Building a Bad Boy. Colleen Collins
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to be hidden deep somewhere under that fire-engine red suit.
“So what do you think?” she said.
He lifted his gaze to meet her gray eyes. “I’ve never worn a leather jacket before,” he murmured, fairly certain that the response would fit just about anything she’d been saying.
“You wore a leather Speedo.”
Not this again. “As The Phantom. Not me.”
“Like he’s not part of you.”
“Like he was a character, somebody I made up.” His voice hardened. “I’m getting tired of resurrecting The Phantom every time we meet.” If she brought up that commercial again, he’d walk.
Their gazes locked for a long moment. Over the speakers a singer crooned the old Dylan tune “Tangled Up In Blue,” wailing about a man keepin’ on, like a bird that flew, tangled up in blue.
That’s me, thought Nigel. Tangled up in this, committed to this. My best bet is not to fight it, but flow with it if I want to find true love.
She seemed to pick up on his thoughts because her face relaxed a bit, her mouth mimicking a smile.
“We haven’t even said hello and we’re already off on the wrong foot,” she said, her voice taking on a syrupy quality. She extended her hand. “Hello.”
He hadn’t noticed her watch yesterday. Ornate. Silver. Were those diamonds? Either she had a moneyed beau or she bought this bauble for herself. He voted for the latter. Only women who made big bucks could afford such luxuries, which meant she’d successfully played matchmaker to many “life dates.”
Which meant those people were, at this moment, happily attached—maybe even married—to their soul mates.
Which meant it was in his best interests to stick with the program. Even if he felt tangled up in blue.
He took her hand, which disappeared into his. “Hello.”
“We’re getting silly over a jacket.”
When she turned her head slightly, he noticed she wore only one earring. Fancy watch, but only one earring. There was no beau in her life. Not a live-in one, anyway. Because a loving man would stop her before she rushed out the door missing an earring, or anything else for that matter.
And a really good man would grab this bundle of energy on her way out the door and plant a kiss on those luscious red lips so they didn’t look too perfect.
“The leather jacket is about first impressions, that’s all,” the glossy red lips continued. “And first impressions are the most important thing in the dating scene. Actually, the most important thing in any scene. Anyway, the dating scene is a buyer’s market and we’re making you into a salable product. Once you’re off the shelf, you’ll have plenty of time to let the woman of your dreams—your life date—get to know the real you, see into your heart, and fall in love with you and only you—”
Her voice caught, and he sensed she’d just revealed more than she’d intended. Someone hadn’t loved her, only her?
“You know what?” she asked, rushing on, “I think you’ll need a new, bad name to go along with the your new, bad look.”
He frowned. “I thought this meeting was about my looking like a bad boy, not taking the name of one.”
“Yes, but wouldn’t it have been silly to have named the Eiffel Tower ‘that big pointy structure’?”
He paused. “I’m not a building.”
Her gaze traveled down his body, then back up. When she met his eyes, he noticed a pink tinge to her cheeks.
“No, no you’re not a building,” she finally said. Her fingers fluttered around the top button of her silk blouse.
“What’s wrong with Nigel?”
She continued playing with the button. “Nigel is so…Noel Coward.”
“Noel who?”
“It’s too stuffy.” She closed her eyes and rolled the button between her thumb and forefinger. “Got it!” she suddenly said, releasing the button to snap her fingers. “Your name will be…Nicky!”
“Nicky?”
“Yes,” she enthused. “Nicky Durand!” She shuddered a breath. “It’s sexy, bad…oh, yes, very bad, which is very good. Nicky it is.”
Before hearing that burst of breathy enthusiasm, he’d been ready to fight to the death to remain Nigel…but suddenly “Nicky” wasn’t so bad. Especially if women reacted as she did, all pink cheeked and ready to pop buttons.
“I’ll just say it’s my nickname, right?” Lots of people had nicknames.
“Hmm, yes.” She looked around, distracted.
“After a few meet and greets with a woman, I’ll divulge my true name.”
“Right, right,” she murmured, catching the eye of the salesclerk, who was thumbing through a rack of leather jackets. “Black,” she called out. “Lots of zippers.”
She reached into her jacket pocket and extracted a yellow jelly bean, which she tossed into her mouth.
Yeah, she lived alone. Nobody to watch over her, make sure she ate right. Nigel could see it now—her running out the door in the mornings missing earrings, stuffing her pockets with pieces of candy. He doubted she had a pet or plants—when would there be time to take care of them?
Which meant there was no one to come home to, to talk to about her day, share her worries and her joys. Did women like her really choose such lifestyles, or did they wake up one day and realize they’d worked so hard to make their way in the world, they’d forgotten to make a home for themselves?
The thought saddened him. Because he related. His home life had been loving, but money had been tight so his dad was always pulling double shifts. And even though Nigel knew firsthand how much he, his sisters and Mom missed him—or how many school events he missed—damn if Nigel didn’t do the same thing.
By the age of twenty-four, he had been on the road building his wrestling career, figuring there was plenty of time for marriage and babies. Then he got sidelined with that busted knee, which gave him plenty of time to realize he’d let his career deep-six building his own family. The fact hit him hardest after being released from the hospital and there was no loving woman welcoming him home, no child’s arms hugging him, just his empty apartment.
“How are these, ma’am?” The salesclerk walked up, his arms laden with jeans and shirts. “Left several leather jackets in the dressing room.” He slid a glance to Nigel. “Lightweight ones.”
Kimberly went into success-coach mode and began flipping through the clothes, oohing over this, saying “no” to that. Nigel stood nearby until the salesclerk escorted him to a dressing room.
It was a big room. No surprise there, considering this place catered to big guys. Alone, Nigel looked at himself in the mirror. Today he’d thrown on a pair of old cotton shorts, a loose T that had been washed so many times he wasn’t sure if the logo was from a burger joint he once visited in Minnesota or another Foghorn Leghorn that had seen better days. On his feet, an old pair of sandals that had turned the color of dirt.
Hardly chick-magnet attire.
Maybe he’d come in here muttering to himself about “looking like a bad boy,” but faced with his image, he had to admit this let’s-go-bowling look needed some serious renovation. How many times had he seen his buddies dress like wolves when they were on the prowl? Tight pants, body-hugging shirts, slick shoes. Even his best pal Rigo, now settled down with a bambino on the way, had donned that look in his bachelor days.
Looking hot and bad to attract the opposite sex.
“Maybe you bake the best