade floral agenda. We had the wedding venue picked out. The flowers. The music. The honeymoon in Bermuda. Of course, we’d chosen names for the children. Names that complimented each other beautifully…But you know what happens with the best-laid plans.
In any case, even after that relationship ended in an epically disastrous way four years ago, I held out hope that I’d find someone. Someone tall with good teeth, broad shoulders and kind eyes. Someone with decent taste in wine, an appreciation for post-impressionist art and a diverse portfolio of reliable, long-term investments. Someone who showers daily without having to be lured, coerced or threatened. A good, responsible guy. That’s all I ever wanted.
But apparently, that's too much to ask in a place like Copper Heights. The population of single males in this town is so meagre that a woman has a better chance
of getting abducted by an unidentified flying object than finding a guy who's right for her. And god forbid she have the nerve to have standards, too.
So alas, here I am. Single, lonely and gray-pubed with 30 right around the bend. And to exacerbate my plight, over the past few months, I watched both of my younger siblings hook up with their soul-mates and settle down in rapid succession. It’s starting to feel like there’s nothing but crocheted doilies, plastic-covered sofas and a houseful of cats on the horizon for me. I shudder violently.
The razor slips from my soapy fingers and hits the floor of the porcelain claw-foot tub with a high-pitched crack, snapping me back to the present.
A little voice at the back of my head says I’m being just a touch melodramatic. My life isn’t terrible. I own a beautiful cottage-style bungalow. I have an incredibly supportive family. My business is about to reopen its doors in just a matter of hours. So why do all these wonderful things seem dwarfed by the fact that I don’t have a man in my life?
In any case, the clock is ticking and I can’t stand in the shower trying to drown my frustrations all day. Okay, time for a harsh pep talk. Get it together, Vivian. It’s way too early in the morning for an existential crisis. Today is the reopening of the cupcake shop. It’s no time for weakness.
Since the Broken Cupcake burned down four months ago, my sister Reese and I have been working our butts off to get to this day. It’s going to be perfect and I’m not about to let anything ruin it.
My resolve is firm as I stomp out of the shower. I wipe the steam off of the mirror, dry my skin and spread my towel neatly on the brass rack. Standing back, I clench my fingers on my hips and tilt my body, searching for my most flattering angle.
All is not lost. I still have a perky butt, at the very least.
Regardless, I'm done taking chances. I smooth an extra dab of rejuvenating serum on my butt cheeks today. Sort of like an insurance policy.
Half an hour later, my dark hair is in a basic chignon and I'm dressed in a simple white blouse, a vintage circle skirt and low peep-toe heels. I slip on my warm tweed jacket and lock up the house behind me. The early morning air is nippy. As I hustle down the cobblestone driveway and climb into my practical and reliable Chevrolet, there’s no sign of daybreak on the horizon.
It doesn’t matter, though. Today, I’m going to focus on the things I can control. The success of the bakery's reopening is one of those things.
Chapter 1
Vivian
7:42 a.m.
I run through my checklist again, re-ticking each item with my freshly sharpened pencil.
Stock napkin dispensers? Check.
Fill milk and cream carafes? Check.
Update chalkboard sign with special of the week? Check.
Today is the big day and it has to go off without a hitch. Gray pubes, notwithstanding. As much as I’d love to hide out under my blanket and mope about this morning’s rough start, there are more pressing matters at hand.
The Broken Cupcake finally reopens its doors today. After the original location burned to the ground, Reese and I immediately sprang into action to get it up and running again. It took longer than expected but the day is finally here and as soon as the clock strikes 8:00, we'll be open for business. Because of the troubling discovery I made in the shower a few hours ago, the success of this event is more important than ever. My body may be rebelling against me. The other side of my bed may be cold. But this cupcake shop works. And I'll do what I have to do to protect that.
I tuck the clipboard under my arm and stand back, canvassing the space one more time. Pink-framed photos of fresh fruit and decadent desserts line the whitewashed brick walls. The concrete floors have been buffed to perfection. The spotless, white counters gleam. Vibrant succulents line the edge of the large picture window overlooking the strip mall’s sidewalk. Cushy pink chairs surround the shabby wooden tables. The bakery's decor is a cozy (and very deliberate) combination of rustic-artisanal and chic.
