Bad Cruz: A Reverse Grumpy/Sunshine Romance

The next morning, I cracked one eye open to find Cruz’s triangular, infuriatingly athletic back as he…wait, what the heck was he doing, exactly?

“Cruz?” I hiccupped, gathering my limbs into a sitting position.

My back was hurting from the mountain of pillows I’d arranged between us which dug into my spine, and from the lack of a pillow to put my head on so that I could make said mountain happen.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

He glanced over his shoulder, throwing me an under-the-mustache charming smirk as he stuffed my clothes into trash bags. The worst thing about him was that he made me believe he could be good to me. That was just downright horrible of him.

“What’re you doing?”

“Exactly what it looks like.”

“Articulate it to me. It’s six in the morning.”

“Quarter to nine. And I’m throwing away your clothes.”

“Why?” I demanded, straightening my back alertly. I didn’t have money to replace those clothes, no matter how horrid they were. Didn’t he know people who didn’t have his money valued every little thing they owned?

He didn’t stop what he was doing, carrying on with the same smooth motion as he emptied out my side of the closet.

“Well, because we had a bet, and in that bet, you promised you’d let me get you a whole new wardrobe, and since you’ll be wanting to take those clothes with you back home, you won’t have any room for these ones. Shame, really. But that’s life for you.”

I knew what he was doing, and I didn’t appreciate it. He wanted to help me look good and proper so the people of Fairhope would accept me.

Well, despite my bitterness, I didn’t want to be accepted.

I liked to stick out like a sore thumb, a weed in an otherwise picturesque rose garden, and remind them that this town wasn’t all that.

“Leave my clothes be.”

“A bet’s a bet.”

“I’ll honor the bet, but I still want my clothes.”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t change me. I am who I am, and if you don’t like it, you’re welcome to join Fairhope’s general population and ignore me.”

Or engage in sexual warfare where you low-key sexually harass me.

That seemed to be the trend, too.

“Thing is, it’s not, in fact, who you are.” He swiveled toward me, giving me a stern look. His eyes could melt panties in the same way Uri Geller could bend teaspoons. “You’re the closest thing to Virgin Mary I’ve ever kissed, yet you prance around lookin’ like a man-eater. Your self-destruction button is big and shiny and red, and I want to break it. You lost yesterday, and I don’t like sore losers. Now get your ass up. We need to get an early start. It’s breakfast and duty-free shopping.”

If it weren’t for the fact that it was me he was bossing around, I could appreciate Cruz’s domineering streak. I momentarily toyed with the idea of refusing him and getting into another argument, but the truth was, I was fresh out of fight after the day I’d had yesterday.

The Rob thing really worried me, and the kiss with Cruz didn’t help matters at all. Like bangs in fifth grade, it never should’ve happened, and I wouldn’t let it happen again.

I knew he’d been drunk beforehand—I could taste the whiskey on his lips—and figured it was a human error on both our parts. But dang, he made some convincing points about why we should hook up.

“All right. Let me call Bear and make sure he’s okay, and then we’ll go.”

Cruz seemed surprise by my flexible attitude. His eyes skimmed over me suspiciously as I moved around the room, as if he knew I was planning an escape.

There was something lethal about those dark blue eyes and strong jaw. I wondered if I was the only person who noticed that about him. That he was not always chivalrous and suave.

“Why Bear?” he asked out of nowhere when I got out of the bathroom, wearing a pair of cropped shorts and a cherry blossom top that showed off my midriff.

Funny. Even Rob hadn’t asked me that.

“Oh, I don’t know.” I applied a second coat of lipstick in front of the little mirror by the entrance door. “I suppose because I grew attached to him in the last seven years or so and would like to know if he slept well, ate this morning, that kind of stuff.”

Cruz leaned a shoulder against the wall, one stylish sneaker propped against my suitcase, watching me intently.

“No. Why’d you choose that name?”

