by Elle Kennedy
“Well …” I take a swig of my beer. “Keep it to yourself.”
“Hey,” comes Mac’s hesitant voice.
She walks in, and the sight of her—in my shirt, dark wet hair combed back—brings all sorts of sinful thoughts to my head. She didn’t put on the jeans, so her legs are bare and tanned and endlessly long.
Fuck.
I want them wrapped around my waist.
“Evan,” she greets my brother, nodding at him as if she knows, somehow, he is up to no good. Unsurprisingly, she’s still carrying the sleeping puppy.
“Welp.” Evan gives her a parting smile as he grabs his beer and pushes off from the fridge. “I’m beat. You kids have fun.”
My brother has no appreciation for subtlety.
“Was it something I said?” she asks dryly.
“Nah. He thinks we’re gonna hook up.” When I lift my arm to run a hand through my damp hair, her eyes grow wide with alarm. My brow furrows. “What?”
“Cooper. You’re hurt.”
I look down, almost forgetting that her precious little pup damn near filleted me alive not an hour ago. Both my arms are covered in red scratches, and there’s a particularly nasty-looking cut on my collarbone.
“Eh. I’m fine,” I assure her. I’m no stranger to cuts and scrapes, and these ones are definitely not the worst I’ve experienced.
“No, you’re not. We need to clean those.”
With that, she marches me to the bathroom and, despite my protestations, forces my ass down on the closed lid of the toilet. The puppy is promptly deposited in my claw-foot bathtub, where she curls up and sleeps while Mackenzie rifles through my cabinets for the first aid kit.
“I can do this myself,” I tell her as she sets out a bottle of alcohol and cotton swabs.
“Are you going to be difficult?” She eyes me with a raised brow. The earnest conviction on her face is cute, in a stubborn shut up and take your medicine sort of way.
“Fine.”
“Good. Now take off your shirt.”
A grin tugs on my lips. “This was your plan all along? To get me naked?”
“Yes, Cooper. I broke into an animal shelter, stole a puppy, placed it in a perilous situation, swam out to rescue it myself—so as to not raise your suspicions that it was I, in fact, who trapped the dog on the jetty—then telepathically ordered the dog to scratch you up. All so I could see your perfect pecs.” She finishes with a snort.
“Extreme actions,” I agree. “But I get it. My pecs are perfect. They’re transcendent.”
“So’s your ego.”
I make a slow, deliberate show of removing my shirt. Despite her mocking, my bare chest elicits a response. Her breath hitches, and then she averts her gaze, pretending to focus on opening the rubbing alcohol.
I hide a smile and sit back as she begins to clean the wounds on my arm.
“Is it just the two of you here?” she asks curiously.
“Yeah. Evan and I grew up in this house. My great-grandparents built it after they got married. Grandparents lived here after them and so on.”
“It’s beautiful.”
It was. Now it’s falling apart. Roof needs replacing. Foundation is cracking from beach erosion. The siding has seen one too many storms, and the floors are worn and warped. Nothing I couldn’t fix if only I had the time and money, but isn’t that always the story? Whole damn town full of if onlys. And just like that, I remember why I’m sitting here letting some clone’s girlfriend run her hands all over my bare chest.
“There,” she says, touching my arm. “All better.”
“Thanks.” My voice sounds a bit gravelly.
“No problem.” Hers sounds slightly hoarse.
I find myself momentarily caught in her bright green eyes. Taunted by the flashes of her almost-naked body as the hem of my shirt rises on her thighs. Her warm palm against my skin. The thrumming in her neck that tells me she’s not indifferent to me either.
I could do it. Take her by the hips, coax her into straddling me. Shove my hand through her hair and pull her mouth to mine in a blistering kiss. I’m not supposed to sleep with her unless she initiates, but if the chemistry sizzling between us is any indication, I suspect she won’t stop with a kiss. It’ll be a kiss that leads to the bed that leads to getting balls deep inside her. She’ll dump Kincaid faster than you can say game over. I win. Mission accomplished.
