Rescued by the Bad Boy

By: Sylvia Pierce
(Bad Boys on Holiday Book 4)

About Rescued by the Bad Boy

“Mouth-to-mouth? I don’t think so, sweetheart. My tongue has much more interesting plans for you tonight.”

It’s tourist season at Starfish Cove, but head lifeguard Max Killian isn’t in the water. He’s on probation, relegated to policing bonfires and beach weddings until his supervisor deems him fit for duty. No booze. No partying. No swimming. Hell, just about the only thing the boss didn’t outlaw is sex.

And a hot, oh-so-fuckable bridesmaid is just what Max needs to soothe his guilt-ridden soul…

She may be standing up in her sister’s wedding, but Haley Scott doesn’t believe in happily ever afters—not with her family's track record. That doesn’t mean she’s not up for a little naughty fun with the right guy, though.

Like that gorgeous, tatted-up lifeguard with the panty-melting eyes and muscles made for pinning her down…

It’s a match made in one-night-stand heaven… until Haley’s nosy Aunt Bev catches them buck naked in the lifeguard tower, and Max introduces himself as her freaking boyfriend.

Great. Turns out faking it with Max is about as easy as pretending to like her fugly bridesmaid dress. But when feelings deepen on both sides, can Haley open herself up to love, or will Max’s painful secrets send her swimming for the shore?

Chapter One

Max Killian, head lifeguard and staff supervisor at Starfish Cove, had a serious fucking problem.

Picture it: Postcard-worthy sunset over the Pacific. Swank party, fancy-ass hors d'oeuvres, open bar. Beach packed with scantily clad women as hot as the southern California sand.

Yet this pathetic jackass was completely off his game.

He couldn’t believe how far he’d fallen.

Memorial Day weekend had always marked the start of the Cove’s big tourist season, and this time last year, Max was patrolling the shore with Luke, his best friend and second-in-command, the pair of them regaling a group of surfer girls with epic tales of their close calls in the water. There’d been a lot of them, too—storm rescues, drunken boaters, sharks—and every time they told the stories, their antics got a little more bold, a little more wild. Hell, Max had loved his job. Loved the ocean, the rush of danger, the power of the waves. Even on his days off, he couldn’t stay away.

Until two months ago, when the ocean he loved suddenly turned on him, damn near killing him in the process.

Now, it haunted him.

Taunted him.

Fuck you.

Max turned his back on the water. Back up on the shore, the Orange County socialites were enjoying the hell out of that open bar and the bonfire he’d built for them. For every one of those guests, the pre-wedding beach party was the perfect way to kick off summer.

But for Max, everything was wrong.

There were no surfer girls tonight. No lifeguard buddies. No rescue attempts and daring, close call stories to share over a few beers. Tonight? Max was on asshole patrol.

He was five minutes away from DEFCON choke-a-bitch status.

“No smoking on the beach, ma’am. Sorry.” He narrowed his eyes at the offending woman—fake tan, fake hair, fake tits—for the third or fourth time that night.

She glanced at the bonfire, then back to him, her eyes lingering on the bulge in his shorts. Also for the third or fourth time that night.

In a voice she probably thought was sexy, she said, “You’re kidding me. I can’t smoke, but you can build a fire the size of Texas?”

“I don’t make the rules.” He held out the coffee can he’d been carrying around all night. It was half full of wet cigarette butts, beer caps, and trash, and it smelled precisely how he felt.

Like absolute shit.

“Whatever you say.” The woman flashed him a fake smile, taking a last drag before dropping the butt into the sand. It was getting to be a game with them—one that had started when he’d refused her earlier advances.

If he wasn’t already on probation—not to mention his supervisor’s personal shit list—he might’ve shared a few choice words with her. But like the chump that he was, he knelt down and ground out the smoldering lipstick-stained butt, tossing it into the can with the others, keeping his yap shut tight even when she smacked him on the ass.

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