“Promise you won’t laugh.” Was I actually going to give up this info? Our families were merging—he’d hear things sooner or later.

“I cannot, in good conscience, promise you that, considering the things that tend to leave your mouth unfiltered.”

“Fair enough.” I slid the lipstick into my little fake-fur purse. “I called him Bear after Bear Rinehart, Needtobreathe’s lead singer.”

“That Christian rock group?”

“One and the same.” I waited for the blow to come.

“Isn’t Bear the guy’s nickname, though? His first name is William or something.”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time, did I? And I couldn’t afford the fancy name books people buy before they give birth and think of something more fun, like Axel or Cosmo.”

I watched him, expecting him to cackle—I did feel dumb after finding out about it myself—but to my surprise, he shrugged the whole thing off, joining me by the door and opening it for me.

“Well?” I raised my eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“You gave me an explanation to my satisfaction. Yes. That’s it.”

“Do you think it’s a weird name?”

“I wouldn’t choose it for my own son, no. Then again, I wasn’t the one who pushed a seven-pound human out of an intimate hole in my body after eight hours of contractions and nine months of heartburn, so I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask.”

“Nice answer. And it was ten hours, not eight.”

“Christ. No wonder you turned to Jesus.”

After I called Bear to make sure he was okay (he and Landon were hitting the ice rink later today), we went up to the breakfast buffet. Cruz had freshly-squeezed orange juice with egg whites and some fruit, while I had everything else the continental breakfast had to offer.

I hadn’t been on a vacation since the summer I’d turned fifteen and, now that I’d resigned myself to not getting to enjoy the trip with my son, I wanted to squeeze the heck out of this occasion before I went back home.

Cruz made no comment about the amount of food I was shoveling into my mouth at a Guinness-record speed, and I had the dignity to not try to explain my chipmunk-like behavior.

But when I arrived with my seventh course for the meal—my dessert, a chocolate chip ice cream—and began seasoning it with salt, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“You put salt in your ice cream?” He dropped his newspaper, glaring at me.

“The saltiness heightens the sweetness.”

“Your craziness heightens your hotness.”

“Cruz!” I chastised. “What did you drink? It’s unlike you not to hate me.”

“I never hated you, you fool.”

There was something wary and unguarded about the way he looked at me. Something so completely un-Cruz-like. But I chose to ignore it because…well, because I was a mess and knew nothing about men and did not want to make any mistakes.

He might be harmless, but he still didn’t make me feel safe.

From there, we moved to the shopping mall, or arena, or whatever this hell was. Duty free or not, none of the prices were within the range I liked to pay.

Let me rephrase—I did not like to pay anything at all for the atrocities I called my clothes, a fact that oftentimes landed me at different thrift stores, where apparently, a lot of the clothes belonged to women of a certain ancient profession.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t find anything sensible. There were modest cardigans aplenty to choose from, which I was sure used to belong to equally pleasant grandmas of Mrs. Underwood’s type, but I suppose I needed to go with one streamlined fashion choice and therefore went for tart.

“I just want you to know that I feel mighty uncomfortable about you writing a check to pay for my stuff,” I lied brazenly.

Cruz had money and came from an upper-middle-class home. If there was one thing I didn’t feel for him, it was bad.

“I just want you to know that I couldn’t care less,” he deadpanned.

He first dragged me into Ann Taylor, but couldn’t convince me to try anything on, on the grounds that I didn’t want to look like Margaret Thatcher breaking it to England that they were getting into the Falklands.

Cruz faced the same challenges at the Gap, where the clothes were significantly younger, but somehow also blander.

“I’m going to look as appealing as a tax return,” I choked out.

“Well,” Cruz insisted, “one way or the other, you’re ending today looking like my missionary-loving wife.”

Things took a turn for the better when we entered Anthropologie. Their clothes seemed to have a lot of color and swagger, like the type of outfits you’d see a Hollywood spawn wearing on a coffee run to impress the paparazzi.

