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.
Since the site is a platform and not a publisher, we can’t be sued for the content of our users, but I tell Alan to forward the letter to my own lawyer just in case. Then I shut off my phone and slurp down the rest of my melting ice cream. Just another day in the life of Mackenzie Cabot, CEO.
If I’m being honest with myself, though, lately I’ve been itching for …something more. I love my apps, but nowadays there’s nothing for me to do but say yes or no. Sign here, initial there. Read this email, approve this ad. The real excitement came at the beginning, when I was sitting with my friends and brainstorming features for the apps. Meeting with the developer and programmer and bringing my ideas to life. Creating the marketing campaign to attract users. The launch.
It was challenging and exciting. It was the most fun I’d ever had. That’s the part I truly enjoyed, I realize now. The creation, not the maintenance. Not that I hate the sites and want to sell them. I don’t. They’re still mine. Part of my budding empire. But maybe it’s time to brainstorm some new business ideas.
As the sun dips low in the sky, I walk onto the beach and sit on the sand, listening to the waves and watching the seagulls glide against the wind. Behind me, a 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. “And what’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.”