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Read Online Books/Novels:

Bad Idea (Bad Idea, Vol. 1)

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Nicole French

Book Information:

From the second she saw him, Layla Barros knew Nico Soltero was all wrong. Wrong age. Wrong education. Wrong job. Wrong everything. She had a hard enough time convincing her parents that New York really is the right place for their nineteen-year-old daughter without telling them she’s got a thing for the FedEx guy at her new part-time job. Too bad the second she saw him, Layla Barros no longer cared about right and wrong.

Raised with three siblings in Hell’s Kitchen by a single-mom, half Puerto Rican, half Italian Nico Soltero is a quintessential New York mutt who’s always had to shoulder the burdens of his family. Burdens which have cost him almost all of his dreams, like going to college or becoming an FDNY firefighter. Now, at twenty-six, he’s finally getting the chance to leave the place that’s always felt more like a dead weight than the center of the universe. Too bad the city of his birth has one last hard knock to deal: the girl of his dreams, sitting right in the middle of his delivery route, three months before his plane is supposed to take off.

As Layla and Nico find out, love isn’t always convenient, and it never happens how they planned. The choices that Nico and Layla make now will affect their lives forever. Will they make them together or apart?

Books in Series:

Bad Idea Series by Nicole French

Books by Author:

Nicole French Books



I jog up the stairs of the subway stop on Park Avenue and Twenty-Third, following the herd of people exiting the 6. I move with the traffic funneling out of the subway station and step out to the side of the street to get my bearings. It’s my first day at a new job, which is about two blocks south of where I stand. I have plenty of time to take a moment to reset.

Straight up Park is the elegant architecture of Grand Central Station; the other way, the looming buildings of the Flatiron District. It’s one-thirty on a Monday, and people scurry around me, coming on and off their lunch breaks. I hear Spanish, some kind of Creole, English speakers with myriad accents, all jumbled together with the horns and throttle of the cars making their way through the impermeable Manhattan traffic. A few of the nearby corners boast coffee carts and nut vendors, the smells from which waft through the frigid January air. This is New York, chaotic and colorful, a city I have come to adore since moving here a year and a half ago to start college.

I glance around for a coffee shop. It’s the one thing I miss about Seattle: decent coffee on every corner. The cheap stuff from the carts makes my stomach hurt if I have too much. I already had two cups before my eight o’clock class this morning, so I’m at my limit for what Quinn, my roommate, dubs “Borough Battery Acid.”

“Excuse me, miss.”

A deep baritone voice behind me interrupts my thoughts, and I instinctively twist around, eager to get out of the owner’s way. The stereotype about people in New York is that they’re mean, but that’s wrong. It’s just that there are certain social codes everyone here knows—codes like “don’t stand like an idiot in the middle of a busy sidewalk,” “don’t stand in front of the subway car doors during rush hour if you’re not getting off at the next stop,” and “never, ever drive your car through a crosswalk when pedestrians are present.” “I’m walking here!” is a real saying; I’ve used it myself. In a city of almost eight million people stuffed into a few small boroughs, no one has the patience for those who don’t know the rules.

Yeah. It’s a lot different than Washington.

“Sorry,” I say quickly as I step farther aside.

The speaker is obscured by a tower of boxes stacked on a creaky dolly, which he’s trying to maneuver through the crowded sidewalk.

“No problem, sweetie,” he says, and pushes past me, giving me an excellent view of a set of wide shoulders and a prize-worthy ass in tight blue cargo pants. Seriously, the way some men’s butts look in uniforms should be illegal. I sometimes wish that catcalling were normal for women to do, not just men. It would level the playing field a bit, plus it would be really satisfying to whistle after someone who looks like this guy.

Curious to see if his face is as good-looking as the rest of him, I watch to see if the hot delivery guy will turn around. But he just continues moving through the crowd, going doggedly about his business like everyone else. I shrug and check my watch again. Time to go. A small deli on the corner catches my eye. It’s not exactly espresso, but it will do the trick. My stomach will just have to deal.


“Fox, Lager, and Associates, how may I help you?”

The receptionist’s voice rings out loud and clear while I wait in the small conference room behind the donut-shaped desk facing the elevator door entrance in the lobby. The office is cool and modern, with blonde wood floors and furnishings throughout, capped with brushed metal fixtures. The name partners, Steven Fox and Gerald Lager, pose with boy bands and pop singers in the dozens of photos that line the walls along with gold records from said artists.

I sit alone at the long, oval table in the conference room, peering at the pictures and trying to distract myself from first-day nerves. Unfortunately, the perfect, white-toothed celebrity faces only make me feel that much more self-conscious. This is an entertainment law firm, where everyone works for perfect-looking people and looks like they could be one of them. April, the current receptionist, could be doing spreads at Vogue. I, on the other hand, with my petite, curvy stature and thick wavy hair, don’t look anything close to a fashion model. Anything but, really.

I was hired as a receptionist/intern last week to take the place of the normal night receptionist, who’s out on maternity leave for the next three months. It’s the kind of job I hope will look good on law school applications in a few more years. I’m the perfect candidate for a low-level internship: nineteen, in my second year at NYU. Major…yeah. That’s a different story. I’m supposed to be an attorney one day––my promise to become pre-law was the entire reason they agreed to send me to a school like NYU instead of keeping me home to go to a state school in Washington. But pre-law is a track, not a major. And I’m still figuring out just what I want to study while I’m getting ready for this big career my dad has planned for me.

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