Faking it with my Bad Boy Crush

Prologue

brOKEN GLASS AND SECOND CHANCES

Ethan

Lopez Island, Twenty Years Ago

I was eighteen years old the night I tried to destroy Honey & Hearth Bakery.

It was my breaking point, and I could blame it on a lot of things: the college acceptance letter I'd had to decline, the overdue notice from the electric company my mother had hidden under a stack of bills, the voicemail from my father's new wife asking us to stop calling because "Greg has moved on and you should too. "

But really, I just wanted to break something as badly as I felt broken.

The rock was heavy in my hand—smooth and cold, pulled from the landscaping outside the island's community center.

I'd been walking for hours, my mind a spiral of rage and helplessness, until I found myself standing in front of Honey & Hearth at two in the morning.

The bakery looked peaceful in the darkness, its windows reflecting the streetlights, the hand-painted sign creaking slightly in the ocean breeze.

Cozy. Peaceful. Everything I wasn't.

I drew my arm back and threw.

The bakery's front window shattered with satisfying violence, the sound explosive in the quiet night.

Glass rained down onto the sidewalk, glittering like stars.

I stood there breathing hard, my heart pounding, waiting for the alarm that would bring police, consequences, and an end to this feeling of suffocating anger.

Nothing. The island was too small, too trusting. Of course there was no alarm.

I climbed through the broken window, my hands slicing on the jagged glass still clinging to the frame. Blood welled up hot and immediate, but I barely felt it. Pain was good. Pain meant something was happening, that I was doing something instead of just drowning.

Inside, the bakery smelled like flour and sugar and something warm I couldn't name. Comfort, maybe. Home. All the things that had been ripped away from me when my father decided his new family was more important than the one he'd left behind.

I contemplated the damage I could do. The display case with its vintage glass and careful arrangement could be wrecked in seconds..

The industrial mixer probably cost thousands and could easily be rendered unusable.

Then my eye fell on the antique, hand-painted tiles on the wall.

Of course. Supposedly, Manuel Romano had brought from Portugal and placed them by hand when he first opened the bakery.

Forget the mixer that could be replaced in a matter of days, those were worth destroying.

My father had taken everything worth taking. Why shouldn't I do the same?

As a warm-up, I grabbed a heavy wooden chair and swung it at the display case with all the rage I'd been swallowing for months.

Glass exploded in a cascade of destruction.

The sound was beautiful. Final. I swept my arm across the counter, sending vintage tins and ceramic jars crashing to the floor.

The noise filled the empty bakery, filled my head, drowned out the voice that kept asking What are you doing?

What are you doing? What are you doing? —

Picking up the chair again, I swung at the decorative tiles on the wall and felt a savage satisfaction when one cracked. Then another. Then—

"Enough."

The voice cut through my rage like a knife. I spun around, the chair still gripped in my bloody hands, my chest heaving. I found Manuel Romano standing in the doorway to the back room.

My first thought: run.

My second thought: too late.

The old man wore pajamas and an old cardigan, his weathered face calm despite the destruction surrounding us. He should have looked vulnerable, instead he looked solid. Unmovable. Like he'd seen worse than this and lived through it.

I expected yelling. Threats. Police. The handcuffs, criminal charges, the destruction of whatever future I had left.

Instead, Manuel walked slowly into his bakery, his slippers crunching on broken glass with each step, and surveyed the damage with the same attention he probably gave his bread dough.

"Why?" he asked simply, his accent softening the word.

The question caught me off guard. Not what were you thinking or do you know what you've done but just... why?

"Why not?” I snarled, dropping the chair. It clattered against the floor, loud in the sudden silence. My hands were shaking now, adrenaline and shame mixing into something toxic that made my skin feel too tight. "You'll call the cops anyway. Might as well make it worth it."

"I haven't called anyone yet." Manuel bent down, his movements slow and deliberate, and picked up one of the broken tiles.

His family crest, I realized dimly—a design that had survived generations, crossed an ocean, meant something to him.

And I'd destroyed it because I was angry at a man who wasn't even here. "I want to understand. Why my bakery?"

"It doesn't matter"

"It matters to me."

And somehow, that simple statement cracked something in my chest. This man whose livelihood I'd just tried to destroy was standing there, holding a piece of his shattered heritage, asking why like it was a genuine question. Like I was worth understanding instead of just punishing.

The words came before I could stop them, tumbling out in a rush I couldn't control.

"My father left." My voice sounded so broken—not like me at all.

"Took everything. Cleaned out the bank account, left us with his debts, his lease, his mess.

My mom works three jobs and it's still not enough.

