Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(47)

And yet my stupid fingers have a mind of their own.

Me: I’m just saying. Thanks for playing along when I called you Evan, but you didn’t have to go full-on method acting.

Cooper: Hey princess? How about you worry more about your boyfriend’s dick and less about mine?



I want to scream. I wish I’d never met Cooper Hartley. Then I wouldn’t be feeling this way. All twisted up inside. Not to mention the jealousy eating at my throat like battery acid thanks to his reply. Is he saying his dick was a factor last night, then?

I’m three seconds away from asking Kate for Sutton’s number so I can confirm exactly what happened last night, when common sense settles in. If my goal last night was to ensure Melissa wouldn’t get suspicious, going batshit crazy on Sutton won’t help the cause.

Utilizing every iota of willpower I possess, I shove my phone aside and grab my laptop. No class means more time for work, which is always a great distraction.

I check my email, but there’s nothing pressing that needs to be addressed. The matter with Tad and his micropenis has blown over, thank God. And my mods and ad managers are reporting that September was our best month yet in term of revenue. It’s the kind of news any business owner should be thrilled to hear, and don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled. But as I spend the next couple hours doing basic business housekeeping, the frustration returns, rising in my throat. I have the sudden urge to get off campus for a walk. Sick of the same old scenery. Sick of my obsessive thoughts about Cooper.

Ten minutes later, I’m in a cab heading for Avalon Bay. I need the fresh air, the sunshine. The car drops me off near the pier, and I walk toward the boardwalk, shoving my hands in the pockets of my cutoff shorts. I can’t believe how balmy the temperature is for October, but I’m not complaining. The hot breeze feels like heaven against my face.

When my feet carry me all the way to the hotel, I suddenly realize what motivated me to come here today. The same thrill of possibility surges through my blood upon finding the hotel still sitting empty. Waiting.

It’s crazy, but as I stare at the derelict building, my body starts humming. Even my fingers are itching, like a metaphorical need to get my hands moving. Is this the challenge I’d been looking for? This condemned hotel I can’t quit fantasizing about?

It’s not even for sale, I remind myself. And yet that doesn’t seem to matter. The humming refuses to subside.

An idea forms in my mind as I make my way back through town, where I stop at a café for a drink. When the woman behind the counter hands me my juice spritzer, I hesitate for a moment. Avalon Bay is a small town. If we’re going by the small towns I’ve seen on TV shows like Gilmore Girls, that means everyone knows everything about everyone and everything.

So I take a wild guess and ask, “What do you know about the old abandoned hotel on the boardwalk? The Beacon? Any idea why the owner hasn’t done anything with it?”

“Ask her yourself.”

I blink. “Sorry, what?”

She nods toward a table by the window. “That’s the owner.”

I follow her gaze and spot an elderly woman wearing a wide-brim hat and huge black sunglasses that obscure most of her face. She’s dressed more like a beachcomber than a hotelier.

What are the odds? The humming intensifies, until my entire body feels wired with a live current. This has to mean something.

Carrying my drink, I slowly approach the table by the window. “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you. I wondered if I might talk to you about your hotel. May I sit down?”

The woman doesn’t look up from her coffee cake and cup of tea. “We’re closed.”

“Yes, I know.” I take a breath. “I hoped I might change that.”

She picks at her cake with brittle fingers. Pulls tiny crumbs, placing them slowly, gently, in her mouth.

“Ma’am? Your hotel. Can I ask you a few questions?”

“We’re closed.”

I can’t tell if she’s putting me on, or not all there. I don’t want to be rude or upset her, so I try one last time.

“I want to buy your hotel. Is that something that would interest you?”

Finally, she lifts her head to look at me. I can’t see her eyes because of the sunglasses, but the thoughtful purse of her lips confirms I’ve captured her interest. She takes a long sip of her tea. Then, setting down the cup, she pushes out a chair for me with her foot.

I sit, hoping I don’t appear too eager. “My name is Mackenzie. Cabot. I’m a student at Garnet College, but I’m sort of an entrepreneur too. I’m really interested in discussing your hotel.”

“Lydia Tanner.” After a long beat, she removes her sunglasses and places them on the tabletop. A pair of surprisingly shrewd eyes laser into mine. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” I answer with a smile.

For more than an hour, we discuss the hotel’s history. How she built it with her husband after the war. How it was practically demolished and rebuilt three times since then, before her husband died two years ago. Then after the last storm, she was too old and too tired to rebuild again. Her heart wasn’t in it, and her kids weren’t interested in salvaging the property.

“I’ve had offers,” she tells me, her voice sure and steady. Not at all the timid old lady she might appear. “Some generous. Some not. Developers who want to tear it down and build some hideous high-rise in its place. People have been trying to tear down the boardwalk for years, turn this place into Miami or something. All concrete and shiny glass.”