Good To Be Bad

by Lili Valente

  Discreetly wiping the drool from the corner of my mouth, I flutter my fingers at my counter staff, fighting a smile at their faces, looking so indignant that I’m depriving the three of them of juicy gossip.

  Just as well. They’ll only be disappointed when they realize my handsome new beau is the enemy in disguise.

  At least, I’m pretty sure he’s still on my shit list. But that gift was quite nice, tea aside. Plus, there’s how he went to the trouble of spelling out So sorry.

  I should let him explain himself. If there’s a fairy godmother raining down Hot British Men on sex-starved American women, I don’t want to miss out. I’ll take her blessing in the form of a kiss to discover how his clean-shaven jaw feels against my face.

  Just for research, and all.

  “So? Talk,” I order, as we wander down the sidewalk toward my place. “Why were you so shady the other night?”

  “I didn’t mean to be shady. When we arrived at yours, I was focused on more interesting things than talking about my shop. Once you told me you own Sweetie Pies, I would have come clean, but I became distracted again. But I would have told you. I promise.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Huh.”

  He raises his right hand. “I swear on my sister’s life. I went to fetch some tea to have with our pie, planning to tell you as soon as we sat down for breakfast.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t like tea though I appreciate your gift.”

  His brows shoot up. “What? You don’t like tea?”

  “I don’t like it. Sorry. It’s just not to my taste.”

  “But you’ll guzzle rancid motor oil all night?” he asks, amused but judgy. “Without even any cream or sugar in it to soften the blow?”

  “I love coffee. Don’t talk about it that way, you’ll hurt its feelings.”

  He snorts. “It’s too bitter to have feelings.”

  “At least it doesn’t taste like wet crabgrass.”

  “Wet crabgrass?”

  “Yes, and not even wet from the rain. Wet because a dog peed on it. A poorly hydrated dog who needs to go to the vet to get checked out because it might have a bladder infection.”

  His newly beard-free cheeks stretch into a grin, revealing a dimple on his right side.

  A dimple! God, I love dimples. I want to press my finger into it to mark the spot and then kiss it.

  “Darling, I think you might be drinking the wrong tea. Or eating the wrong chocolate. Have you ever had an Earl Grey chocolate bar?”

  I nearly retch. “Why would I do that to chocolate?”

  He tosses his head back and laughs. “Why wouldn’t you is the better question. Earl Grey is one of the few things that can make chocolate even better. Someday I will bring you one of the finest Earl Grey chocolate bars.” He takes a beat to let his gaze hold mine. “It’s my favorite. I’m helpless before it.”

  He’s talking about chocolate, but it feels like he’s talking about me. The way he stares. The way his eyes linger on my face.

  My chest swoops.

  And, once again, temptation strikes.

  The desire to kiss this man is powerful, but I find the will to resist.

  I stop in front of my apartment and turn to Weston, the gorgeous and potentially-not-evil owner of the shop across the street. “So, you didn’t plan to lure me in with sex and then commit heinous acts of corporate espionage? I mean, you are the competition. And I’m not just talking about the Mr. or Mrs. Sweet thing. Your shop is literally right across the street, primed to siphon away my business.”

  He looks stunned, as if no such thought has ever crossed his mind. “I honestly never thought about it that way.”

  “What way did you think about it?” I ask, legitimately curious. “You saw a well-established dessert shop already here and decided to open another one?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing really. There are cupcake shops and ice cream parlors all over the neighborhood. They all seem to be doing well. I suppose I figured there was enough room for a pie shop and a cozy nook for tea, scones, and finger sandwiches. But truly, it wasn’t something that concerned me. For good or ill, it never entered my mind.”

  I sigh, nibble my bottom lip, and sigh again.

  West cocks his head and lifts an expressive brow my brother would envy. It’s a brow that says, “can we be friends now?”

  And I guess friends seems the way to go.

  “Yes,” I say to the most-likely-not-evil West. But sadly, that doesn’t change things for us. Our businesses might end up harmoniously co-existing, but we’re still adversaries.

