Stealing the Bad Boy Read online

  Stealing the Bad Boy

  A Sweet Bad Boy Romance

  Emma St. Clair

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  A NOTE FROM EMMA

  Also by Emma St. Clair

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Though this series is made up of books that CAN be read in any order, the books follow a small group of friends and are best read in order.

  Managing the Rock Star is the only exception, as it DOES related and have crossover, but that story doesn’t tie into the same timeline as these books.

  This book was previously published as Her Second Chance Dream Groom and is now 10,000 words longer and has some very different elements.

  The multi-author series the original was a part of is now gone, so all the bits tying those stories together are no longer in the book.

  Prologue

  Sy - six and a half years ago

  Though he didn’t need to drive his dad’s Lexus the hundred yards to the house next door, Sy was going to do this whole prom thing right. Which meant picking up his date. Or, in this case, dates.

  Delia and Amy’s house looked different somehow from the sidewalk. Or maybe it was the pressure of his heartbeat slamming against his chest as he stepped out of the car in his rented tux, feeling both grown-up and like a kid wearing his dad’s clothes. The shiny dress shoes pinched his feet as he walked around to the passenger side to pick up the plastic boxes with the wrist corsages for the girls.

  His parents weren’t there, of course. They were both surgeons who spent most of their time at the hospital. It didn’t matter. Sy had stopped noticing or caring about their absence. The Winters family had become more like his family since they had moved in, their home more his home than his own.

  When Sy began walking up the sidewalk, that’s when he saw them. Delia and Amy hadn’t waited for him to knock on the door but stood on the porch. Sy stopped where he was, unable to move for a second.

  His gaze caught on Delia first, as it always did. Heat moved through him at the sight of her long blonde hair trailing over her shoulders and down the fitted pink dress. Mr. and Mrs. Winters stood just behind their daughters, so he didn’t let his eyes linger on her curves, but it took effort.

  Sy swallowed hard. Delia stuck out one hip, and with a saucy grin, blew him a kiss.

  I’ve been waiting for this moment—for her—for three years.

  He was staring. Rolling her eyes, Delia waved him toward the porch.

  Only then did Sy catch sight of Amy. If it bothered her that Sy had been staring at her sister, Amy didn’t show it. His feet almost stopped moving again at the sight of her too but not for the same reasons.

  It was impossible to hide that Amy was sick. Her skin was too pale, almost the color of skim milk. The blond wig hit her at her shoulders and didn’t quite look real, especially next to Delia’s naturally golden hair. Her collarbones jutted out over the top of the dress, which hung on her body. Without the wide straps, it might have fallen off altogether.

  But she looked beautiful, even if she looked much more than two years younger than Delia and Sy. Someone—Delia, maybe—had done her makeup. Her eyes were bright and looked even larger than usual on her thin face. There was blush on her cheeks—or maybe that was a natural hue because Sy was still staring at her. Amy’s grin was off the charts, and Sy couldn’t help smiling back.

  That was his Ames. The one who watched college and pro ball with him, who insulted his Fantasy Football picks, and who had waited right alongside him on their family’s couch while Sy pined after Delia for the past three years.

  He wanted to wave at the sisters, but still held both corsage boxes in his hands. Instead, he jumped and clicked his heels together in the air. Harder to do in a tux, but still manageable.

  Amy’s giggles rained down over his ears, and Delia called, “You’re such a dork, Sy!”

  She could call him whatever she wanted. Tonight, Delia was his date. After waiting and waiting and waiting for her to notice him, tonight he would win her over and make her his.

  Well. After they dropped Ames back off at the house following dinner. Then Sy would have Delia all to himself.

  It had been Sy’s idea to ask Amy to join them. No one wanted to say it, but Amy might not make it to her own prom. The thought killed Sy.

  When he had asked Delia to prom in her backyard covered in rose petals, Sy had caught sight of Amy’s face from the window. He should have been totally focused on the fact that finally, Delia had her arms wrapped around him, that she was finally saying yes to him.

  But no—there was Ames in the window, smiling with her hands pressed over her heart.

  Maybe it was only because he knew her so well, but underneath the happiness on her face, Sy had seen Amy’s longing. More than anything, she wanted to be healthy and normal. To do the things other teenagers did. Like, go to actual school instead of studying online in between treatments. To play sports, go on dates. To be asked to a dance.

  And so, after okaying the idea with Mr. and Mrs. Winters, Sy had shown up one afternoon with a ton of helium balloons and flowers and asked Amy to join him and Delia for pictures and dinner. He couldn’t actually take two dates to prom, and she didn’t want to go solo, but it was enough of a gesture that Amy was thrilled.

  Surprisingly, Delia had been a little harder to convince, but mostly because she wanted to ride in a limo with the other cheerleaders and football players. Sy convinced her that they’d have just as much fun afterward at the co-ed sleepover at the Boyd twins’ barn with all their friends.