But where’s the fun in that?
“Now,” I say, “about your friend.”
Mackenzie blinks, as if snapping out of the same lust stupor I’d fallen into.
We draw a warm bubble bath for the puppy and put her in. She’s a completely different animal all of a sudden. The drowned rat becomes a small golden retriever, splashing around and playing with a bottle of shampoo that falls into the tub. Poor thing is all skin and bones, lost or abandoned by its mother, and she didn’t have a collar when we found her. The shelter will have to figure out if she’s chipped or not.
After we scrub the dog clean and dry her off, I set out a bowl of water in the kitchen and feed her some cut up turkey franks. Not ideal, but it’s the best we have under the circumstances. While the pup eats, I leave the door open and step out to the back deck. The temperature’s cooled off, and the ocean breeze is blowing in off the water. Out on the horizon, a tiny blip of a boat’s bow lights flickers as it travels.
“You know …” Mac comes beside me.
I’m acutely aware of her, every nerve attuned in her direction. This chick barely glances at me and I’m half hard. It’s very annoying.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she finishes.
“And why’s that?”
“I think you know why.” Her voice is soft, measured. She’s testing me as much as herself.
“You don’t seem like the kind of girl who does anything she doesn’t want to.” I turn to meet her eyes. In my limited experience, Mackenzie is stubborn. Not the type to get pushed around. I’m under no illusion that she’s here because I’m so damn clever.
“You’d be surprised,” she says ruefully.
“Tell me.”
She appraises me. Doubtful. Questioning how sincere my interest is.
I raise a brow. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“I’d like to think so,” she says, wary.
“Then talk to me. Let me get to know you.”
She continues to study me. Christ. When she stares into me like this, I feel her picking me apart, working things out. I’ve never felt so exposed in front of another person before. For some reason, it doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should.
“I thought freedom was being self-sufficient,” she finally confesses. “I’m finding out that isn’t exactly true. I know this probably sounds stupid coming from me, but I feel trapped. By expectations and promises. Trying to make everyone else happy. I wish I could be selfish for once. Do what I want, when I want, how I want.”
“So why don’t you?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Sure it is.” Rich people are always going on about how money is such a burden. That’s only because they don’t know how to use it. They get so caught up in their bullshit, they forget they don’t actually need their dumb friends and stupid country clubs. “Forget ’em. Someone’s making you miserable? Something is holding you back? Forget ’em and move on.”
Her teeth dig into her bottom lip. “I can’t.”
“Then you don’t want it bad enough.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Of course not. What’s ever been fair? People spend their whole lives complaining about things they’re unwilling to change. At a certain point, either pluck up the courage or shut up.”
Laughter sputters out of her. “Are you telling me to shut up?”
“No, I’m telling you there are plenty of ways that life and circumstances beyond our control conspire to keep us down. The least we can do is get out of our own way.”
“What about you?” She turns on me, pointin
g the question back in my face. “What do you want right now that you can’t have?”
“To kiss you.”
She narrows her eyes.
I should regret saying that, but I don’t. I mean, what’s stopping me from kissing her, from telling her I want to? Gotta pull the trigger on this thing at some point, right? I’ve clearly got her on the hook. If I don’t commit to this plan now, why am I wasting my time?
So I watch her, trying to discern her reaction through the stone-cold façade of indifference. This chick is implacable. But for a split second, I glimpse the flicker of heat in her gaze as she considers it. Gaming it out. One action begetting another, a cascade effect of consequences.
She licks her lips.
I lean closer. Just a little. Tempting myself. The need to touch her is almost unbearable.
“But then I’d screw up a perfectly good friendship,” I say, because I’ve lost all control of my goddamn mouth. “So I behave myself. It’s still a choice.”
What the hell am I doing? I don’t know what spooked me, but suddenly I’m giving her an out when I’m supposed to be reeling her in.
Mac turns back toward the water, resting her arms on the railing. “I admire your honesty.”