  I know myself. Another date, another time with him, and I’ll lose sight of my priorities. Sweetie Pies is my focus. The Mrs. Sweets competition is my big goal. Anything else with this man will distract me.

  “Yes, you believe me?” he asks.

  “I believe you, but I don’t think we should keep that lunch date. Not when we’re going to be pitted against each other in the heat of battle.”

  He grins that charming, sexy grin of his. “I don’t know. We faced each other on the field of battle the other night and ended up getting along just fine.”

  “Scrabble is different,” I say. “Scrabble is a game. This is business. Serious business. I assume you agree, or you would have dropped out of the contest by now.”

  He sobers. “It’s important to my sister that I compete. And, upon closer thought important to me too.”

  “I completely understand,” I say, pain flashing in my chest. I do understand, but that doesn’t mean I have to like being forced to turn my back on the first guy to make me feel beautiful and desirable in so long.

  But this is part of being a business owner who puts her work family’s needs first.

  I stick out a hand. “May the best baker win.”

  His fingers curl around mine and squeeze, sending longing dancing across my skin. And then he pulls me into him, and my breath rushes out as my breasts collide with his chest.

  I start to pull away, but I don’t want to. I want to give in. I want to be kissed again. I want to know if his beardless kisses are as delish as his bearded ones.

  Then, his hand is cradling my head, and his lips are on mine, and he’s kissing me the way he kisses me—like I’m delicious and delightful. Like I’m the last bite of warm raspberry trifle smothered in melting ice cream and he’s determined to savor every little scrap of me.

  His tongue teases against mine, then strokes, making my breath come faster and my arms twine around his neck like vines seeking the steadiness of a sturdy stake to climb.

  And yes, I want to climb him. I want to jump into his arms, wrap my legs around his hips, and order him to my bed, posthaste.

  Clean-shaven West kisses as spectacularly as bearded West.

  But that’s the problem.

  I could drown in these kisses. I’m not a hater, I’m a lover, and having a lover like him will turn my brain to pear mush.

  He pulls away and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Just a goodbye kiss. For good luck,” he says in a husky voice.

  Damn. His voice melts me too.

  Yes, it’s best I didn’t issue any ill-advised invitations to take him to bed. I need to rest and focus, not get lost in West’s kisses.

  “Right.” My breath shudders out as I force myself to take a step back. I look up at him and nod. “Goodbye, then. And good luck.”

  “Smashing good luck. I can’t wait to see you perform under pressure. I have no doubt you’ll be brilliant.”

  My lips part, then close, then part. I’m struggling to sort out a response to such sweetness from an adversary, when West adds with a sigh, “But fair warning, I’m still probably going to beat you. I’m very good at what I do. Everything I do.”

  Crossing my arms, I shoot him my best cat-who-shredded-the-dog’s-favorite-squeaky-toy grin. “As am I, sir… As am I.”

  He matches my evil grin and raises me a wink. “You certainly are, Ms. James. This is going to be fun.”

  As I watch him wa
lk away, heading back toward the park, I shake my head.

  Fun isn’t the word I would use, but it’s certainly going to be…something.

  10

  West

  That kiss was a bad idea.

  A really bad idea.

  I’m not usually the sort of bloke who has trouble staying on task. But as I check in with the contest coordinator at the festive Mr. or Mrs. Sweet Stuff tent in Prospect Park a few hours later, I struggle to concentrate as the woman leads me to my cooking station, explaining my setup. I keep scanning the space for a sign of Gigi. Will her station be near mine?

  I keep thinking about that kiss too, and how much I want another one. And another. That woman’s mouth has exposed a gluttonous side of my personality I wasn’t aware existed before we met.

  I’m not sure I like it.

  “Weston, old boy,” a deep, wanker-ish voice shouts.

  I curse under my breath. This is the problem with Gigi. She’s so damn distracting that I didn’t spot Hawley the Wretched before he saw me.

  I turn to see the loathsome pastry chef waving from the cooking station behind mine.

