Good Girl Complex: a heartwarming modern romance from the TikTok sensation

by Elle Kennedy

  I slide the phone over. Lydia studies the screen, one eyebrow jerking up as if she’s surprised I have real money to offer.

  For the next ten minutes, we go back and forth. It takes some haggling on my part. And I might have been suckered into overpaying by pictures of her grandkids, but eventually we come to a deal.

  Just like that, I’m about to be the proud owner of my very own boardwalk hotel.

  I feel high after closing my first successful business deal, giddy excitement coursing through my veins. Such a rush. At the same time, it’s insane. I’m twenty years old and I just bought a hotel. Despite how crazy it sounds, it feels so right. My mind immediately races with next steps. In an instant I see my future, my empire growing. I promised my parents I would focus on school, and I still plan to—I’ll just be focusing on my new role as hotel owner at the same time. I can juggle both.

  Maybe.

  Hopefully.

  Even after Lydia and I shake on it and I call my lawyer to start the paperwork, it doesn’t feel real until I coax Preston to see the property the next day.

  Rather than share in my excitement, however, he sticks a knife straight through my enthusiasm.

  “What’s this?” He scowls at the gutted hotel with its crumbling walls and water-damaged furnishings spilling out.

  “My new hotel.”

  Eyes narrowed, Preston slants his head at me. As if to say, Explain yourself.

  “I know it isn’t much now. You have to imagine it after a complete renovation.” I almost cringe at the note of desperation I hear in my voice. “I’m going to restore it entirely. Totally vintage. Postwar luxury all the way. Turn this place into a five-star resort.”

  “You’re not serious.” His expression falls flat. Mouth presses into a hard line. Not exactly the reception I’d hoped for.

  “Okay, I get that I don’t know anything about owning a hotel, but I’ll learn. I didn’t know anything about building a website or running a business either. But that didn’t stop me before, right? Maybe I’ll change majors to hospitality or something.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  Each second of silence slowly sucks away more of my joy.

  “Preston. What’s wrong?” I ask weakly.

  He shakes his head, tosses up his hands. “I’m really at a loss here, Mackenzie. This has got to be the most irresponsible, immature thing you’ve ever done.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  He sounds like my dad, which I don’t appreciate in the least. Granted, I didn’t put a lot of thought into this venture before pulling the trigger—I tend to act more on gut instinct. Still, I thought he’d be a little happy for me.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, frankly. I thought after our talk—after your little mistake—we were on the same page. About the plan. Our future.”

  “Preston, that’s not fair.” Throwing the kiss back in my face is a low blow. One has nothing to do with the other.

  He ignores me, finishing with, “That plan doesn’t include a hotel.” His lips twist into a disapproving frown.

  “You don’t see the potential here? At all?” I ask unhappily.

  “Potential? Look at this place. It’s a dump. A teardown at best. Maybe you can get something out of the land, but a renovation? You’re out of your mind. You don’t know the first thing about any of this. Did you even think for two seconds before leveraging your trust fund for this stupid distraction?”

  Indignation shoots through me. “I’m more capable than you think. And I didn’t use my trust fund. I have the cash on hand, if you must know.”

  “How?” he demands.

  I jut my chin. “From my websites.”

  Pres looks startled. “Your silly little tech thing?”

  Now I’m pissed. I can feel the heat pouring out of my face as my nails dig into my palms. “Yes, my silly little tech thing,” I echo bitterly.

  I’ve never elaborated on how much money my sites have generated, and he has never seemed particularly interested beyond poking fun at them. I thought it was a guy thing. Harmless teasing. Sometimes he’d come over when I was working on BoyfriendFails and tell me how cute I looked with my face all furrowed in concentration. He’d grin and call me his “sexy tycoon.” I thought he was proud of me, proud of all the work I was putting into the venture.

  It isn’t until this very moment that I realize he wasn’t smiling out of pride. He wasn’t seeing me as a “tycoon.”

  He was laughing at me.

  “That was supposed to be a hobby,” he says flatly. “If I’d known you were earning an income from it, I would have—”

  “You would have what?” I challenge. “Forced me to stop?”

