Page 31 of Bad Men's Good Girl

Heat floods my cheeks. "You have not heard me sing in the shower."

"Thin hotel walls," he says with a shrug that's entirely too pleased with itself. "The point is, you're talented. And this is exactly the kind of experience you came to Italy to have."

I glance at Amos, who's watching this exchange with an expression I can't quite read. There's amusement there, but also something deeper, more complicated.

"I don't perform," I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I can hear the weakness in my conviction. "I sing in my car. In the shower. Not in front of strangers in underground jazz clubs."

"Why not?" Atticus challenges, and there's that gentle persistence that makes it impossible to hide behind excuses. "What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"Public humiliation. Social exile. The complete destruction of any remaining dignity."

"Or," he counters, "you could discover something about yourself you never knew existed."

The weight of both men's attention settles on me like a physical thing, and I feel caught between two different kinds of wanting, two different versions of the person I might become. Amos represents comfort, familiarity, the safety of someone who understands the bone-deep fear of taking risks because he's spent years taking them himself, accumulating enough scars to know exactly what they cost. Atticus embodies the unknown, the terrifying thrill of stepping off the edge without a safety net andtrusting you'll somehow learn to fly before you hit the ground. One feels like coming home; the other feels like leaving it.

"This is insane," I murmur, but even as I say it, I'm already imagining it—really imagining it. The smoky air thick with possibility, the intimate crowd of strangers who won't judge because they came here seeking the same kind of magic, the moment when fear transforms into something electric and alive, when your heartbeat becomes part of the rhythm and you stop being afraid of your own voice. The thought should terrify me. Instead, it makes something in my chest expand with reckless hope.

"The best things usually are," Atticus says softly, and there's a knowing quality to his voice that suggests he's not just talking about open mic nights anymore.

I look between them—Amos with his protective concern that feels like being wrapped in something warm and secure, and Atticus with his irresistible challenge that feels like being dared to discover who I am when I'm not playing it safe—and feel something fundamental shift inside my chest. The careful compartments I've been methodically building around my feelings, the neat labels I've been trying to assign to these increasingly complicated emotions, start to blur at the edges like watercolours left out in the rain.

What if I don't have to choose? The thought arrives unbidden, dangerous in its simplicity, in how easily it dismantles all the rules I thought I understood. What if the heart doesn't follow the same logical patterns as everything else? What if feelings aren't meant to be organized into tidy categories and sensible decisions?

20

ATTICUS

Iwatch Baleigh's face transform as she considers the jazz club idea, and something dangerous unfurls in my chest. The way her eyes light up when she's weighing possibility against fear—it's become my favorite expression, the one that makes me forget about maintaining professional distance or keeping things casual.

This is a problem.

I've spent a long time perfecting the art of emotional mobility, of caring just enough to capture authentic moments without getting tangled in the aftermath. It's served me well through countless assignments, dozens of cities, hundreds of fleeting connections that felt meaningful in the moment but faded cleanly when I moved on to the next story.

But watching Baleigh debate whether to trust herself with something as simple as singing in public, I realize I'm not documenting her transformation anymore. I'm invested in it. Personally, recklessly invested.

"I need to grab my telephoto lens from upstairs," I say, standing abruptly. "Think about it, Baleigh. I'll be back in ten minutes for your answer."

The hotel's narrow staircase feels too small for the restless energy building under my skin. I take the steps two at a time, needing movement, needing space to think through what's happening here.

My room overlooks the courtyard, and through the open window, I can see Baleigh and Amos still talking at their table. Their heads are bent close together, and there's an intimacy in their posture that makes my jaw tighten involuntarily.

When did I start caring who else makes her laugh?

I lean against the windowsill, camera forgotten, and force myself to really look at what's unfolding below. Amos reaches across the table to touch her hand, and instead of pulling away, she lets him. There's nothing calculated about the gesture from either of them—it's natural, comfortable, like they've been finding excuses to touch each other for weeks.

Which they probably have.

The realization hits with uncomfortable clarity. I've been so focused on my own growing attachment that I've ignored the obvious signs that I'm not the only one feeling it. Amos's protective hovering around Baleigh, the way his usual easy charm becomes something more focused when she's involved—it's not professional courtesy.

It's personal.

A knock on my door interrupts the uncomfortable direction of my thoughts.

"It's open."

Max steps inside, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. His usually precise appearance is slightly disheveled, his hair showing traces of fingers running through it repeatedly.

"We need to talk," he says without preamble.