Frustration rises inside me as I look at her profile from the corner of my eye. This woman is gorgeous, she’s wearing my shirt and nothing else, and instead of pulling her into my arms and kissing her senseless, I just friend-zoned myself.
For the first time since we hatched this plan, I’m starting to wonder if I’m in over my head.
CHAPTER TEN
MACKENZIE
I wake up in the morning to a text from Cooper. Only I guess Evan must have taken the photo, because it shows Cooper asleep in bed with the puppy snuggled on his chest, her face buried under his chin. It’s fucking adorable. Last night, I thought those two were doomed, but it seems they worked out their differences.
I hope he and Evan decide to keep her. I know the right thing to do is to take the dog to the shelter—I certainly can’t keep her—but my heart is breaking a little at the thought of never seeing her again.
I text a reply to Cooper, and by the time I get out of my second class for the day, I still haven’t received a response. He’s probably working. I tell myself it’s just concern for the dog that causes the pang of disappointment. But who am I kidding? I can’t ignore what happened on his deck last night. The sexual tension nearly spilling over, his rough admission that he wants to kiss me. If he hadn’t pulled back I might have caved in a moment of blind weakness.
I have underestimated Cooper’s allure. That’s my fault—I know better than to be seduced by handsome, half-naked guys who race in to help rescue animals in distress. I just have to be more cautious going forward and keep reminding myself that we’re friends. That’s it. No use getting it twisted.
When my phone buzzes, I eagerly yank it out of my pocket, only to find a message from Preston. Not Cooper.
I banish the second wave of disappointment to the very back of my mind and use my thumbprint to open my lock screen.
Preston: Waiting for you in the parking lot.
Right. We’re having lunch off campus today. I’m glad he reminded me, because I was about five minutes away from scarfing down a chicken fiesta wrap from the sandwich shop near the business school.
I slide into Preston’s convertible, and we talk about our classes as he drives us to Avalon Bay. Pres finds some street parking near the boardwalk. My pulse quickens, and I force myself not to look in the direction of the restaurant that Cooper and his uncle are restoring.
I last about 3.5 seconds before I cave. But the jobsite is empty. I guess they’re on their lunch break. Or maybe the crew is on another job today.
Once again, I pretend I’m not disappointed.
“You didn’t tell me what you ended up doing yesterday.” Pres holds my hand as we head toward the sports bar, where we’re meeting some of his friends. “Did you come into town or no?”
“Oh, yeah, I did. I explored the boardwalk and walked down the pier, then watched the sunset on the beach. It was really nice.”
I make an on-the-spot executive decision to omit the entire puppy encounter. Not that Pres is the jealous type, but I don’t want it to turn into a whole discussion, especially when I’ve only just arrived at Garnet and we’re doing so well. There’ll be an opportunity to tell him about my friendship with Cooper. At some point. When the time’s right.
“How did your poker game go? You didn’t text me either, now that I think about it.” But I’m also not the jealous type. Having done the whole long-distance thing, Pres and I are used to the occasional forgotten text or unanswered call. If we got worked up every time one of us didn’t respond until morning, we’d have broken up a long time ago. That’s trust.
“How was the poker game?” echoes Benji Stanton, who overhears my question as Pres and I approach the group. He snickers loudly. “You better watch out for your man. This kid is shit at cards and doesn’t know when to quit.”
“So …not good?” I ask, shooting a teasing smile at Pres.
“Not good at all,” Benji confirms. He’s a business major like Pres. They met when they shared a few classes last year.
Benji’s parents own property in Hilton Head, and his father runs a hedge fund. All of Preston’s friends hail from similar backgrounds. As in disgustingly rich. Finance, real estate, politics—their parents are all members of the billionaires’ club. So far, everyone’s been friendly and welcoming to me. I was nervous at first that they might look at me sideways because I’m a freshman, but I only get positive vibes from Preston’s Garnet friends.
