Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(20)

Of Cooper’s chiseled jaw and fathomless eyes. The way my pulse sped when he sat beside me and flashed that arrogant smile. I don’t get palpations when Preston walks into a room. My skin doesn’t tingle when he touches me. My thighs don’t clench, and my mouth doesn’t run dry.

Then again, those responses can be overrated. Too many hormones running rampant can cloud your judgment. I mean, look at the statistics—all those people who end up in a dysfunctional relationship because they base it on sex, not compatibility. Pres and I are right for each other. We get along well. We’re on the same trajectory. Our parents already approve, and it keeps everyone happy. I could play the field with a dozen Coopers and get my heart broken by every one. Why do that to myself?

There’s a lot to be said for knowing a good thing when you’ve got it.

“Thank you,” I tell Pres, turning in his arms to kiss him. “Today was perfect.”

But later that night, as I’m half watching Netflix in my room while doing my English Lit reading, a flutter of excitement races through me when Cooper’s name pops up on my phone. Then I remind myself to calm the fuck down.

Cooper: Want to grab dinner?

Me: I already ate.

Cooper: Me too.

Me: Then why’d you ask?

Cooper: To see what you’d say.

Me: So sneaky.

Cooper: What are you doing?

Me: Netflix and homework.

Cooper: Is that code for something?

Me: Busted.

Cooper: I can’t even imagine what rich people porn is like.



Those words on the screen make me squeeze my legs together and put terrible ideas in my head. Which I promptly shove in a box labeled don’t you dare.

Me: It’s mostly eating scones off the pages of The Wall Street Journal.

Cooper: You people are fucked up.



A cackle bursts out of me, and I slap my hand over my mouth before Bonnie hears me and comes rushing in to see what’s so funny. She’s a doll, that one, but she has no concept of boundaries.

Me: What are you doing?

Cooper: Flirting with some chick I just met.



I walked right into that one.

Me: Still have a boyfriend.

Cooper: For now.

Me: Goodnight, townie.

Cooper: Night, princess.



I know he’s just pushing my buttons. Cooper’s thing, I’m learning, is trying to get a rise out of me. I can’t say I hate it, exactly. It’s refreshing to have a friend who gets that part of my personality. And, okay, it’s technically flirting, which is technically frowned upon, but it’s all in good fun.

No matter how many hormonal reactions Cooper elicits in me, I’m not about to leave Pres for the first tattooed bad boy I meet at college.





CHAPTER EIGHT


MACKENZIE

The next afternoon, I decide to explore the town on my own since my schedule is free. Preston inspired me to try embracing my time at Garnet rather than looking at it like a prison sentence. With that thought in mind, I throw on a flowery summer dress and call a cab.

Avalon Bay is a paradoxical coastal town full of rugged fishermen and multimillionaires. On one side of Main Street are high-end boutiques selling handmade soaps. On the other, pawnshops and tattoo parlors. The boardwalk is quiet on a weekday afternoon. Most of the bars are sparsely populated with sweaty locals propped up on stools watching ESPN with their pals.

I walk farther than the last time I was here and reach a section still devastated by hurricane damage from a couple years ago. Several buildings are under construction. Nearby, a crew works on restoring a restaurant where scaffolding is erected around its exterior. Other businesses have been cordoned off with caution tape and plywood. It’s apparent they haven’t been touched since the storm tore off their roofs and flooded the interiors.

I stop when I come to a quaint late-Victorian-style hotel. It’s white with green trim, and the entire back side of the building had been gutted by storm surge. The hotel’s walls were ripped out, its innards exposed. Old furniture and wrinkled carpets still wait for the guests that aren’t coming. The weathered sign out front reads The Beacon Hotel in gold script font and is broken in two places.

I wonder what happened to the owners that they never rebuilt. And how has no one swooped in to claim the property and restore it to its former glory? This is a prime location.

My phone buzzes a few times with incoming emails, so I stop at an ice cream shop and buy a vanilla cone. Then I settle on the bench out front, scrolling through my inbox one-handed.

The first email is an update from one of my site moderators. She informs me she had to block several users who’d been trolling every post on GirlfriendFails, leaving racist and sexist comments. I open the attached screenshots. My jaw drops at the level of vitriol I read in those comments.

I shoot off a quick email: Good call blocking them.

The next one is an SOS from the guy I hired to oversee BoyfriendFails. Apparently, a user is threatening legal action, claiming one of the posts on the site is libelous. I click on the post in question. The writer of it went out with a guy she calls “Ted,” who didn’t disclose he had a micropenis and blindsided her during their first intimate encounter.

I return to my email to skim the letter my admin, Alan, received from some DC law firm with a scary letterhead. I guess the user—butterflykisses44—picked an alias too close to her boyfriend’s real name. Ted is actually Tad, who is suitably outraged, humiliated, and demanding BoyfriendFails not only take down the post, but pay him damages because of the emotional distress it’s caused him.