I got into college—University of Washington, full scholarship, everything I needed—but I can't go because someone has to pay the bills and she won't let me drop out of high school to work full time. "

I kept talking, the words pouring out like poison I'd been holding in my mouth for months.

The collection calls that came every day.

My mother crying in the bathroom when she thought I couldn't hear.

The way my father's new wife had sounded so annoyed when I called asking for help with Mom's medical bills—like we were inconvenient reminders of a life he'd discarded.

"I'm so angry all the time," I finished, my voice cracking on the words.

"At him for leaving. At her for not being as angry as I am.

At myself for not being able to fix it, for not being enough to make him stay.

And tonight I just..." I looked around at the destruction I'd caused, really seeing it for the first time.

“You want to make the rest of the world feel broken like you.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. Manuel set down the broken tile gently, reverently, like it still mattered despite being destroyed.

"Your father's choices are not your fault," he said quietly. "But your choices are. You can be angry at what happened to you, or you can decide who you want to be despite it."

I looked around at the devastation—thousands of dollars of damage, probably. Glass everywhere. Broken ceramics. Destroyed tiles that couldn't be replaced. "I'm going to jail."

"Maybe. Or maybe not." Manuel walked to the wall and turned on the overhead lights, illuminating the full scope of what I'd done.

In the harsh fluorescent glow, it looked even worse.

"Here is what I see: broken glass, broken tiles, broken trust. But also, a young man who is suffering. Who needs help, not punishment."

"I don't deserve help." The words tasted like ash.

"Perhaps not. But I'm offering it anyway.

" Manuel met my eyes—kind light brown eyes like honey and they held no anger, only a deep sadness that made my throat tight, and then he said, "My father left my mother with four children and gambling debts.

She worked until her hands bled to keep us fed.

I was angry like you. I broke things too. "

The confession hit me harder than any punishment could have.

"Here is my offer," Manuel continued, his voice steady.

"School will be starting soon. You will work for me every day after school, and weekends, until the damage is repaid.

I pay you fairly for your labor—minimum wage, same as any employee.

You repair what can be repaired. Replace what cannot.

And you will learn what I learned: building is better than destroying. "

"Why would you do that?" My voice came out choked, hoarse, disbelieving. "Why would you help me after what I did?"

"Because someone gave me a second chance once. And because I think you are not a bad kid. You are just carrying pain that is too heavy for you. You need to put it down before it breaks you completely."

From the doorway to the back stairs, I caught a glimpse of movement—a girl, maybe fourteen, with dark curls and wide, honey-brown eyes, watching. Manuel's granddaughter. She wore pajamas and looked terrified, but she was watching me with obvious curiosity.

The shame was overwhelming. She'd seen all of this. Heard all of it. This girl would forever know me as the person who tried to destroy her grandfather's life's work because I couldn't handle my own pain.

"Okay," I managed, the word scraping out of my raw throat. "I'll work. I'll fix it. All of it."

Manuel extended his hand. "Building takes longer than destroying. But it's the only thing that lasts. So, then we have an agreement."

I shook it, my bloody hand leaving smears on his weathered palm. The contact felt significant, binding. "I'm sorry. I am so sorry."

"I know. But first we clean your wounds. Then we begin."

Ten months later, I finished my last shift.

The bakery was repaired—new display case installed and gleaming, new tiles on the wall (not the originals, but Manuel said that was okay, that sometimes new things could be good too), new windows that didn't bear any evidence of my rage.

I'd learned more than I expected: how to mix dough until it was perfect, how to clean and repair industrial equipment properly, how to arrive on time and work hard.

How to take pride in building instead of destroying.

I'd learned that Manuel's granddaughter was named Maya.

That she was kind and quick to smile, that she found excuses to sweep near wherever I was working like she wanted to talk to me but never quite worked up the nerve.

I didn't think much of it at the time. She was fourteen, shy the way kids are around someone older and sullen, and I was too wrapped up in my own anger to notice much of anything beyond the next task Manuel gave me.

That's when I knew I had to leave.

Not just the bakery. The island. Everything.

Because staying meant being, for the rest of my life on this island, the boy who broke Manuel Romano's windows.

The boy his granddaughter watched bleed on the bakery floor at two in the morning.

I didn't want to become someone's cautionary tale, a story parents told their kids about anger and consequences.

I wanted to disappear and rebuild myself somewhere nobody had watched me at my worst.

Because staying meant confronting the person I'd been and the mistakes I'd made every day.

I finished one last batch of cleanup, my hands moving through the familiar motions. Left an envelope on the counter with the final payment and a note I'd rewritten five times: Mr. R—Thank you for everything. I'm sorry I never said it right.

Then I left on the first ferry off Lopez Island the next morning.

I never came back.

Until now.