Kind of a Bad Idea: A Single Dad-Age Gap Romance, page 1
Kind of a Bad Idea
A BAD DOG ROMANCE
THE MCGUIRE BROTHERS
BOOK SEVEN
LILI VALENTE
Kind of a Bad Idea
The McGuire Brothers
A Bad Dog Novel
By Lili Valente
All Rights Reserved
Copyright Kind of a Bad Idea © 2024 Lili Valente
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. This romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy hot, sexy, emotional novels featuring firefighting alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work. Editing by Sandra Shipman. Cover design by Bootstrap Designs.
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Contents
About the Book
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
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
About the Author
Also by Lili Valente
About the Book
Seven Trevino is a "bad boy" single dad with a heart of gold and a body a Viking king would kill for.
He's also my best friend. A friend I wish could be more, but he refuses to even consider dating.
He's convinced he's too old for me.
But I know he feels the electricity that crackles in the air every time we touch, and I don't care about our age gap.
All I care about is that no one has ever made me feel as safe, understood, or desperate to get naked as Seven does.
So when we end up stranded in the woods together after his daughter pulls a Parent-Trap scheme for the ages, I'm in no hurry to find a way back to civilization.
I intend to take advantage of every second of being trapped in a tiny cabin with this man.
Every moment of sharing that one bed...
Every moment of feeding the fire building between us...
And turns out, Seven feels the same way.
Soon we're christening every surface in the cabin--and the outdoor tub on the porch--and I'm positive my dreams are coming true.
But can our fledgling relationship survive in the real world? Or will Seven's determination to "protect" me shatter both our hearts?
For all the misfits. I love you.
Chapter One
Beatrice “Binx” McGuire
A stubborn burrito of a woman stuffed with
recalcitrant beans and topped with obstinate sauce…
I’m insane.
Truly, out of my mind.
That’s the only explanation for why I continue to do this to myself, though Seven has made it abundantly clear that he only wants to be friends.
Friends, that’s it.
Not even friends with benefits or kissing friends or friends who hold hands when they’ve had too many martinis at his mother’s dive bar. I can’t even get a longing look across the bank lobby when he comes in to make a deposit.
And yet, here I am, lingering at the entrance to my brother’s wedding reception in a clingy gold sweater that shows a hint of my black bra underneath, crossing all my fingers that the bearded bad boy of my dreams is about to stride up the hill from the parking area.
“It’s getting late,” Wendy Ann, my little sister says, stretching out on the lounge chair she dragged to the end of the vineyard’s driveway. She has a blanket over her legs, but the night is surprisingly warm for mid-October, the perfect evening for dancing the night away with the people we love. “I’ll make sure no uninvited guests crash the fun. Go enjoy the party. I’ve got this.”
“Nah, I’m good. I’ll keep you company a little longer.” I glance over my shoulder at the brightly illuminated tent crouched beside the vines. The band just launched into a cover of The Way You Look Tonight, and half of the guests are still in line at the buffet. “They haven’t gotten to the fast songs yet.”
“So?” Wendy Ann asks. “It’s still dancing. You love dancing. I, however, understand that dancing is a gateway drug.”
I arch a brow her way. “To what? Enjoying yourself?”
“To losing focus.” She sniffs and pushes her glasses higher on her nose, though there isn’t much to see out here at this point. The sun set an hour ago, and only the faintest pink light lingers on the horizon, making the surface of the lake glow in the distance. Soon, we won’t be able to see anything beyond the gas lamps flickering along the drive leading down to the parking lot. “And I refuse to lose focus. I have four fellowships to apply for tomorrow.”
I hum beneath my breath, willing the sound of a motorcycle engine to cut through the air. It’s Saturday night, Seven’s one night off kiddo duty, and it’s not like there’s a lot to do in Bad Dog. Surely, he didn’t get a better offer than a McGuire family wedding reception. Yes, the reception is taking place a full month after the bride and groom eloped to Las Vegas, but it’s still going to be a banger.
Say what you will about my family, but we know how to party.
Except for Wendy Ann, my nerdy baby sister, who I’m beginning to think is allergic to fun.
“Oh, come on, you can take one day off,” I say. “Tomorrow is Sunday, the Lord’s Day. And the Lord wants you to stay in bed nursing a hangover and eating nachos. That’s why he invented Sundays.”
She rolls her eyes. “Easy for you to say. You’re not living with Mom and Dad. There’s no sleeping in at that house. Dad’s up by five a.m. slamming cabinets while he makes coffee, and Mom hits the exercise room at five-thirty to blast Jane Fonda.”
