Free Good Girl Complex by Elle Kennedy Page B

construction crew is winding down for the day. The noise of drills and saws has ceased.
    Mostly zoned out, I don’t notice someone approaching me until he plops down beside me.
    “What’s up, princess?”
    I jolt in surprise, staring at Cooper, who’s in the process of taking off his shirt and work gloves.
    He’s as potent as the night at the bonfire, and I’m pinned by the sight of him. His hair and jeans are covered in sawdust and dirt. His muscular chest and abs are shiny with sweat. This is the first time I’ve seen so much of his ink, which runs up both arms and stretches toward his chest. I lick my lips then inwardly wince at myself. At the person I become when he’s around. Lustful. Irrational. I take those thoughts and tamp them way down in a box labeled
stay the hell out
.
    “Are you stalking me now?” I demand.
    “You stroll by my jobsite in”—he gestures, looking me up and down—“some ridiculous ruffle dress thing and all this leg, like, ‘Oh, don’t mind me, boys, I
hate
attention.’”
    “That is so exactly how I sound,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Andwhat’s wrong with my dress?” I smooth my hands over the hem of the floral print sundress.
    “It’s got flowers on it. You’re not a flower person, Mac.”
    “Don’t call me Mac.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because it’s a nickname reserved for friends.”
    “We are friends. Best friends.” He flashes a crooked smile. “I see you didn’t deny the not being a flower person part.”
    He’s right. I’m not usually into girly prints and ruffly sundresses. My style runs toward white tees and worn jeans, or a tank and cutoff shorts when it’s hot out. But every now and then, I like feeling cute. Sue me. Anyway, he’s not allowed to be so presumptuous about my taste in clothing, so I argue just because.
    “I happen to love flowers. Especially on clothes. The flashier, the better.”
    Cooper rolls his eyes as if he knows I’m lying through my teeth. “You know, you don’t have to work this hard.” He crosses his arms, pulling his knees close to his chest. “I’m pretty easy.”
    “I’m sorry, what? Who’s working too hard? You’ve been blowing up my phone talking about scone porn.”
    “You’re kinky,” he says, shrugging. “I get it. It’s not my thing, but whatever gets you off.”
    Ha. If he only knew. Preston and I have a perfectly fine sex life, but I’m not even sure we have enough spice to be vanilla. In the beginning, I thought maybe sex was supposed to be that way: functional, quick, a tad boring. I was sixteen when I lost my virginity to Pres, and more than a little naïve about that stuff. It was only when I spoke to girlfriends about my lackluster encounters that I realized sex is supposed to be—imagine this—
fun
.
    When I’d very awkwardly broached the subject with Pres, he’d confessed that he hadn’t wanted to scare me off by being “too passionate.” I told him to feel free to step up his game, and our bedroomactivities did get more fun after that. But if I’m being completely honest, it’s been four years now and that passion he’d mentioned still hasn’t made an appearance.
    “I shudder to think what’s rattling around in your spank bank,” I say.
    “If you’re trying to get me in bed, you can just ask.” Cooper nudges my arm with his elbow. He has this unflappable confidence about him. Arrogant yet charming. Completely self-assured but not overbearing. It’s almost a shame he’s wasting his natural talents on construction. He’d make a hell of a CEO if he had a mind for business.
    “This half-assed reverse psychology routine isn’t going to work on me,” I inform him. Because I didn’t make my first million by being easily manipulated. “I’m not going to be goaded into accidentally winding up in bed with some townie stranger because he dared me to.”
    Still, his playful smirk and roguish eyes are not lost on me. I’m not immune to broad shoulders and rock-hard abs.