Our realtor did some hardcore pitching to get me to agree to this new location because initially, I wasn't sold. Our previous location had been in the heart of town, between the flower shop and the jewelry store. Now, we're in a strip mall a block from Town Square, sandwiched between the second-hand bookstore and an empty space with newspaper covering the windows. There's also a butcher shop, a pizzeria and a drug store at the other end of the strip. The surrounding businesses tend to attract a lot of traffic so I'm optimistic that we'll be able to convert some of that traffic into cupcake enthusiasts. Despite our limited budget, I've put an aggressive plan in place for that purpose. I've got a few hundred flyers printed out, I've got a stack of business cards in each of the neighboring shops and I've got a chalkboard sign announcing our grand opening in the hopes of luring people in the front door. All those things working together should help us to quickly gain some traction.
Reese is at the display case artfully arranging the cupcakes beneath the glass. She grins excitedly. “Looks good, huh?”
My chest swells with pride as I nod. I love this business. We started it together with an investment from our parents three years ago. Reese is a talented baker who has a way of bringing out the rich aromas and flavors of even the most basic ingredients. Her creations are mouth-watering and downright irresistible. It’s a miracle that I still have a waistline after working with her for the past few years.
Anyway, talent alone isn't enough to make a business successful. That’s where I come in. I'm a good baker too, but that's not where my true strength lies. I'm the queen of planning and execution. Reese and our brother, Charlie, make fun of my love of making lists, devising strategies and analyzing data. They say I’m anal-retentive. But all great business endeavors are the result of meticulous planning. And I want the Broken Cupcake to be a great endeavor.
Besides, nothing pushes my hot buttons like project planning. Progress reports, time management and financial projections. Ooh, baby. Talk dirty to me.
Sadie comes out of the kitchen, shaking her butt and humming enthusiastically as pop music bleeds out of her earbuds. She’s got an empty coffee urn tucked under her arm and she’s pounding the top like a drum. Reese giggles. Apparently, this kind of behavior is funny.
“Oh I love that song,” my sister squeals. Of course, now she’s dancing, too. The two of them are flapping their arms, slamming their bums into each other and singing the lyrics to some song I've never heard before. I don't listen to the garbage on Top 40 radio so I'm not familiar. But I'm definitely annoyed.
“Are we all ready to open?” I bark in irritation. This is not the time to be fooling around.
Sadie flashes me an oopsie! look. “Just making the coffee now.” She scrambles to get some coffee beans into the machine.
I check the watch on my wrist. The coffee should have been started at least five minutes ago. “People are gonna be coming through the door in matter of minutes.”
Reese’s eyes roll in their sockets like a chameleon as she comes around the counter. “Can you please stop being so Vivian about this?” She hiccups a laugh. “I get it. You’ve got opening day jitters. I do, too. But it’ll be fine.” She snatches up the chalkboard sign leaned against the wall and bumps her hip into mine. “We’ve got this!”
Reese is happy. She's always happy. Especially these days. All is well in her world. She just got engaged to a warm, kind, ridiculously handsome man…She has an adorable stepson…She doesn’t have a gray bush, I’m sure…
Grunting under my breath, I follow after her as she gleefully hops out onto the sidewalk. The aroma of brown sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon travels behind us. Reese haphazardly plops down the sign into the middle of the sidewalk. It reads; Cupcake of the week: Pumpkin-Maple. Grab your free sample during opening week.
When I bend forward to angle the board properly for optimal exposure, she growls peevishly. "Leave it alone, Vivian. It’s fine the way it is." She grabs me by the wrist, about to pull me back inside. That’s when Cleo’s flashy Mercedes
rolls into the parking lot of the strip mall.
The car screeches to a stop then our realtor and her ex-husband/new boyfriend/baby daddy (don’t ask!) step out. Cleo stretches a giant bouquet of colorful balloons out to me. I take the balloons from her and fasten them to the hinges of the sidewalk sign as she whips off her big sunglasses, fluffs up her hair and gushes about how good the baked treats smell, even from outside. Beaming, Reese ushers the couple into the bakery to give them a mini tour of our new facilities.
We invited some special guests for a first look at the new place. I convinced Reese that having a little gathering to mark our reopening was a good idea. That way, when the first paying customers of the day show up, the cupcake shop will already be packed, giving off the impression that our bakery is the place to be.
Within a matter of minutes, our distinguished invitees have arrived. Some of our good friends from the fire department and police force. Mr. Farlow and his interns from the local newspaper. Pastor Becker and his wife, Blythe, who run the women’s shelter where I volunteer once a week. My sister’s fiancé, Leo, and his son, Brenton. My brother, Charlie, and his girlfriend, Nova.
Bad Boy (Blue Collar Bachelors Book 3) Page 1