My upper lip curls. “That woman is permanently stuck in the 80s. Does she still wear hot pink leggings and the leotards with the string up the butt?”
Wendy Ann shudders. “Yes, and Dad still follows her around like a horny puppy after, patting her sweaty bottom while she makes breakfast.” She sticks out her tongue with a soft gagging sound. “It’s so disturbing. I have to land a position and move out before Thanksgiving, or I’ll lose what’s left of my will to live.”
“Valid,” I say. “Though, you know, you could always crash on my couch, if you wanted. I’m pretty sure Drew has a spare room he hasn’t filled with kids yet, too. He’d probably let you stay for free if you helped out with babysitting every once and a while.”
Wendy Ann sighs. “Thanks, but that would hurt Mom’s feelings, and you know how she is.”
“A living nightmare?” I mutter beneath my breath, not wanting to think about my mother right now.
At the last family wedding, she tried to convince my father to physically subdue me so that she could cover my tattoo with makeup. And she still hasn’t quit giving me shit about shaving my head last January, even though it’s grown out to my chin, and is cut in a shaggy bob that’s pretty cute, if I do say so myself.
I never told her the real reason I shaved my head—that I was helping raise money for Seven’s daughter’s cochlear implant surgery. Even my image-obsessed mother would have been proud of me for helping a deaf girl hear music again, but I didn’t want her understanding because I’d done a good deed. I wanted her to accept that my body is mine and whatever I do with it—tattoos or haircuts or showing a hint of bra under my sweater—is my right.
And it doesn’t mean I’m a bad daughter or unworthy of love.
Wendy Ann sighs again. “She’s not a nightmare. She’s just Mom. I’m sorry you’re on the black sheep list this year, though. Seems like we all get a turn on it, sooner or later.”
“Not you.” I nudge her sensible black pump with the toe of my shiny leather boot. “You’re the brilliant baby of the family who can do no wrong. Mom hasn’t stopped talking about you graduating with a 4.2 since May.”
Wendy Ann slaps a hand to her face. “I know, God, I’m sorry. It’s so embarrassing.”
“Yeah, well, stop being so smart and awesome then, okay? You’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“No, you’re making yourself look bad, at least to Mom,” she says, peering at me over her fingers. “Did you really have to quit your job now? When you’re already on the naughty list? You realize Mom is going t
o give birth to a litter of kittens when she finds out you left the bank.”
I roll my shoulders and stretch my neck to one side. Just thinking about the inevitable fallout is enough to make my muscles coil into knots. “She knows I’ve been apprenticing with a tattoo artist.”
“Apprenticing a couple nights a week as a hobby is very different than quitting your stable job with health benefits to scar people for life full time.”
I snort as I pace away from her chair. “They’re not scars. They’re decorations. Symbols of empowerment! Memories and mission statements and happiness written forever on the skin so you never forget the best parts of your life.” I spin, fisting a hand in the air as I pace back the way I came. “They’re art. And they’re my passion. This is why I quit the bank, Wendy Ann. I’ve already wasted too much time in a job I hate. It’s time to follow my bliss.”
“Yes, I understand, and I’m happy for you,” Wendy Ann says. “But that’s not how Mom will see things, and you know it.”
I blow out a breath, deflating as I wheeze, “Yeah, I know.”
“Just be sure to have your ducks in a row before she finds out. You’ll need to show proof of ongoing health insurance. I would also suggest a financial prospectus for your net income after expenses for the next five years, as well as the balance statement for your 401(k). I can help you put a spreadsheet together if you want. She loves a spreadsheet.”
“Right,” I say, not bothering to tell Wendy Ann that I stopped contributing to my 401(k) two months after I started at the bank as a junior loan officer. I just wasn’t making that much money after taxes, and I’ve never been the type to put off fun today for safety tomorrow.
Nope, I’m a “live in the moment, grab fun by the balls, and worry about what happens when the balls turn out to be sweaty and gross and infect you with a strange fungus later” kind of girl.
Which is why I sent Seven that invitation, even though he’s never officially met my family and doesn’t always play well with others. I thought we’d have fun together. I planned this party, after all. That means the band is top-notch, the booze is flowing freely, and there are plenty of fun things to do when you’re tired of drinking and dancing. I have lawn bowling set up behind the vineyard tasting room, a photo booth with dozens of props, a candy buffet, frisbee golf, and a few punching bags dangling from the trees not far from the tent.
The punching bags are mostly for me, in the event I need to blow off steam after another run-in with my mother.