  As Sy walked up the sidewalk, Derek Abernathy, the sour-faced neighbor from up the street, caught up to Sy, walking next to him in the grass for a few steps. Which was, in and of itself, odd. Derek also played football, but he and Sy didn’t run in the same circles. Delia and Amy definitely didn’t hang out with him. He had a sneer on his face and matched Sy’s stride in his dark jeans and dark T-shirt. Guess he wasn’t going to prom.

  “Hey, Derek. Uh, kind of busy here.”

  A sly grin Sy didn’t like took over Derek’s face. “I just stopped by to say that it was nice of you to pity-ask Cancer Girl to prom.”

  Sy could practically feel the rage flowing off him in waves. He hadn’t even realized that he’d dropped the corsages to grab Derek by the shirt until he heard gasps from the front porch.

  But Derek took it even further, a sick glint in his eye. “Hope you give it to her good. It would be a shame for her to die a virgin.”

  The last word was hardly out of Derek’s mouth before Sy’s fist made contact with his face. And then again. And again.

  He didn’t notice that he had stepped all over the corsages, crushing them underfoot.

  He didn’t hear the screams or even feel Mr. Winters trying to pull him back. When Sy felt the tug on his jacket, he simply shrugged it off and kept wailing on Derek.

  Maybe if Derek had stopped laughing, Sy would have stopped hitting him.

  Maybe not.

  It took two cops to pull Sy away from Derek, who was still laughing, despite the blood on his teeth.

  On
ly then, did he realize what he had done. Sy turned toward the house, where Delia strode toward him from the front porch.

  “Delia,” he said, just before she slapped him.

  “How could you ruin this for me?” she hissed. And as she walked away, Sy saw the chance he’d had with his dream girl going up in flames.

  Then, he caught sight of Amy. The pain on her face was … indescribable. She was completely crushed. Eyes red, makeup streaked over her cheeks, hands covering her mouth as she sobbed. Her mom held her tight from behind, as though she’d had to hold Amy back.

  Shame was the most bitter thing Sy had ever tasted.

  “Ames,” he whispered.

  But Amy didn’t hear. The whole Winters family turned and walked inside their house as the cops dragged Sy toward their waiting patrol car. He hadn’t heard the sirens or seen the flashing lights.

  As they shoved him into the back seat, Sy’s chin dipped to his chest. He didn’t look back to see if Delia or Amy were watching.

  After what he’d done, he knew they wouldn’t be.

  Chapter One

  Sy

  There was nothing more depressing than listening to your whole team’s Christmas plans, knowing that you have none. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

  Sy had never packed up his bags so quickly after practice, feeling the steady pulse of a headache forming behind his eyes. The laughter, the jokes, the slamming of metal locker doors—all of it felt too loud today. As though every word and every noise was aimed right at the center of his skull.

  All he wanted to do was escape. And he had almost made it out of the locker room without comment from his teammates. Almost.

  “Yo, Sylvester.”

  He flinched, as he did every time someone used the unfortunate name his parents graced him with. Thanks again, Great-Uncle Sylvester. He shouldn’t react. Then maybe the guys would stop doing it. But he did, so they kept on.

  When he turned back to face his teammates, who were already chuckling, he put on his best dimpled grin. “Yo what, Hulk?”

  The defensive lineman grinned and crossed his bulky arms over his bare chest. “Who’s your date to the charity prom?”

  Charity prom. Ugh.

  Sy managed to keep the smile on his face, though he’d rather ram his fist into the closest locker. He didn’t want to think about dates. Or the charity prom, coming up in just over a week.

  Let it roll off. Self-control. Chill, man. Chill.

  Sometimes, Sy felt silly giving himself silent pep talks, but the team therapist said to do whatever worked to keep him in the Zen zone—Chad’s term, not Sy’s. The last few months, he’d felt more solid, more like himself, than he had maybe ever.

  That didn’t mean it was easy to hold back on someone like Hulk, who enjoyed instigating everyone on the team.

  Sy winked at Hulk. “Didn’t see a reason to commit. I’m planning to go stag.”

  A couple of the guys laughed. But Hulk shook his head. This guy was like a pit bull when he got stuck on an idea or topic.

  “That’s right—you haven’t been out with the ladies lately. I follow the gossip rags. And they’re saying that the Perpetual Bachelor has turned from a playboy into a monk. Why is that? Did you go through all the women in San Antonio already? If so, I’d love your notes on which ones I should skip, and which ones are worth my time.” Hulk lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

  The urge to punch something—or a particular someone—grew stronger. Sy forced himself to keep his hands loose, not letting them curl into fists.

  Sure, Sy had dated a lot of different women. Enough to earn himself the stupid Perpetual Bachelor nickname from the press. But there was a difference between dating them and taking them back home at the end of the night. Sy wasn’t a saint, but he didn’t use women like that. Or talk about them the way Hulk was right now.

  Too bad the media and the public didn’t see that. The gossip blogs and Twitter had given him a hard time for dating too much, and now they were giving him a hard time for not dating? Sy couldn’t win. He was tired of playing the game.

  Rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw, Sy narrowed his eyes as though deep in thought. “You’re right, Hulk. I should lock down a date. Maybe your mama’s free?”

  There was a beat of silence. Enough time for Sy to regret his words. It could go either way with Hulk. The air in the locker room seemed to tense up and coil back, waiting.

  But Hulk only laughed, shaking his head. “You’re bad, man. So very bad. That’s why I like you.”

  Sy shrugged, a half smile on his face. “Santa left coal in my stocking every year since I was three. See y’all after the holidays.”

  Hulk and the other guys began laughing. Someone slapped Sy on the back. Before anyone could start anything else that might push him over the precarious edge he was teetering on, Sy pushed through the locker room door and into the empty hallway.

  The Corral, the Mustangs’ practice complex, looked like Christmas had thrown up on it. Mistletoe in every doorway. Fake snow sprayed on trophy cases. Holly and greenery literally decking the halls. Speakers overhead blasted ear-splitting Christmas pop songs.

  Definitely not helping with the headache.

  Sy resisted the urge to tear it all down. He blamed the whole Mustang organization for his extra-grinchy attitude about the holidays. Not only had they scheduled a game for the day after Christmas, ensuring Sy couldn’t join his parents and sisters with their families on a cruise, but the franchise had also planned a stupid charity event for the day after that. And not just a normal charity dinner or Christmas-themed silent auction. The prom.

  He hadn’t thought about his own prom night in years. Mostly because he wanted to forget how he’d spent the evening in a holding cell wearing a bloody tux rather than dancing with his dream girl at the prom. He’d rather not have to think about Delia’s furious face and Amy’s tears as they watched him getting hauled away by cops on their front lawn.

  All because of Derek Abernathy’s stupid big mouth. Sy still thought that idiot deserved every punch. But that fight and his arrest didn’t just blow his chance with Delia and ruin Amy’s friendship; he had lost the sense of family and home he had at their house.

  So, no—he was not thrilled that he was having to revisit the worst night of his life.

  Tuxes. Ball gowns. A live band in a hotel ballroom. They were even going to have the guests vote on a prom king and queen. The whole shebang. Astronomical ticket prices allowed the wealthy to dance alongside their favorite Mustang players while benefiting a local charity for kids with cancer.

  That, and that alone, was the only part of the whole thing Sy could get behind. He didn’t advertise it, but he gave a healthy portion of his paycheck every year to the same charity. If he could have just written another check and not shown up to the event, Sy would have. But no—it was just one of a long list of requirements Sy was growing tired of.

  Even the football field had started to feel less fulfilling lately. Winning and losing didn’t feel all that different. He still went home to the same empty house or to an empty hotel room while they were on the road. At an end-of-summer team pool party, Sy had watched a few of the seasoned vets with their wives and kids. Those guys were building a real life off the field.

  What am I building?

  He loved watching Chase, the Mustangs’ quarterback, teaching his daughter how to swim. His wife had looked on with adoring eyes, like they were the only people in the pool. Sy wanted that.

  Only, Sy wasn’t the kind of guy a woman should settle down with. Definitely not dad material. Yet.

  His weekly sessions with Chad were helping. At least, with his impulse-control issues, which he never really knew he had until Chad helped him see it. The pattern in his life seemed obvious now: his willingness to take dares, to jump into new things, to spend money, and, yes, to get in fights.

  Since the therapy sessions, Sy had started following a budget and hired someone to help him build a stock portfolio. He quit dating, which h
ad been less of a struggle than he thought it might be. Probably because he’d never really been invested in anyone. He even went to church for the first time in years. It took a few weeks to stop feeling like an imposter, to really believe that God might welcome him back.

  These things were all well and good, but doing what Chad called “soul work” didn’t magically make the right woman appear in Sy’s life. Or keep the guys or the media from hassling him, whether it was about his past dating life or his current non-dating life.

  It also did nothing to change the fact that he was about to spend Christmas totally alone. And now his mind was on prom, the one from back then and the one he was dreading next week. Fantastic.

  Just as he reached the lobby, one of the physical therapists stepped out of the bank of elevators. James grinned at Sy. “Merry Christmas, man! How’s the ankle?”

  Sy smiled and gave the man a firm slap on the back. “Never better, thanks to you.”

  James fell into step beside him as they walked out to the parking lot. The early evening air was warm and muggy. Texas—at least San Antonio—didn’t do winter weather. The sun had dipped below the buildings in downtown San Antonio, leaving the sky streaked with pinks and golds.

  “Glad to hear it,” James said. “Are you headed home for the holidays?”

  Sy opened his mouth to answer, then paused, unsure exactly how to answer.

  Home. That was a complicated answer. Was home his empty mansion here in San Antonio? Definitely not. Or the house his parents had relocated to when Sy was in college? He’d hardly spent more than a few weeks total there.