  “Guided you in the right direction,” he corrects, and his patronizing tone makes my blood boil. “We’ve spoken about this before. Many times. We’d go to college together. You’d have whatever hobbies you wanted during school. I’d graduate first, take over at my dad’s bank. You’d graduate, join the boards of your mom’s foundations.” Preston shakes his head at me. “You agreed I’d be the breadwinner in the relationship, while you focused on charity work and raising our family.”

  My jaw falls open. Oh my God. Whenever he’d said stuff like that, he’d used a teasing voice. Made it sound like a joke.

  He was actually being serious?

  “You’re going to back out of the deal.” The finality with which he issues the order shakes something loose inside me. “You’re lucky I’m here to stop you before your parents find out. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Mackenzie, but you need to get ahold of yourself.”

  I stare at him. Stunned. I never imagined he would hate this idea with such ferocity. At the very, very least, I thought he would be supportive of my decision. The fact that he isn’t leaves me shaken.

  If I could misjudge him on this to such an extent, what else have I been wrong about?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  COOPER

  “We’re out of booze.”

  I roll my eyes at Evan, who’s sprawled on the living room couch with one arm flung over the edge. The coffee table I built last weekend is already stained with beer and covered with cigarette butts. Someone must’ve knocked over the overflowing ashtray last night, during another one of Evan’s impromptu parties.

  “It’s noon on Sunday,” I tell my brother. “You don’t need booze. Chug some water, for fuck’s sake.”

  “I’m not saying I want a drink right now. But someone needs to make a beer run. We’re hosting poker night tomorrow.”

  By “someone,” he clearly means me, because he promptly closes his eyes and says, “Take Daisy with you. She likes riding in the truck.”

  I leave Evan to his beauty sleep and whistle for the dog. I don’t normally let my brother order me around, but truth is, I’m feeling stir crazy.

  I didn’t join in on last night’s drunken festivities. Instead, I spent most of the night in my workshop, went to sleep before midnight, and was abruptly awakened at seven a.m. by a disturbing, X-rated dream about Mackenzie. I was in bed with her, on top of her, thrusting deep while she moaned against my lips. Then I lifted my head and Mac’s face transformed into that chick Sutton’s face, which jolted me right out of slumber.

  Swear to God, this girl has wreaked havoc on my brain. Doesn’t matter if I’m asleep or awake—thoughts of Mackenzie Cabot poison my consciousness and drum up a whole slew of emotions I’d rather not feel.

  Anger, because she’d chosen Kincaid over me.

  Frustration, because I know there was something real between us.

  Guilt, because my original intentions had been shadier than shady.

  And for the past couple days? Disgust. Because, in order to divert her friends’ suspicions that we might know each other, she forced me to pretend to be my twin brother—and then had the nerve to bitch about me hooking up with another girl. Not that Sutton and I even hooked up. We went for a walk and then I put her in a cab. But still. Mackenzie ha
d no right to be pissed. She’s the one who kissed the hell outta me and then bid me fucking adieu.

  “Come on,” I mutter to Daisy. “Let’s go buy some beer for your boyfriend.”

  When she sees me reaching for her leash, the golden retriever dances happily at my feet. We head out to my truck, and I open the passenger side door so Daisy can jump up. She only recently learned how to do that. Before, she’d been too little, but now her legs are in that gangly teenager stage, giving her enough leverage to leap higher. She’s growing so damn fast.

  “Too bad Mac can’t see you,” I muse to the dog, whose curious, excited gaze is glued out the window. Each time the wind tickles her nose, she releases a high-pitched yip. She derives joy from the simplest pleasures.

  In town, I grab a few cases of beer, along with a bottle of tequila and some snacks. As I stow my purchases in the cab, someone calls my name.

  I turn to see Tate striding down the sidewalk toward me. He’s holding aviator sunglasses in one hand, and his keys and phone in the other.

  “Hey,” I greet him. “How’s it going?”

