Kind of a Bad Idea (The McGuire Brothers #7)

Chapter 1

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 to 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.

The sexual tinder waiting for a spark to set it ablaze…

“Woah, who’s that?” Wendy Ann asks, sitting up in her lounger as Seven rumbles up the drive, bypassing the parking area and heading straight for us.

“That’s Seven.”

“Holy sexy beast and a half,” she mutters, popping to her feet beside me. “No wonder you have a crush. He’s outlandishly good-looking.”

“Outlandishly,” I agree.

“His hair is like a luxurious pony mane,” she breathes. “And I think his thighs are as big as my entire body.”

“He has amazing thighs,” I murmur, fighting a goofy grin as he draws closer. Discreetly, I flap a hand at Wendy Ann. “Now scram.”

“No way, I want to meet him,” she says, pushing her glasses up her nose. “You never let me meet your boyfriends.”

“Yes, I do,” I counter, raising my voice to be heard over the approaching engine.

“No, you don’t. You always made me go upstairs to my room before your boyfriends picked you up.”

“That was in high school, when you were an annoying middle school goober. And he’s not my boyfriend,” I say, with a soft swat on her thigh. “But fine. Just play it cool, okay?”

But I don’t get the chance to see if my sister is capable of playing it cool. The moment Seven swings off his bike—before I can begin the introductions—he jogs toward us with a frantic look in his dark eyes, demanding, “Is she here?”

I blink. “What? Is who here?”

“Sprout,” he says, running a hand over his head, smoothing the hair that’s escaped from his ponytail away from his face. “Mom went upstairs to take a shower. When she came back down, Sprout was gone.”

My fingers fly to my throat as panic dumps into my bloodstream. “Oh my God. Was there any sign of a break-in or?—”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “And Mom said she was complaining about missing the party before she went upstairs. Sprout saw the reception invitation you sent and has been begging me to take her all week.”

“You should have told me. You could have both come. But no, I haven’t seen her.” I turn to Wendy Ann. “What about you? Did you see a little girl with long, wavy brown hair the same color as Seven’s sneak in at some point before I got down here? Or maybe while I was helping Aunt Cindy up the hill?”

“She would have been wearing a green dress,” Seven adds, his voice vibrating with worry as he shifts his focus to Wendy Ann for the first time.

Wendy Ann bites her bottom lip, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think?—”

“Green and white stripes,” Seven cuts in. He motions around his waist, holding his hands out a good foot from his hips. “With a fluffy, scratchy thing underneath that makes it stick out. My mom said it was missing from her closet.”

My sister’s forehead smooths as her brows shoot toward her hairline. “Oh, yes, maybe! There was a little girl in a fluffy dress like that with the Simons. I assumed she was their granddaughter or something, but maybe not. They should still be up there. No one’s left yet.” She motions toward the tent, but Seven is already on the move.

“Thank you,” I tell Wendy Ann, turning to run after him.

“I’ll come help!” she calls from behind me, but I don’t slow my pace.

Wendy Ann has spent the past six years hitting the books, not the gym. There’s no way she’ll be able to keep up with Seven. I’m having a hard time myself, and I added extra sprints to my cardio regime last month in advance of an obstacle course race I want to do in the spring.

But that’s what terror does to a person—it delivers one hell of an adrenaline rush—and Seven is clearly terrified. I’ve never seen him this worried. He’s usually the coolest cucumber in the room, the kind of man who can stop a bar fight in its tracks with one hard look and a raised brow.

But this is his baby, his world.

His devotion to his daughter is one of the many things I love about him.

Realizing I dropped the “L” word again in my mind, I run faster, determined to be by his side when he finds Sprout.