Breaking Stone: Bad Boy Romance Novel by Alexa Wilder, Raleigh Blake Page B

far?”
    “Terrifying, but fun. Let me take some photos for the fans.” She whipped out her phone. “Sit on the ground over there and lean against the tree trunk. Unzip your jacket. Chew on a piece of grass and look contemplative, or hot and smoldering.”
    “Annie Leibovitz had better watch her back.”
    “You’ve sort of got this James Dean vibe going on today. The fans will love it.”
    I sat against the tree, posed the way she wanted, then hammed it up for a few shots. Had a simple ride on a motorcycle really given Katrina this much confidence? Fuck, I couldn’t wait to tick more experiences off her list. Who knows what I could turn her into? I ran through a few possibilities that involved more bare skin than she was probably willing to show right now. The Poppins Project was turning into just the sort of distraction I loved.
    This time, when we set off, she was way more comfortable on the bike, hooking in behind me, her soft body molding against mine, hands gripping my waist. I shuffled back into her and she took the hint, cozying right up. In some ways, it was a shame we both wore leather jackets. In another way, the hampered gratification was working just fine.
    Being Tuesday, the cafe wasn’t busy, and we grabbed an outside table, ordering buckwheat buttermilk pancakes filled with berries and bananas, peaches and fresh strawberries. I added a jug of organic maple syrup because I could tell Katrina wanted it, even though she’d passed it over, and a side of bacon. I knew the size of the helpings here. Sure, I’d over-ordered, but I wanted Katrina to taste everything.
    I was beginning to see how jaded I’d become, hanging out in the hottest bars and clubs, surrounded by equally jaded women. Katrina was fresh. Not my type, because I sensed her zippered-up nervousness would turn stale pretty quickly. I liked loose women. For now, though, she was turning out to be fun to have around.

7
    Katrina
    “ I scared off my last babysitter when I was thirteen.” Stone shoveled a forkful of pancake dripping in syrup into his mouth and chewed, watching me.
    Everything with him was bait. If I ignored him, he pushed, and when I jumped in and reacted, he usually embarrassed me. Forty-one days to deadline. I hoped we’d both make it.
    “I’m not your babysitter.”
    He swallowed like a seagull. I could actually see the lump in his throat.
    “Poppins, you’re only here for one thing.”
    “The book,” I said hastily.
    “Exactly.”
    I put my fork down and leaned my forearms on the table. “Go ahead, then. Tell me what you did to the last babysitter so that I can prepare myself.”
    He sat back, stretching his arms above his head. “My parents are a fucking mess. They didn’t neglect me, not financially. But emotionally, neither of them were equipped to bring up a child. Shit, neither of them were equipped to be adults. They fought constantly, elegantly, with big, sharp samurai words, oblivious to the fact I was even there. And then, after fighting, they’d head off to their room, their private part of the house, to make up. Or they’d take a short-break vacation. I had a lot of sitters.”
    Stone drained his juice glass and peered into it. “Diluted with tequila, that would have been excellent,” he muttered, putting the glass to one side.
    “That sounds awful...the tequila idea and your childhood.”
    “It was fine. It was all I knew. I soon learned I could behave like a completely obnoxious little shit, and nobody cared. I had to be truly awful to even be noticed. I do love to be noticed, Poppins.”
    “It’s easy to see why.”
    “So, back to my last sitter. Ms. Coddington, professional spinster. I thought she was ancient, but she was probably only in her sixties. She used to wear these terrible skirts with matching jackets...they were suits, I guess. The material was thick with the harsh texture of upholstery fabric. They smelled terrible, as if mice nested in them. Beneath them, she’d wear these