The Rebel: A Bad Boy Romance

by Aria Ford

  “Okay,” I called down cheerfully. “I’m coming right down.”

  Mom worked mornings only at the office now. She was a coordinator for a big logistics company, but she’d taken on a less-demanding schedule now that she was sixty. It was nice to have her with more free time than when we were kids.

  “I like the white one,” I said after she’d tried on both dresses.

  “Mm. I also thought it was better,” she nodded, head on one side as she looked at herself in the mirror.

  I frowned. “You’re going to wear the red jacket with it?”

  “I think so,” she nodded. “Or the peach. Which is better?”

  “The peach. The contrast with the white is just a bit lower,” I nodded.

  “You never stop being a designer, do you?” She chuckled. She gave me a kiss on the head as she wandered over to the dressing table where her clothes were piled.

  I smiled. “I guess not.”

  We went through to the living room for tea.

  “How was work?” I asked.

  “Oh! It was okay—hectic, but not too hectic. I was talking to Camilla, and she was telling me that…”

  As Mom talked about work and her colleagues, I listened absently. I was still thinking of Kyle. What the heck was all that about? I would not understand that guy, I told myself firmly, if I lived to be a hundred. Talk about mixed signals! There were weather stations in Texas that have an easier job predicting what’s coming next than I was with this guy.

  “And then I…sorry, sweetie? You look sad.”

  “Oh.” I shook my head, embarrassed that I’d missed a lot of what Mom had been saying. “Sorry, Mom. I was just distracted. What were you saying?”

  “Just telling you about how we’re going to be cutting back on delivery times in winter,” she said. “It wasn’t important. You’re worried about something.”

  “I’m not worried,” I said truthfully. “I was just trying to figure something out. Sorry,” I added, finishing my tea quickly. “I guess I should probably go get some work done.”

  “Sure,” she said, shrugging. “I’m down here if you want to talk. Just doing my tax. I’ll be in the study.”

  “Great,” I replied. I stretched and stood up, heading upstairs.

  Upstairs, I sat down at the desk by the window, looking out over trees and rooftops. I had a sketch pad and started drawing some ideas. Oddly enough, after that talk with Kyle, I felt quite stimulated, and the ideas started to flow. I was deeply involved in the work when my phone made a noise.

  I frowned. I looked at the time. It was five thirty, or thereabouts. I had been working for around three hours! I reached across.

  And stared.

  Hey, Bethany. This is Kyle. Thanks for the card.

  I felt my heart thumping. Kyle Beckham had sent me a message? No way.

  Cool, Bethany. Be cool. Nothing to stress about. I added the number as a contact, then stared at the phone, wondering what on Earth I could say back.

  Hi, Kyle. I wrote. Nice to hear from you. Stay in touch.

  I sent it with my cheeks burning. I had no idea whether that was a good thing to say or a bad thing. I felt so awkward. What was he going to think?

  “Come on, Bethany. You’re thirty-two, not fifteen. Get working.”

  I made myself put the phone in my handbag, pick up my pencil. As I tried to gather my shattered focus, my phone sounded.

  “Oh!”

  I reached for it quickly. Why would it be him? It’s probably just the phone company notifying you of something. I pulled it out quickly and stared at the screen.

  You’re in town until the weekend?

  I messaged back quickly.

  Yes. Leaving on Sunday. Why?

  I frowned. He was typing a reply already. I felt my heart thud as I waited for it.

  Will you be around for lunch tomorrow?

  No. What? Kyle was asking me for lunch? That was just so surreal. Maybe I was fifteen.

  I messaged back at once. I don’t see why not. Where and when?

  I regretted the formality of my reply the instant I’d sent it. But it was too late to change it. I sat there fretting while he wrote back.

  At Waddington’s?

  Sure. It was near where I’d met Rodney earlier today. Near where I’d walked into Kyle, in fact, so I could easily find my way there.

  Sure. See you at twelve thirty?

  The reply flashed back. Sure.

  I wasn’t sure what to reply to that, so I didn’t reply anything. I sat looking at the screen with a confused frown on my face and my mind reeling.

  What the heck just happened? I shook my head to clear it.

  “Okay, Bethany,” I told myself firmly. “You just got asked to lunch by Kyle Beckham. Nothing to worry about.”

  I let out a slow, steadying breath. I was nervous, I realized. I hadn’t been on a date for a while. And I had absolutely never been on a date with a guy I liked quite as much as I liked Kyle, let’s face it. I sighed.

  I went over to my suitcase. I had two things in there that might work for a lunch. A pair of gray slacks that could be dressed up to pretty smart with a nice shirt. And a less formal dress, similar to the one I had on today. I sighed.

  “Mom?” I called down the stairs.

  “Yes, sweetie?”

  “Are you finished working? I might need to ask your opinion on something.”

  “Sure, baby,” she called cheerfully. “Bring it right down.”

  I lifted the clothes and headed downstairs. “Which is more approachable? Slacks, or the dress?”

  I was determined to make a good impression tomorrow.

  Chapter 6: Kyle

  “Kyle Beckham, get over yourself.”