I picked three ankle-length sundresses in different patterns and cuts, each one of them more costly than my rent, and watched Cruz’s poker face as he swiped his credit card to pay for them.

I assumed he might be doing that on Wyatt’s order, or even Catherine Costello’s, to try to reform me into something digestible for human consumption.

This whole day made me feel super prickly, but I still went with it. Unfortunately, I had no say in this, since I had lost a bet.

Then there was Trinity and my parents’ wrath to think about. And the fact Bear deserved a mother who didn’t look like she practiced the most ancient profession in the world.

Also, privately, I could admit I really, really liked the Anthropologie dresses.

“I think I’m starting to get a feel of what you’re into,” Cruz said when we got out of the store, which by the way, smelled like a new car and someone’s upscale bathroom.

I ignored his observation. I already felt like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman without being told I was on the cusp of self-discovery and inner transformation.

Next, we went to Free People, where I grabbed a few pairs of pants and some casual shirts and jackets. Then we went to a bohemian boutique, something small and not too pricey, and Cruz splurged on two pairs of sandals for me—both orthopedic but surprisingly not hideous—and a little purse that didn’t look like a tie-dyed squirrel.

I didn’t thank him one time during the entire shopping trip, careful to remind him that it was his idea, not mine.

Finally, around two in the afternoon, when I was ready for my lunch (more like in danger of eating my own arm), he stopped in front of Prada.

He jerked his chin inside. “Ladies first.”

“Are you crazy?” I glared at him. “I’m not really going to let you buy me anything from there.”

I knew I’d joked about it the other day, but I also joked about having Benicio del Toro’s babies, and I sure as heck was closed for business.

“It’s an outlet.”

“It’s outrageous,” I countered. “I don’t care how much money someone has, a five hundred dollar scarf is excessive.”

“Quality costs.”

“Say that to my Kmart shoes. They’ve been servin’ me well for three years and counting. Even when I work double shifts.” I was surprised my feet didn’t slap my face for lying.

“I try not to converse with inanimate objects as a general rule. Why do you even care? It’s my money. I get to decide what I want to spend it on.”

“Why would you want to spend it on a semi-stranger you don’t even like?”

“This semi-stranger I don’t even like is about to become my family. Besides, I’m a shitty tipper.”

We were blocking the entrance to Prada, but that was all right, because no one but us seemed irrational enough to wander in.

There was also a guard at the entrance. A flipping guard. It made me want to throw up. I would never, ever walk into a store where some people might not feel welcome.

People like my mom.

Or like me, for that matter.

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” I thumbed my nose at him, adamant to put up a fight. “I’d hate to be associated with you. You may ruin my reputation.”

“Your reputation’s in the shitter,” he reminded me kindly.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’ll find your kissing technique there, since it seems to be in the same destination. What the hell was that about yesterday?”

Classic aversion.

I was a master of misdirection.

“You enjoyed it,” he said calmly.

“Did not.”

“Did, too.”

Lord, I had.

And not only had I enjoyed it, but the fact that it had been sweet and intimate and not filthy and carnal had completely disarmed me. I still felt my pulse against my lips. Both pairs.

Mental note number one hundred and sixty: Charge. That. Vibrator.

Also, why was Cruz flipping everywhere? I had no privacy whatsoever in this place. In case I needed to, oh, I don’t know, get reacquainted with my dormant libido and touch myself (the “Drunk in Love” by Beyonce way).

“Feed me, Dr. Costello.” I tossed my hair dramatically, adopting an English accent I stole from the Bridgertons. “For I am famished and no longer want to debate that imprudent, fortuitous kiss.”

“Why do you sound like you swallowed an Oxford dictionary?”

We both laughed, then shook our heads, forcing ourselves to look away.

We stopped at a hot dog stand and sampled a few of their sausages. Not one innuendo flew in the air throughout the quick meal. A pleasant surprise, seeing as Weiner jokes were obviously not beneath us.