  “What are the chances?” he asks, grinning. “Two old school friends locking horns half a world away. I hope you’ll let me take you out for a pint after we finish up today. I’d love to talk, hash things out, get back to being mates again.”

  I let my cool gaze skim him up and down.

  He’s impeccably dressed, as usual. His pink-and-blue plaid summer suit should look ridiculous, but he somehow manages to pull it off with aplomb. Hawley is an arrogant arse, but he’s a good-looking man, by all accounts, who knows how to put himself together. And he can be charming when he wants to be.

  I can’t fault my sister for falling for him. And Hawley certainly did seem devoted to her while they were together. He fooled even me there.

  But I won’t forgive what he did to my sister, and I certainly know better than to let my guard down around this two-faced, back-stabbing goblin.

  I turn away without a response, deciding the Cut Direct is the best response in this situation. In Regency times, my Byron ancestors excelled at the art of staring straight in the face a friend who’d fallen out of favor, while pretending not to have a clue who he was.

  I’m bringing it back, and it feels good to leave Hawley sputtering while I turn a kind smile on the petite Asian woman at the station across from mine. She has a slick page boy cut and red-framed glasses a bit too large for her small face, but there’s a friendly light in her eyes. “Hello, I’m Weston. Nice to meet you.”

  “Willow,” she whispers so softly I can barely hear her. “Good to meet you too.” Her fingers flutter at her throat, tugging the top of her lacy shirt away from her neck. Cartoon cupcakes dance on her pink apron. “I’m so nervous.”

  “Don’t be,” I assure her. “I think a lot of us are new to the competition scene. We’ll stumble along together.”

  Her cheeks flush. “Thank you. I just hope the judges don’t yell like that angry chef on TV.”

  “I doubt it. All the people I’ve met so far have been quite nice,” I say, then add in a confidential voice, “And the grouchy chef? He’s a friend of the family and a total lamb off-screen. The going-mental thing is mostly an act for the cameras.”

  “Really?” Her hand drops to the counter of her station, and she seems to relax a little.

  “Really. And no one’s going to be worried about ratings here, so we should be safe from unnecessary drama.”

  She nods and tucks her hair shyly behind one ear but doesn’t make any further attempt at conversation. Which is probably good since, at that moment, Gigi steps into the tent, following the same woman who guided me down the center aisle between the stations. The stunning redhead is wearing a dress that drops my jaw to the floor.

  Glossy red fabric wraps around her neck, crisscrossing at her breasts and nipping in at her waist before flaring into a poof around her legs. The dress is…blisteringly hot, but it’s the fluffy black underskirt beneath it that has my fingers itching and my cock thickening behind the fly of my black suit pants.

  I pushed a very similar fluffy skirt up her thighs just two nights ago. Memories of the way it bunched around her waist as I devoured her sweet, hot pussy flood my head as she swishes by, shooting me a sultry glance from the corner of her eyes that nearly knocks me off my feet.

  “Stop it,” I hiss as she passes.

  She laughs under her breath but doesn’t respond. She’s listening to the woman explaining that the small ovens we’re using tend to run a few degrees hot and that there’s a chance she’ll blow a fuse if she runs more than two or three appliances at a time.

  Hm. Good to know.

  I make a mental note to turn off the mixer for the scone batter before I start whipping my lemon-infused cream. My English take on the “Classic New York Dessert” we’re creating for this first challenge—lemon-strawberry shortcake served on toasted scones with cream and shortbread crumble—is fairly simple, but I will have several ingredients going at the same time.

  I jot a reminder on my notepad and then go back to admiring Gigi’s ensemble. And I’m not the only one. Wretched Hawley is slobbering on his shirt as he crosses to introduce himself, making me wish I’d warned Gigi that there was a sister-destroying monster in our midst.

  But I needn’t have worried. Gigi is pleasant, but distant, and sends him on his way after just a few moments. Hawley crosses behind the cooking stations, giving each one a thorough once over.

  Move along, wanker. Move along.

  He lingers near Willow’s a few more seconds, bending over to tie his shoe or something, then marches on.