  I was in the bathroom at work, my heart thudding hard. I looked at myself in the mirror sternly. I looked good, I thought. I had to give myself some confidence boosting, after all! Who else would?

  I was wearing an unbranded shirt, designer jacket in deep brown and navy trousers. I adjusted my burgundy tie and felt like the last time I was at school, getting ready to give a speech. I swallowed hard.

  Come on, Kyle. Stop being silly.

  I rolled my shoulders experimentally. Big shoulders. One thing I had never stopped doing—even in my crazy years—was working out. I thought I looked pretty good. Good enough to impress a smart, self-possessed girl? Not sure. I headed out. Walked past my office, heading to the lifts.

  “See you later, Mr. Beckham,” Melody, my secretary, called out.

  “Later,” I agreed. “I’m just going to lunch. Be back by one thirty.”

  “See you.”

  I went quickly down the stairs. I’d left as early as I could manage. I didn’t want to be late.

  All my anxieties were coming back as I crossed the threshold and headed into the street. Kyle, you’re always dawdling. Kyle, for pity’s sake, can’t you eat with better manners? You’re a disgrace, Kyle.

  I felt like an eight-year-old with my parents at the restaurant. It had been the first time we ate out as a family. And the last. I remembered the huge argument. How my mom had shut herself in the bedroom and cried.

  All my fault.

  I took a steadying breath and centered myself. Kyle Beckham. You are a grown-up man. You are the COO of your father’s company. You are not a frightened child anymore.

  I walked on and reached the restaurant. Even though Waddington’s wasn’t nearly as busy as some of the places closer to the office tower, I had taken the precaution of booking us a table. I didn’t want to screw up. Not with Bethany.

  “Table for two? For Beckham?”

  “Mr. Beckham? Yes. At the window.”

  “Thanks.”

  I took a seat and realized that my heart was thudding in my chest. I breathed out, my hands clasped. Calm down, Kyle. I had been with a lot of girls in my life. They tended to come easy in my position. So why was I being so weird?

  “Something to drink?”

  “Um…I’m waiting for someon
e,” I said quickly. I looked down at the menu, trying to shake this feeling of uneasiness. Memories crowded in. Me, sitting with my mom on the bed, her tender smile. Don’t screw it up, Kyle. If you breathe too loud, if you move too much, put a foot wrong, it’ll shatter. It always did. I always screwed up.

  I looked up, swallowing my shame and sadness.

  I was looking at Bethany.

  I smiled, my cheeks lifting without my asking them to. I watched her move through the crowded room. Her hair shone in the sunlight from the high windows. Her pale dress—I think it was blue or gray, not good with color names, —glowed in the darker surroundings.

  I looked at her and she smiled.

  “Hey,” she said gently. “Good to see you. You got a table.” She looked impressed.

  “I did,” I felt a surge of pride.

  “Well, then,” she said, drawing out her chair and swiveling into it. I winced at the sexy way she sat down, swinging those long, shapely legs round to the side.

  “Um…so,” I said through a tight throat. What to say to her?

  “I like this place,” Bethany said, looking around. She seemed so at ease. I felt even more uncomfortable.

  Smart, sexy. Sophisticated. What the hell am I doing to myself?

  I had no idea of what to say, what to do or how to act. Most girls I’d known in the past didn’t go in for dinnertime chat. It was fast, directed and quickly over. I felt completely out of my depth with this calm, cool, collected beauty who sat there and reached for the menu, running a tapered finger down the lists.

  Just act natural, Kyle. That made sense.

  “Um…what are you going to drink?” I asked uncomfortably. It seemed a logical thing to ask.

  She shrugged a shoulder, a little gesture that was surprisingly elegant. “Water, probably,” she said. “It’s hot outside—I’m thirsty.”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I hear they do fresh-made orange juice here. I’ll try that.”

  “Oh?” She raised a brow. “That sounds good. Can we share?” Then she grinned.

  “What?” I asked. She had such a cute grin. I could see the moisture on her lip and my groin jumped. I tried not to let myself wonder what it would be like to feel those lips under my tongue, parting them as I tasted her mouth. I nodded quickly.

  “Sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I was just remembering one of my first assignments was to design a lemon squeezer.”

  “Really?” I stared at her in astonishment. “Like, one of those thingies with the…I dunno, the pieces?” I made a vague gesture meant to show the segments that a lemon squeezer has.

  She nodded, laughing. “Exactly! I made the mistake of choosing silicon as the medium. I guessed it’d be nice. Imagine: you could turn it inside out to wash the little bits off afterward. Yeah?”

  “Yeah…” I said, not wanting to commit in either direction.

  She grinned. “Well, so I thought. And then on the day when we 3-D printed the thing and I tried it, guess what?”

  “What?” She was smiling so much that I couldn’t help grinning back. She was leaning on her elbows and I instinctively leaned in closer so that our heads were close together. I could smell a fragrance like roses, that seemed to come off her hair. I felt my groin clench again.

  “Well, silicon’s bendy, right. Ever used a bendy lemon squeezer?” She raised a brow, smiling at me.

  I nodded slowly, imagining the scenario she meant. “It didn’t work?” I guessed hesitantly.