We did a bit more shopping afterwards, then retired to the room, planning to grab a shower, get dressed to grab an early dinner, and then go to the casino. I’d never been to a casino before, which Cruz said was criminal.

When we got to our room, Mrs. Warren was waiting for us, sans Fred, looking mighty smug as she sipped a colorful cocktail with extra umbrellas.

“Been waitin’ for you.” She grinned around her straw. She held an uncanny resemblance to Ursula the Disney sea witch.

“Let me guess. Lost your butt plugs and immediately thought to check in to see if we stole them,” I muttered, clutching my purse closer to my body instinctively.

Cruz’s head twisted as he flashed me a look full of amusement and murder.

Clap.

I’d forgotten I had company and wasn’t supposed to be my usual rude self.

“Butt what now?” She put her hand to her ear.

I shook my head. “Never mind. Why’re you here, Mrs. Warren, other than the obvious—to bless my life with more happy moments and fond memories?”

We stopped by our door, which she was blocking. She crossed her arms over her ample chest. The other day, when she demanded to get into our room, I’d lost it.

I lost it, because I knew it was exactly the kind of mistake I could make, then remembered that the suitcases were, in fact, placed quite far away from one another.

But I also knew (sensibly) that no one would believe it was unintentional if I’d gotten it wrong. When teenage boys can take pictures of your ass…while pinching it, you know the world isn’t fair or on your side.

“Just thought you should know everybody on the ship knows that you tried to steal my jewelry. I thought it would be a general service to warn people.”

“Okay. Let’s pretend like I care. Now move away.”

“But you should care.”

Her eyes swung from me to Cruz, her smile widening.

Pluck, she was rotten.

I didn’t understand what inspired some people to want to hurt others so much. Surely if you disliked someone so deeply, you would avoid them at any cost and forget their existence.

Trying to inflict pain on someone only showed one thing—that you were the one who was hurting.

“You should care, because there’s someone on this boat who knows who one of y’all really is.”

My heart fell.

For real? How was being a teen mom as many years ago newsworthy outside of my tiny town’s limits.

“That’s right, Dr. Wiseass.” Only for once it wasn’t me with the spotlight of shame—she was looking at Cruz. “Apparently, one of your med school buddies is here with his wife. He knows you’re here with a call girl. Or whatever this woman is to you. Not your actual wife. Don’t think we’re that dumb. No one in their right mind would marry this trailer trash.”

“Call her that one more time to my face, and I’ll be sure you spend your night being interrogated by security once I report you. You’re harassing us, and I won’t stand for that,” Cruz delivered the words like bullets, blow after blow, icy and poised.

“Aw. You’ve gotten attached, haven’t you? You’re just a meal ticket to her.”

“You’re in my way, Mrs. Warren. Move, or I’ll be sure to move you myself. Friendly tip: I won’t be nice about it.”

Satisfied she’d delivered quite a blow, Mrs. Warren flounced across the hallway and toward the elevator bank. I pushed the door open, waiting for Cruz to walk inside.

“Look, it’s all cruise gossip. And what are the chances this med school person even knows someone in Fairhope they could tell this to? It’s nonsense,” I said. “And why would anyone even care?”

I hated that I had to excuse my existence, but I had to admit I was far from the realm of the women who usually hung on his arm. I wasn’t a petite brunette with a liberal arts degree in gender studies and dance management.

Although I did have a three-hundred-dollar dress that looked deliberately wrinkled now, so we were definitely getting somewhere closer.

Cruz seemed cold and unresponsive as he moved around the room. I got it. I did. Up until now, it was all fun and games.

We’d adopted a false last name—Weiner. Under the guise of a married couple with a very strange sex life.

No one knew us here, and our little shenanigans had been nothing but harmless fun. Now, reality was mixing up with the bubble he’d thought was unburstable. He wasn’t used to being less than perfect, and I was cramping his style, big time. This served as a reminder that out there, in the real world, our lives couldn’t interwine. They’d forever collide.