  “Good. I’m meeting Wyatt at Sharkey’s for lunch if you want to tag along.”

  “Yeah, I’m in.” The last thing I feel like doing right now is going home and cleaning up the mess Evan left. “Lemme grab Daisy.”

  “Oh, hell yes,” Tate says when he notices the dog’s head poking out the passenger window. “Bring the chick magnet.”

  Most of the bars and restaurants in the Bay are dog friendly—particularly Sharkey’s, where the staff brings out water bowls and treats for canine guests. Once Tate and I climb the rickety wood staircase up to the second floor of the bar, Daisy is treated like the queen she thinks she is.

  “Oh my goodness!” the waitress up front exclaims, pure delight in her eyes. “Look at this cutie! What’s her name?”

  “Daisy,” Tate answers for me, then takes the leash from my hand as if to claim ownership of the puppy. “And you are?”

  “Jessica,” chirps the waitress. Now she’s all starry-eyed, because she notices Tate’s golden-boy looks. Dude has the infallible ability to dazzle every woman he meets.

  This isn’t to say I don’t attract my fair share of attention. It’s just a different kind of attention.

  When women look at Tate, they’re struck with romantic notions of weddings and babies.

  With me, they see raw, dirty sex. Joke’s on them, though. Tate is the biggest slut in the Bay. Jessica must be new in town, otherwise she’d be well aware of this fact.

  “Let me show you to your table,” Jessica says, and then she, Tate, and my dog saunter off.

  With a grin, I trail after them, silently betting that Tate will have secured her number before we even pick up our menus.

  I lose. He doesn’t get it until she delivers our waters.

  “Good job, partner,” Tate tells Daisy, who’s sitting at his feet and gazing up at him adoringly.

  Wyatt arrives about ten minutes later. Since Ren isn’t with him, I assume they’re still broken up.

  “No Ren?” Tate wrinkles his forehead. “She hasn’t taken you back yet?”

  “Nope.” After greeting Daisy with a pat on the head, Wyatt plops himself on the stool across from me and grabs a menu. Then he sets it down without reading it. “Who am I kidding? We all know I’m getting the fish sandwich.”

  “What’s taking Ren so long to forgive you?” Tate asks, grinning. “Your epic reunions usually happen fairly fast.”

  “She’s dragging it out this time,” Wyatt complains. “She went out with some meathead from her gym last night and sent me a selfie of them watching The Bachelorette together because she knew it’d piss me off.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Why would that piss you off?”

  “Because it’s our favorite show, dickhead. She’s goddamn TV-cheating on me with a guy who wears mesh tank tops.”

  Tate snickers. “Are you more upset about the fact that Ren’s watching a dumb reality show without you, or that she might be banging a gym bro?”

  Wyatt waves his hand. “She’s not banging him. It’s just revenge dating. Like when I went out with that chick who works at the surf school after Ren threw out all my band shirts without asking.”

  “Didn’t you end up screwing the surf school chick?” Tate says in confusion.

  Wyatt stares at him. “That was you, dumbass.”

  After a few seconds of pensive recollection, Tate nods decisively. “Oh yeah. You’re right.” He grins. “That chick was wild. She convinced me to try Viagra for the first time. Long night.”

  Laughter sputters from my throat.

  “You took Viagra without me, bro?” Wyatt accuses.

  I laugh even harder. “Since when is it a team activity?” I howl at Wyatt.

  Jessica returns to take our food orders and proceeds to flirt shamelessly with Tate. “Does this cutie like walks?”

  He winks. “This cutie loves walks.”

  “I meant the dog.”

  “So did I,” he says innocently.

  “I’m off in about an hour. Why don’t you and Daisy meet me on the beach once you’re done eating and I clock out?”

  Before I can remind Tate that Daisy isn’t his dog, he flashes his dimples at the waitress and says, “It’s a date.”

  As Jessica saunters off, I roll my eyes. “Are you seriously using my puppy to get laid?”

  “Of course. I told you, puppies are chick magnets.” He shoves a strand of hair off his forehead. “Just let me borrow her for a few hours, dude. You know I’m good with dogs. I’ve got three at home.”