“Don’t listen to him, babe.” Pres kisses the top of my head. “I’m playing the long game.”
A few minutes later, we’re climbing up the stairs. Sharkey’s Sports Bar has two floors, the upper one consisting of tables overlooking the ocean, the lower level offering game tables, a plethora of TVs, and the bar. As a server seats our group at a long high-top near the railing, the guys continue to rag on Preston for being terrible at cards.
“Lock up your good jewelry, Mac,” Seb Marlow advises me. He’s from Florida, where his family is a major defense contractor for the government. It’s all very serious and secret. I’ d have to kill you, and all that. Or that’s the line he uses at parties, at least. “He was this close to throwing down his Rolex to buy back into the game.”
Stifling a laugh, I question Pres. “Please tell me he’s joking.”
He shrugs, because the money means nothing to him, and he’s got more watches than he knows what to do with. “How about you try me at pool?” he scoffs at his friends. “That’s a real gentleman’s game.”
Benji looks at Seb and smirks. “Double or nothing?”
Never one to back down from a challenge, Preston is all too eager. “You’re on.”
The guys push back from the table as Preston gives me a parting kiss on the cheek.
“One game,” he says. “Back in a flash.”
“Don’t lose your car,” I warn. “I need a ride back to campus.”
“Don’t worry,” Benji calls over his shoulder. “I got you.”
Pres just rolls his eyes before sauntering after his buddies. Another thing I appreciate about him is that he’s a good sport. I’ve never seen him get bent out of shape over a stupid game, even when his wallet is a little light at the end of the night. Granted, it’s easy to get over losing when there’s a seemingly endless supply of someone else’s money to play with.
“Now that the boys are gone …” Melissa, Benji’s girlfriend, pushes the collection of water glasses aside to lean in toward me and Seb’s girlfriend Chrissy.
I don’t know anything about Melissa other than she sails, and I know even less about Chrissy. I wish I had more in common with these girls other than the size of our parents’ bank accounts.
Truth be told, I don’t have too many female friends. And these past few weeks have confirmed that I still su
ck at building connections with my female peers. I love Bonnie to bits, but she feels more like a younger sister than a friend. I had girlfriends in high school, but nobody I’d consider a ride-or-die type of friend. The only one who comes closest to being my “best friend” is my old camp friend Sara, who I raised hell with every summer until I turned eighteen. We still text periodically, but she lives in Oregon and it’s been a couple years since I’ve seen her.
My social group now consists of my roommate, my boyfriend, and my boyfriend’s friends, who waste no time bending their heads together to gossip.
“So what did you find out about that Snapchat girl?” Melissa demands.
Chrissy takes a deep breath like she’s about to dive to the bottom of a pool for a pair of Jimmy Choos. “It was some sophomore chick who’s at Garnet on scholarship. I found her roommate’s best friend on Instagram and DMed her. She said her friend told her that her roommate said they met at a boat party and made out.”
“So they only kissed?” Melissa asks, as though she’s disappointed in the answer.
Chrissy shrugs. “Supposedly someone at the boat party walked in on someone getting a BJ. Maybe it was Seb, maybe not. Doesn’t really matter.”
If I’d known my mother in college, I imagine she’d have been a lot like Chrissy. Prim, put together, and unflappable. Not a hair or eyelash out of place. So the fact that she would entertain something as messy as cheating strikes me as antithetical.
“Wait,” I interject, “your boyfriend is cheating on you, and you don’t care?”
The girls both stare at me as though I haven’t been paying attention.
“Two former presidents of the United States and the crown prince of Saudi Arabia were at his father’s birthday party in the Seychelles last year,” Chrissy says flatly. “You don’t break up with guys like Sebastian over something as trifling as infidelity. He’s the man you marry.”
I frown at her. “You’d marry someone you know is cheating on you?”
She doesn’t answer, just looks at me, blinking. Is an expectation of monogamy so banal and old-fashioned? I thought I was fairly open-minded, but apparently my beliefs about love and romance are scandalous.