“It’s fine,” Cruz drawled. “Hop into the shower.”

“I’ll talk to Mrs. Warren myself. Explain everything.” I followed him around the tiny room, apologetic all of a sudden.

He turned to me sharply. “Don’t you dare.”

“Why not?”

“She’s a mean piece of work, and I don’t want you to contribute to her power trip. Besides, you’re right. As far as I know, this person knows no one in my life. I only kept in touch with a handful of friends, and I know for a fact that none of them are on this cruise.”

“And anyway,” I added cooperatively, my soul dying inside, “even if it’s someone who knows you—so what? Our families know we’re together on a cruise, and I am the one who is accused of being a thief and a prostitute. You’re just the man who begrudgingly shares a room with me.”

“True.” Cruz stroked his chin, mulling this over.

Wow. Surprisingly: ouch.

He really didn’t want people in Fairhope to know we had any affiliation to one another.

“But see.” I gestured to the room. “This is exactly why we shouldn’t be kissing anymore. You’re ashamed of me.”

“I’m not ashamed of you.”

But his words lacked their usual lethal heat and sincerity, and he didn’t elaborate.

Dejected, I hopped into the shower and got out wearing one of the complimentary bathrobes while he hopped in right after me.

I slipped into one of the outfits he’d bought for me during our shopping spree—a knee-length dramatic black dress with a sweetheart neckline and satin ruffles around the hem—and strappy, camel-hued sandals.

Instead of making my hair big enough it could be recognized from Mars, I opted to let it fall down, allowing it to cascade in natural waves past my shoulder blades.

And, in the same spirit of trying to ease tensions, because I genuinely felt bad about the entire situation, I opted for minimal makeup, determined not to embarrass him as a companion by sticking out more than I already had.

Some blush, mascara, and lip gloss. No eyeshadow, contouring, and using the bronzer as a weapon of mass destruction.

After I was done, I stared in the hallway mirror and hardly recognized myself. I looked like a grown-up. A pretty grown-up. One with a sensible job. In insurance or medical equipment. Maybe even a teacher. But somehow, younger, too.

My fingertips fluttered over my ribcage, floating up to my lips.

I looked good.

I felt good.

And that was dangerous.

Hope was a very dangerous thing.

“You are, and always will be, the most beautiful girl in Fairhope, North Carolina.”

I let out a little gasp of surprise.

The words made me turn around.

Cruz stood, hands shoved deep into his front pockets, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb, staring at me with unabashed hunger.

There was something so unbelievably sexy about him, with his dark wheat hair slicked back, his perfectly groomed mustache and carved-in-marble body.

He wore a navy dress shirt, designer jeans, and a pair of pointy loafers that made men look extra rich. He smelled woodsy and earthy and clean, his scent seeping into my nostrils even from across the room.

I threw him a mischievous grin. “Don’t let Gabriella Holland hear you say that.”

Or Fiona Sandford.

Or Mariah Navarro.

Or Alyssa Williams.

Funny, how I was the harlot while he was the one who slept around with half the town. Double standards and all.

Sometimes it truly sucked being a woman.

“Gabriella must know. That’s why she dislikes you.”

My heart did a violent flip. Did he just realign his alliances and move over to Team Nessy?

Unlikely, but a girl could dream.

“You’re breaking my heart here, Cruz. I thought she could be my best friend.”

“You don’t have any friends.”

“That’s because I’m a liability.”

“It’s because you are too beautiful, and no woman in their right mind wants to stand next to you. Now, can I buy you dinner?”

I flipped my hair, which felt a lot lighter without three pounds of hairspray on it.

“Dinner’s free.”

“Drinks, then.”

“We have all-you-can-drink packages.”

His grin widened. “Then I guess your only incentive to join me is my company.”

“It’s not much, but I’ll take it.”