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.
“I like it. It’s simple, clean.” She smiles at me. “You’re really into all the nautical stuff, huh?”
I grin. “I mean, I do live on the beach. Although, to be honest, it’s just a coincidence that a lot of my ink involves water. And the anchor was a spur of the moment tat when I was in a bad mood.” I give her the side-eye. “It was after you told me you were picking your ex over me.”
“Dumbest mistake I ever made.”
“Damn right.” I wink at her.
“Luckily, I rectified it.” She smirks and plants her palm over my thigh. “So the anchor represents what? You being pissed at me?”
“Feeling weighed down. I’d just been rejected by the coolest, smartest, funniest girl I’ve ever known. And she didn’t want me.” I shrug. “I felt like I’ve been dragged down my entire life. By this town. The memory of my parents. Dad was a loser. Mom is a loser.” Another shrug, this one accompanied by a dry smile. “I have a bad habit of getting very straightforward, un-metaphorical tattoos. No subtext at all on this body.”
That gets me a laugh. “I happen to like this body very much.” She squeezes my thigh, not at all subtly. “And you’re not a loser.”
“Certainly trying not to be.” I gesture to the book in her lap. “I read stuff like that—biographies, memoirs by these men and women who crawled out of poverty or bad circumstances and made something of themselves—because they inspire me. One of the dudes in that book? Mother was widowed, left with five kids she couldn’t take care of, so she sends him to an orphanage. He’s poor, alone, goes to work at a factory when he’s still young, making auto part molds, eye-glass frames. When he’s twenty-three, he opens up his own molding shop.” I tip my head toward Mac. “And that shop ends up creating the Ray-Ban brand.”
Mackenzie’s hand travels to my knee, giving it a squeeze, before seeking out my hand on the gearshift. She laces our fingers.