  “Fine. But I’m not hanging around town on your account. Drop her off at my place later. Her dinnertime’s at five. Don’t be late, asshole.”

  Tate grins. “Yes, Dad.”

  “You think if I had Daisy with me when I go to see Ren, I’d have a better shot at winning her back?” Wyatt asks thoughtfully.

  “Definitely,” Tate says.

  Wyatt’s head swivels toward me. “Can I borrow her tomorrow?”

  My friends are idiots.

  Then again, so am I. Because when my phone buzzes and Mac’s name flashes on the screen, I don’t do the smart thing and ignore the call.

  I answer it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MACKENZIE

  The summer after I graduated high school, I traveled alone in Europe. A present from my parents. I had just walked back to the Colosseum from Vatican City when, in a sort of burst of manic impulsiveness, I marched right past my hotel to the train station. I didn’t know where I was headed. I simply bought a first-class ticket on the next train, which happened to be going to Florence. From there, Bologna. Milan. Then, through Switzerland, France, and Spain. Two days after leaving Italy, I called my hotel to have them send my luggage to Barcelona.

  To this day, I don’t know what possessed me. A sudden, urgent need to break free, to get lost. To disrupt the order of my life and prove to myself I was alive and in control of my own destiny. Which is to say I don’t remember deciding to call Cooper, only that one day after Preston shot down my hotel fantasy, two weeks since I’d kissed Cooper and told him never to contact me again, and fifteen minutes after we hang up, he’s standing beside me on the boardwalk staring at the dilapidated exterior of The Beacon Hotel.

  “You just … bought it?” Bemused, Cooper rakes a hand through his dark hair.

  I’m momentarily distracted by his tanned forearm, his defined biceps. He’s wearing a black T-shirt. Jeans that hang low on his hips. It feels like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again. I hadn’t forgotten what the sight of him does to me, but it’s more potent now that my tolerance has waned. My heart beats faster than usual, my palms are damper, my mouth drier.

  “Well, there’s paperwork and due diligence. But if that goes well …”

  I’m more nervous now than when I made the offer to Lydia. Than when I showed Preston. For some reason, I need Cooper to be happy for me, and I didn’t realize how
much until this moment.

  “Can we look around?”

  He gives nothing away. Not boredom or disapproval. Not excitement either. We barely said hello and didn’t mention a word about our kisses or our fight. Just Hey, so, um, I’m buying a hotel. What do you think? I have no idea why he even showed up to meet me here.

  “Sure,” I say. “The inspector said the ground level is stable. We shouldn’t go upstairs, though.”

  Together we tour the property, stepping over storm-tossed furniture and moldy carpets. Some interior rooms are in nearly perfect condition, while beach-view rooms are little more than empty carcasses exposed to the elements, where the walls have collapsed and storm surges long ago sucked everything out to sea. The kitchen looks like it could be up and running tomorrow. The ballroom, more like a setting of a ghost ship horror movie. Outside, the front of the hotel facing the street belies the damage inside, still perfectly intact except for missing roof shingles and overgrown foliage.

  “What are your plans for it?” he asks as we peek behind the front desk. An old-fashioned guest book, with the words The Beacon Hotel embossed on its cover with gold lettering, is still tucked on a shelf with the wall of room keys. Some scattered, others still on their hooks.

  “The previous owner had one demand: Don’t tear it down and put up an ugly high-rise.”

  “I came here all the time as a kid. Evan and I would use the pool, hang out in the beach cabanas until we were chased out. Steph worked here a few summers during high school. I remember all the old hardwood, the brass fixtures.”

  “I want to entirely restore it,” I tell him. “Salvage as much as possible. Source vintage antiques for the rest of it.”

  He lets out a low whistle. “It’d be expensive. We’re talking about cherry furniture that’ll have to be custom replicated. Handmade light fixtures. There are stone floor tiles and countertops in here they don’t even make anymore except in small batches.”

  I nod. “And I already know the electrical is out of code. All the drywall has to come out.”