Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113923 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
When it comes down to it, Mac’s a product of where she comes from, the same as me. That doesn’t mean if we weren’t different people—if we came from similar backgrounds, lived similar lives—I couldn’t see myself liking her. She’s smart, funny, sexy as hell. I’d be an idiot not to admit that.
But we aren’t different people and this isn’t some other life.
In the Bay, we play the cards we’re dealt.
CHAPTER TWELVE
MACKENZIE
I’m twenty minutes into my Wednesday biology class before I realize it’s Friday and I’m actually sitting in my media culture lecture. Now those Real Housewives clips on the projection screen make way more sense. I thought maybe they were nervous hallucinations.
Truth is, I haven’t been quite right the past few days. School bores me, and my dissatisfaction over my business is growing. It’s frustrating how little work there is to do on the apps, now that I’ve delegated most of my duties to other people. I need a new project, something big and challenging to sink my teeth into.
To make matters worse, I’m battling this constant feeling that someone is looking over my shoulder. Toeing a knife’s edge. Every time my phone buzzes, it’s a shot of endorphins followed by a rush of adrenaline, guilt, and a pit of nausea in my stomach. I’m an addict, jonesing for the hit despite knowing it’s killing me.
Cooper: How bout Moxie Crimefighter?
Me: I like Jimmy Chew.
Cooper: She’s a girl!
Me: I still think she’s a Daisy.
Cooper: Muttley Crue.
It’s some kind of twisted foreplay. Bickering about puppy names as a form of flirting, every escalation another piece of clothing we’re daring the other to remove in a metaphorical game of strip poker. It’s gotten to be too much. I can’t stop myself, though. Every time he texts me, I say this will be the last time, then I hold my breath, type a reply, hit send, and wait for my next fix.
Why do I do this to myself?
Cooper: What are you up to now?
Me: Class.
Cooper: Come over after? We’ll take Moon Zappa for a walk on the beach.
Why do I do it? Because Cooper turns my insides out, gets my head messed up. I wake in cold sweats from unbidden dreams of his sculpted body and his soulful eyes. As much as I want to deny it, I’m starting to like him. Which makes me a terrible person. A rotten, horrible girlfriend. Still, I haven’t acted on anything. I’m capable of exerting self-control. Mind over matter and all that.
Me: Be there in an hour.
For our dog, I tell myself. To make sure he’s taking good care of her. Uh-huh.
Self-control, my butt.
An hour later, I’m at his front door and shit is awkward. I don’t know if it’s me or him or both, but luckily our puppy serves as a much-needed distraction. She jumps at my knees, and I spend the next few minutes entirely focused on petting her, scratching behind her ear and kissing her cute little nose.
It isn’t until we’re some ways down the beach from his house that Cooper nudges my arm.
I glance over. “Huh, what?”
“Something up?” he asks. The beach is empty, so Cooper lets the dog off the leash and tosses a small piece of driftwood for her to fetch.
It isn’t fair. He has just removed his shirt, and now I’m forced to watch him stroll around bare-chested, a pair of worn jeans hanging off his hips. No matter where else I try to divert my eyes, they return to the yummy V that disappears into his waistband. My mouth actually waters like one of Pavlov’s stupid dogs.
“Sorry,” I say. I take the stick from the dog when she brings it to me, then toss it for her again. “Distracted with school stuff.”
It doesn’t take long for us to wear the puppy out and head back to Cooper’s house. He puts his shirt on, a faded Billabong tee so thin it molds to each muscle of his perfect chest. It’s getting harder and harder not to think very un-friend-like thoughts. Which means it’s definitely time for me to go.
Yet when he asks if I want a ride back to my dorm, I find a way to refuse without quite saying no. Instead we end up in his studio, a detached garage on the side of the property that contains table saws, machines, and an array of other tools. There are racks of raw wood on the walls. The floor is covered in sawdust. At the far end of the space, I glimpse several pieces of finished wooden furniture.
“You made these?” I run my hands over a coffee table, a chair, a skinny bookshelf. There’s also a chest of drawers and a pair of end tables. Everything is done in varying finishes, but they all have a modern coastal aesthetic. Clean and simple. Elegant.