She’s already told me to go put on “a real shirt,” hissing something about protecting the eyes of innocent children as I hurried down the hill to join Wendy Ann at the check-in spot. But I ignored her, of course. My bra is modest and covers way more of my breasts than my bikini top, which every child here has seen at the annual McGuire family lake party. It’s fucking ridiculous, especially considering my teenage cousins are wearing dresses so short. I saw Kayley’s entire ass when she leaned over to grab a handful of gummy worms across the candy table.
I was grateful for the excuse to hide from the party for a while, manning the check-in table and informing people looking for dinner at the winery that it’s closed for a private party.
But now, the check-in table is bare, save for two goody bags—one for my brother, Barrett, who is at the hospital delivering a baby with bad timing, and one for Seven, who is making it clear, once again, that we are just friends. We will not be swaying to a slow song or flirting over a heated bout of lawn bowling or stealing a kiss in the photo booth. I am still “too young for him,” despite the fact that I’ll be turning twenty-seven in two weeks.
My parents had three children by my age, and I’m not the least bit worried about dating a guy in his early forties or becoming a stepmom if things get serious between us. I adore Sprout, Seven’s eight-year-old daughter, and she feels the same way about me.
Hell, if it weren’t her night to hang out with her grandma, I would have invited her to the party.
Sprout knows how to have a good time, and watching her dance to music she can finally hear—instead of just feeling the beat in her body—is magical. Sometimes, I’ll look over at her, wiggling to whatever she put on the jukebox at her grandma’s bar, and get choked up watching her spin in giddy circles. She loves music so much, the same way I loved art as a kid. It speaks to her sweet, sassy soul, and I’m so thrilled to have played even a small part in making her surgery possible.
I would shave my head every month for the rest of my life to watch that kid shimmy to Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard, no matter what my parents had to say about it.
And I would gladly skip having biological children for a chance at forever with Seven.
He’s made it clear he doesn’t want any more kids. It’s one of the ways he tries to scare me away, by sharing the news that he’s had a vasectomy with alarming frequency whenever I happen to be present.
But I’m not scared. Hearing he’s shooting blanks just makes me excited about all the fucking without condoms we could do if he’d just open his eyes and see how perfect we’d be together. We both love tattoos, hitting the gym, and riding motorcycles. We share a passion for the outdoors and spontaneous adventures, and I make him laugh more than anyone in the world, even Sprout.
Seeing Seven’s ruggedly handsome, occasionally menacing-looking face split into a big grin that I put on his lips is one of my favorite things in the world. He goes from dangerously handsome to wickedly cute in the blink of an eye, and his laugh warms me to the marrow of my bones.
It also turns me on.
Every time he laughs, my nipples get hard, which is part of the reason I ripped the padding out of this bra.
In the event that he showed up tonight, I wanted him to see what he does to me. I have reached the “shameless showcasing of nipples” stage of my crush on this man, which is probably a sign that I should step back and take a hard look at my life choices.
Do I really want to spend another year lusting after a guy who calls me “kid” and ruffles my hair like I’m his little sister? Do I want to spend another night at his place, grilling burgers and playing board games while falling even harder for Seven and Sprout, only to be tucked into the guest room alone when I’m too tired to drive home?
Do I really want to run into him in town on another one of his blind dates? Those blind dates that have gone nowhere so far, but will inevitably lead to Seven finding a girlfriend and having less time to spend with his “buddies,” of which I am considered one?
A buddy.
Blargh! I don’t want to be his buddy. I want to be his sex goddess, the object of his fascination, his heart’s desire. I want him to lie awake thinking of me the way I lie awake thinking of him, or at least be unable to resist an invitation to come party with me.
So maybe…
Maybe I should go dance with one of the few single men I’m not related to and consider expanding my horizons. Maybe I’ve finally met a human even more committed to stubbornly sticking to his guns than I am.
I’m about to tell Wendy Ann that we should both head up to the tent and have some fun—let any would-be diners crash the party if they want—when I hear it…the rumble of a motorcycle.
Heart leaping into my throat, my nervous system lights up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. The hairs lift at the back of my neck, my lips start to buzz, and suddenly, it’s all I can do not to break into a victory dance in the middle of the drive.
Because I would know that softly-purring engine anywhere.
That’s Seven’s vintage, two-tone Chief, the one I helped him rebuild last summer, while obsessing about how sexy he looked with sweat running down into the neck of his white cotton t-shirt as we toiled in his garage.
He’s here! He came!
We’re about to spend our first Sprout-free evening together since the night we guarded her chickens from a particularly determined fox in his backyard last spring. Since the night he ran his fingers over my face, told me I was beautiful, and came so close to kissing me that I would have sworn he felt the potential simmering between us, too.
