Good Girl Complex(Avalon Bay #1)(82)

“Not you. The other one.”

He shrugs in response and leaves the kitchen with the cooler.

“What’s up?” Mac pops in from fuck knows where in a tiny bikini. Her tits are pouring out of the top, and the little strip of fabric between her legs is begging me to rip it off with my teeth. Damn.

“Did you do this?” I hold up the jar of some peanut butter brand I’ve never heard of. It was sitting in the door of the fridge the whole time I was emptying every cabinet in the kitchen looking for a jar of Jif.

She scrunches her face at me. “Do what?”

“Who puts peanut butter in the fridge?”

“Uh …” She comes over and takes the jar from me, turns it around in her hand. “It says so right on the label.”

“But then it gets all hard. It’s gross.” I open the jar to see an inch-thick layer of oil on top of the solid butter. “What’s all this shit?”

“It’s organic,” she tells me like I’m stupid for asking. “It separates. You have to stir it up a little.”

“Why on earth would anyone want to stir their peanut butter? You actually eat this?”

“Yes. It’s delicious. And you know what? You could do with laying off the added sugar. You seem a little wound up.”

Am I having a stroke? I feel like I’m losing my mind. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Mac rolls her eyes and kisses my cheek. “There’s regular peanut butter in the pantry.” Then she walks out onto the deck after Evan, shaking her ass at me.

“What pantry?” I yell after her.

When she ignores me, I turn to examine my surroundings until my gaze finally lands on the broom closet. A sinking feeling settles in my gut.

I open the closet door to discover she’s moved out the tools, emergency hurricane supplies, and other shit I’d neatly organized in there. It’s been replaced by all the real food that had mysteriously gone missing after she moved in and started filling our cabinets with non-GMO certified fair-trade flax seed crackers and whatever the fuck.

“Let’s go.” Evan pokes his head inside.

“You see this?” I ask him, pointing at the “pantry.”

“Yeah, it’s better, right?” Then he slips outside again, calling over his shoulder, “Meet you out front.”

Traitor.

It’s only been a week since Mac moved in, and already she’s turned the dynamic of the house upside down. Evan’s in a weirdly good mood lately, which I don’t trust in the slightest. All the counter space in my bathroom has been annexed. The food’s weird. The toilet paper’s different. And every time I turn around, Mac’s moving stuff around the house.

But then something like this happens. I lock the front door and step onto the porch to find Mac and Evan laughing their asses off about who knows what as they wait for me. They seem happy. Carrying on as if they’ve known each other forever.

I still don’t know how or when things changed. One day, Evan stopped leaving the room when she walked in and muttering under his breath. She’d been inducted into the brotherhood. One of us. Practically family. A scary thought, if only because I hadn’t dared hope for as much. I figured to some extent we’d be fighting the blood feud, townies versus clones, till we were all sick of each other. I’m happy to be wrong. Though some part of me doesn’t trust it, because nothing comes this easy for long.

Evan and I carry the cooler to the truck, setting it in the bed of the pickup. My brother hops up too, using his backpack for a pillow as he stretches out like a lazy asshole.

“Wake me when we get there,” he says smugly, and I vow to hit as many potholes as possible on the drive to the boardwalk, where we’re meeting some friends. Earlier, Wyatt called everyone to organize a volleyball tournament. Nearly all of us were down, wanting to make the most of the good weather while it lasts.

“Hey,” Mac says as I slide into the driver’s seat. “I grabbed a book off your shelf in case you wanted something to read between games.”

She’s rummaging through the oversized beach bag at her feet. To my disappointment, she’s slipped a tank top and a pair of shorts on, covering up that insanely hot bikini.

“Thanks. Which one?”

She holds up the paperback—Rags to Riches: 10 Billionaires That Came from Nothing and Made Everything. The title is corny as hell, but the content is pure gold.

“Nice.” I nod. “That’s a good one.”

“Your bookshelf is fascinating,” she says matter-of-factly. “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who reads so many biographies.”

I shrug. “I like them.”

I steer the truck down the dusty, sand-covered drive to the stop sign at the end of the road. I signal left and when I twist my body to ensure the way is clear, I suddenly feel Mac’s fingertips graze the nape of my neck.

Heat instantly travels to the southern region of my body. A common reaction to her touch.

“I just noticed this,” she says in surprise. Her fingers trace my most recent tattoo. “Did you always have this anchor?”

“Nah. Got it done a couple months ago.”

When she removes her hand, I feel a sense of loss. If it were up to me, this girl’s hands would be on me twenty-four seven.