Bad Bridesmaid (Billionaire's Club Book 11) by Elise Faber (important books to read txt) 📕

the sense of an evil genius taking over the world, not that I would do something you didn’t want.” He winced. “Shit. I sound like an asshole.”

She rested her palm on his chest. “It was a joke,” she assured him. “I got it. So, maybe it’s not the best one I’ve heard”—a smile—“but I’m glad you at least understand consent, and how something like that might not land properly. You’re a very evolved man,” she added lightly.

He rolled his eyes.

But she was serious.

He was thoughtful and compassionate . . . and protective, while also doing laundry. Capable, a little bossy without minding when she pushed back . . . and he also made coffee.

Maybe he truly was the Unicorn.

She felt herself slide a little deeper down the rabbit hole.

Especially when she glanced up into those hazel eyes to see them edged with concern. “Plus,” she said. “I am interested in the history. I heard a lot about Alcatraz growing up, so I’m excited to expand my knowledge of all things tourist trap.”

He relaxed, capturing a strand of her hair that had escaped her ponytail in the gusty winds and tucking it behind her ear. “Should we walk across the Golden Gate next?”

“Yeah, no,” she said, shuddering. “That’s a step too far for me in my newly-donned tourist hat.” Snorting and shaking her head, she watched the ferry slice through the surf, the bay water blue tinged with brown and breaking into whitecaps as it bounced against the hull. It was chilly, fall turning into winter, and yet with Brad next to her, standing close enough that his entire body was surrounding hers and blocking the wind, she was perfectly comfortable.

Silence lapsed between them as they both took in their course across the Bay, and though it was beautiful, the fog curling in ribbons across the sky, Heidi couldn’t help but reflect on the week. It had been precisely fourteen days since she, Brad, and Fuzzy McFeatherston had participated in their cake disaster, but it felt like a lifetime ago.

They’d had nine nights together.

Nine nights that ranked up there with the best ones of her life, even though they’d hardly done anything—just eaten together, watched TV, cuddled on the couch . . . and in her bed.

Yes, that fact terrified her.

But . . . she was firmly addicted and had just decided to accept her fate.

She’d ride this ride to the end, and hopefully, knowing that there would be an end meant that her heart wouldn’t hurt so much when Brad decided to flit off.

Or—her pulse thrummed with possibility—maybe he’d stay and—

Enough.

So, yes, these last two weeks had been wonderful, filled with easy conversation and warm arms. The evening of her creek shenanigans he’d stayed late, watching bad reality TV and then the various segments from all the late-night shows posted on YouTube that had struck her fancy before finally slipping out around midnight. He’d pressed a kiss to her forehead, leaving her drowsy and snuggly tucked under the covers. And when she’d woken up the following morning, it was to find that he’d prepped her coffee pot to automatically brew and had left a muffin under some plastic wrap on a plate on the counter.

Then that night, he’d coaxed her from work to Molly’s for dinner.

Okay, truthfully, it hadn’t taken much coaxing . . . because Molly’s.

And while dinner wasn’t quite as good as breakfast—because they didn’t have the normal amount of freshly made baked goods—it was almost as good. They’d scarfed down hot sandwiches made on freshly made bread, had slurped up steaming soup laden with veggies and plenty of potatoes, and she’d washed down the huge portion with the best pomegranate iced tea she had ever tasted.

And then they’d gone back to her place to watch more bad reality TV—though this time it was from her couch and not her bed—and he’d left around midnight again.

The following evening, he’d called to say he’d gotten stuck in traffic returning from a beach in Santa Cruz, so they hadn’t hung out, hadn’t cuddled on the couch. And . . . she’d missed it.

Which had made her stomach squeeze, her pulse flutter.

Because she’d known then that she was already hooked on Brad.

Hooked on the dangerous, dangerous man.

But he hadn’t seemed to notice her disquiet—or maybe he had, she realized, remembering the conversation and how he’d drawn her back in with a funny anecdote, how he’d continued to talk with her until she’d relaxed again.

Then he’d finagled an invite to her condo the next night.

He still hadn’t stayed over, and she hadn’t asked him to, even though she’d wanted to.

He’d just kissed her on the forehead again then slipped out the front door.

And wash, rinse, and repeat.

He’d coaxed her to Molly’s for breakfast one day before work—saying he just had to try the freshly baked pastries. Another evening they’d walked hand-in-hand on the trails behind her house. Two nights ago, he’d shown up with a big bag of takeout without a word, not long after she’d mentioned that work that day had been exhausting. And on the couple of days he was off doing Brad things and not cuddled up with her on her couch, he’d called just to chat, and they’d ended up talking for hours.

More light, fun times. More warm conversations. More forehead kisses.

And now it was Saturday, and she was here with him. On a date.

And somehow, she knew there would be no more forehead kissing.

Or maybe, more accurately, it would be replaced with a different kind of kissing. Her body liked that thought. Her heart was hopeful. Her brain . . . well, it had already decided it was going to take a back seat to the rest of her.

“Wow,” he murmured.

Heidi blinked, reorienting herself as she realized they’d arrived at the dock on the edge of the island located in the middle of the Bay, the decommissioned prison sitting atop it. There were more buildings than she’d expected, and it was also taller, with sharp cliffs leading