  Once he’s back in his station, Gigi turns to Willow and begins a warm conversation clearly designed to put the anxious creature at ease. I overhear bits and pieces.

  “I stopped in your shop the other week. The cinnamon roll cupcake was genius.”

  “Oh, thank you. I’ve always loved cinnamon rolls and, well, of course I love cupcakes,” Willow replies.

  “And to marry them together?” Gigi gives a chef’s kiss.

  Willow’s smile lights up her face. “And the cinnamon rolls and cupcakes lived happily ever after.”

  I smile too, at the Gigi Effect. Willow seems more relaxed after talking to her.

  The redhead truly is an excellent judge of character. She shouldn’t doubt herself. Or me. I’m wonderful, and as soon as this contest is over, I’ll prove it to her.

  Because I do need to kiss her again. Soon.

  As if sensing the direction of my thoughts, she shifts her attention my way, her lips curving in a wry smile as she shakes her head. “It won’t work,” she calls out. “I refuse to be distracted by…any of that.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say with a grin, pleased that she finds me as distracting as I find her.

  “Welcome contestants! And welcome, Brooklyn!” The short, pudgy man with the thick gray beard who seems to be running the competition waves to us from a small stage at the front of the tent. Behind him, several hundred people have gathered.

  People who cheer as he turns to wave their way.

  They’re so loud Willow flinches and looks ready to dive under her counter to hide. And I confess, my own pulse picks up a little. I didn’t expect this to be so public. Or performative.

  But as the cheering crowd is allowed past the entrance ropes to surround the tent—settling into lawn chairs they’ve brought with them or onto blankets spread on the grass—it’s clear we’re going to have an audience.

  “Gigi! Gigi! Over here!” The call comes from behind me, and I turn to see a group of women—all ages and colors, with seemingly nothing in common but the big smiles on their faces—waving her way.

  “Give ‘em hell, kiddo!” an older woman wearing an unusually sexy pair of overalls shouts out. The woman beside her with the wild blond curls and killer smile seconds the sentiment.

  “You’re already our winner,” says a
younger woman with luminous dark brown skin and a stunning, big-eyed baby strapped to her chest with a shawl. Beside her, a pretty woman with brown hair and a heart-shaped face that reminds me a little of Gigi’s shouts, “You’re the goddess of pie, and don’t you forget it.”

  I glance back at Gigi to see her blushing and shushing them, but it’s clear she’s happy to see her fan club.

  I am too. She absolutely deserves a fan club.

  Still, it makes me a little sad that I forbade Abby from coming. I didn’t want her to be forced into close proximity with Wretched Hawley or to worry about how she’s handling being near her ex for the first time since their split.

  But now’s not the time for emotions.

  Now is the time for cooking.

  I roll up my sleeves and get to work.

  Thank you, mum, for the inspiration.

  Forty minutes later, I put the finishing touches on the strawberry shortcake.

  It smells fantastic and looks pretty enough for a centerfold shot in Bon Appétit magazine.

  The scones and shortbread cookies, of course, I’ve made countless times, but the lemon infused cream was a new adventure—and a tricky one. If you don’t get the measurements exactly right, the lemon will curdle the cream instead of leaving it delightfully zested.

  But my cream is fucking gorgeous, perched like a cloud atop my perfect strawberry filling—not too liquid, not too dry.

  I’m about to whip out my phone to document my beauty for the shop’s social media when Gigi shrieks, “Willow! Fire! You’re on fire!”

  I whip my gaze to the right.

  Oh, bloody hell.

  Flame dances up the strings on Willow’s apron. A ridiculously fast-moving flame.

  “Oh.” The tiny woman’s eyes go wide, but she doesn’t move to extinguish the flames. She simply presses both hands to her face and shouts, “Oh, no,” in a slightly louder voice.

  Instinct kicks in, replacing panic. There’s no room for anything but swift, efficient action.

  I drop my phone on my counter, grab a damp towel, and rush to Willow’s station, arriving just as Gigi slides over the top of her counter to land beside the frozen woman.