  “It might have, if the silicon I’d used had been a little bit thicker,” she laughed. “As it was, we ended up with this floppy brown plastic thing and a very un-squeezed lemon. And a little juice in my eye. Luckily, it was a midterm assignment, and I didn’t fail the year.” She shook her head, laughing.

  “Wow,” I said, smiling uncertainly. “It must have been scary. To get it wrong like that.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t too bad. My professor actually thought it was funny. A lesson learned. I choose my materials carefully. He said he liked the design, though. It was a nice shape.”

  We both laughed. “Well, you know you have a pretty lemon squeezer,” I said.

  “I do, do I?” Her eyes teased. “At least something’s pretty about me.”

  I went red. “I mean…” I gulped.

  She laughed. She gently touched my hand. “I’m joking, Kyle,” she said, laughing. “I know you didn’t mean it like that.”

  I sighed. Swallowed hard. I felt way out of my depth here. “Well,” I said, “we should look at what we want for lunch.”

  I raised a brow at the waiter, needing someone else in the mix. I couldn’t think of anything to say to her, so I looked down the menu. Saw something that grabbed my interest and decided on that.

  “Ready to order, sir?”

  “Um, yeah. The wild mushroom and cheese cottage pie, please.” I hadn’t known Waddington’s was a British-style restaurant when I chose it, but now that we were here, I had decided to take the plunge. I hadn’t had a cottage pie before. In our house, no one made that kind of food.

  “Coming up. And you, ma’am?”

  “The fish and mushy peas, please,” she said succinctly.

  I was surprised. I had to admit to myself I’d looked at that and decided against it. Something about “mushy” put my off. I had no idea what it might be like. We ordered our drinks and the waiter went off to fetch them.

  “You’re adventurous,” I said as he left.

  She laughed. “Why?”

  I went red. “Well, I guess…your order…it’s different,” I said lamely. I wasn’t about to admit that I had no idea what mushy peas were. For all I knew this was something everyone knew, and saying it would make me look like a total dork.

  “It is different,” she said. “I had it when I was a kid. Granny’s British, so I learned about these things. You picked a perfect place—I feel nostalgic in here.” She smiled warmly.

  I felt myself melt inside. “Really? Great.” Again I felt that glow of pride. I had impressed her. I, official juvenile delinquent and ex-street kid—admittedly my career on the street was not long, but still—had impressed a groomed, gracious college girl.

  “Yeah,” she said, sighing as she leaned back. “I miss Granny.”

  “She passed?” I hazarded.

  “Mm,” She nodded. “Oh. Thanks.” She looked up at the waiter as he appeared with the water. I watched as she took a sip. Those pink lips left a slight stain of lipstick on the rim and my loins clenched again. She looked up artlessly, the tip of her tongue just touching her lower lip. The ache in my loins became a steady throb. I let her take a sip of my orange juice as well and wished I could be the rim of the cup.

  “Uh… you said your granny was from the UK?” I asked, clearing my throat and endeavoring to change the subject. “Where from?”

  “Oh—from Brighton. I’ve never been there,” she said with that easy shrug.

  “Would you like to go?” I asked. I was fascinated, despite myself. She was a girl with a rich story behind her and, besides, I wanted to know every little thing about her. She was fascinating.

  “I think so,” she said, leaning back in her chair. She closed her eyes a moment. I felt myself drown in those dark depths. “I want to see more of the world,” she said. “Everything you see broadens you. Like, your mind is full of doors, and something—an experience, a place, a look—can open those doors, and lead you into a whole new world. I dunno,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just getting all arty, I guess. Silly me.”

  She flapped a hand dismissively, laying it on the white tablecloth. She looked sad.

  “No,” I said. I leaned forward, voice firm. “Don’t say that! I get what you mean. It’s like… when you’re on the street, walking, on a rainy day. When you think the whole world is bad and terrible, and then you see something. A flower, maybe. A smile. A kid, just laughing. And you’re suddenly in this different place. A place where things are possible. The world is still the same, but you’re dif
ferent. And that means the whole world has changed.”

  She stared at me. Her brown eyes drank me in. “Wow,” she said. “That is exactly what I meant. You just gave it words. You’re really good at understanding my philosophy.”

  I swallowed hard. “Really?”

  I looked at my hands. I felt weird. It wasn’t like I’d done anything—just told her what I sincerely felt.

  “Really,” she said.

  “Um… fish?”

  “Oh!” She whipped around. “Yes. That’s mine. Thanks.”

  The moment between us broke and I focused on the meal. It looked steaming and delicious and I sampled it eagerly. I closed my eyes, appreciating the experience. It was a simple thing—mashed potato over a mince-like mixture of wild mushrooms and blue cheese, with some kind of sauce and cheese on top. But it was heavenly.

  “This is good,” I said cheerfully. “Did your granny make this too?”

  “Not with mushrooms,” she said with a smile. “And not often. Mushy peas were one of her favorites. She used to make them herself, since we didn’t know anywhere to buy them. She would have loved this place,” she said, blinking hard.

  I could see she was hurting and I passed her my napkin to wipe away the tears. She sniffed. Her fingertips grazed mine as she took it.