Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(11)

“Last one,” I warn as we cross the threshold of yet another boardwalk bar. This one’s called the Rip Tide. “If your twins aren’t here, you’ll have to settle for any old bad boy.”

“Last one,” she promises. Then she bats her eyelashes and, like every guy we’ve encountered tonight, I find myself melting in her presence. It’s impossible to stay annoyed with her.

She links her arm through mine and pulls me deeper into the Rip Tide. “C’mon, girl, let’s do this. I got a good feeling about this one.”





CHAPTER FIVE


COOPER

She’s here.

Fate must be on board with the plan, because I’m out with some friends on Saturday night to see a buddy’s band at the Rip Tide when I spot her. She’s alone at a high-top table, placed directly in my path as if by some higher power.

Her face is unmistakable. And holy hell, she was good-looking in photos but a total knockout in person. The kind of girl who sticks out in a crowd. Stunning, with long dark hair and piercing eyes that shine under the lights from the stage. Even at a distance, she’s got an effortless cool about her, an aura of confidence. In a white T-shirt knotted at her waist and a pair of jeans, she stands out for not trying too hard.

All that would be enough to capture my attention even if she didn’t have a killer body. But she has that too—impossibly long legs, a full rack, a round bottom. She’s the girl my daydreams daydream about.

“That her?” Alana leans in to follow my gaze to where Preston Kincaid’s girlfriend is sitting. “She’s better looking in person.”

I know.

“Quick smoke while the next band sets up?” suggests our friend Tate. He rises from the table, dragging a hand through his messy blond hair.

“Nah, we’re staying here,” Alana answers for us.

He quirks a brow at me. “Coop?”

Once again, Alana is my mouthpiece. “Cooper is cutting back on the cancer sticks.” She waves a hand. “You guys go on out.”

Shrugging, Tate wanders off, tailed by Wyatt and Wyatt’s girlfriend, Ren. The moment they’re gone, Alana turns her gaze on me.

“Lemme hear it,” she orders.

“Hear what?”

“Your game. Pitch some lines.” She flips her hair and props her chin in her hands, giving me sarcastic doe eyes.

“Fuck off.” I don’t need a pickup coach.

“You need a plan,” she insists. Thing about Alana, when she gets her claws into something, she tends to take over. “You can’t just go over and drop your dick in her lap.”

“Yes, thank you, I’m aware.” I drain the last of my beer as I get up from the table.

Alana stops me, pulls the sleeves of my black Henley down and runs her hands through my hair.

“What’s that for?” I grumble.

“Best foot forward,” she says. “Just in case she’s a prude. Tattoos scare off the prudes.” Leaning back, she takes a final appraising glance before shooing me with her hand. “You’re done. Go forth and conquer.”

This is the problem with having girl friends.

Before I approach my mark’s table, I take a quick scan of the room to make sure Kincaid isn’t lurking somewhere. Not that I have any qualms about a rematch. Getting into a bar fight isn’t part of the plan, though. This’ll work best if I can swoop in there undetected until it’s too late for him to intervene. Win her over before he even knows the enemy is inside the gates.

Satisfied that she’s flying sans-boyfriend tonight, I walk up to her table. With her face glued to her phone, she doesn’t notice me until I tap her on the arm.

“Hey,” I say, bending my head toward her so she can hear me over the music from the loudspeaker. “You using this stool?”

“No.” She doesn’t lift her attention from the lit screen. “Go ahead.” When I sit, her head jerks up. “Oh. Figured you’d just take the stool to another table. But okay.”

“Settle a bet for me,” I say, leaning in closer. She smells good, like vanilla and citrus. So good I almost forget why I’m here. That she doesn’t pull away or throw a drink in my face is a good start.

“Uh … what sort of bet?” There’s a flicker of hostility in her eyes before her expression softens. When she rakes her gaze over me, I know I’ve got her intrigued.

“What if I told you, an hour from now, you’d be leaving this bar with me.”

“I’d say I admire your hustle, but you’d be better off aiming that arrow at another target.”

“So we have a wager then.” Holding her gaze, I offer my hand to shake on it. I find the best way to truly know someone is to push and see if they push back. Wind them up and let them go.

“I have a boyfriend,” she says flatly, ignoring my hand. “You’ve already lost.”

I meet her eyes. Insolently. “I didn’t ask about your boyfriend.”

For a moment she’s taken aback. Of course she is, because no one talks to her that way. Certainly not her dumbass boyfriend. Chicks like her are used to parents doting on their every desire and servants waiting on them hand and foot. And as the notion of me settles into her mind, I see the moment she decides I’m more interesting than whatever was on her phone.