Page 22 of Best Frenemies

Anna: Oh, I know. I just have a sense for these things. And Mack Houston isn’t just a pretty face, honey. He knows how to make a woman come.

Me: I think you need to lay off the DayQuil.

Anna: And I think you need to get up close and personal with our coworker and let me know if my suspicions are right. Come on, it’s perfect. Finally, you’ll have an outlet for all that pent-up aggression. You don’t have to be best friends…just be best frenemies!

Me: Best frenemies? Jesus.

Anna: That’s right, baby. Hate fuck the shit out of that hot man and then come back to school like nothing happened. It’s genius! The ultimate revenge for the years of torture you’ve received at his hands.

Me: I’m just realizing our brains work veryyy differently. How are we best friends?

Anna: Because when the nitty gets gritty, your bestie has to get real. Now, get in there and get some man meat, Katy.

I send her back the eye-roll emoji, lock my screen, and shove the device back into my beach bag. Obviously, Anna is currently off her rocker at the hands of DayQuil and can’t be trusted right now.

I mean, I wouldn’t get up close and personal with Mack Houston if he were the last man on earth. The fate of humanity could be on the line, and I still wouldn’t do it. We’d all just crumble into oblivion if that kind of responsibility were on my shoulders.

You’re such a liar.

Okay, fine. If the fate of humanity depended on me, I’d consider it. But other than that, it’s a big hell no.

With my mind in such a scary place, I force myself to focus on the book in my lap. A whole new world without the dilemmas of frenemies with potentially big penises.

This is why I’m here. To relax. Enjoy the beach.

Unfortunately, I only get two pages into my reread of my favorite trilogy—The Shadow Brothersby Brooke Baker—before a group of college-aged girls rob my book of my attention.

There are three in total, and if I tried really hard, I think I could sew the material from their three string bikinis into the material of one normal one. We’re talking perky boobs, round butts, and long legs covered in dental floss.

They giggle and chat as they lay out their beach towels and put on the kind of tanning lotion dermatologists warn you about. And even though they can’t be a day over twenty, they pop open White Claws from their cooler and chat about what bars they’re going to hit tonight.

“There’s no way I’m going back to the Crazy Crab,” the blonde in the neon-yellow bikini says as she flips her hair behind her shoulder. “There were way too many creepers there last night.”

The brunette in the pastel-pink bikini laughs. “You say that about every bar we go to.”

“Whatever. I don’t care. Pick another place.”

“What about Frankie’s?” the other brunette, wearing a flowery bathing suit with both butt cheeks out, suggests. “They have a DJ.”

“Yeah, okay. I’m down for Frankie’s,” the blonde agrees.

I try to tune out their ongoing conversation about bars and spring break and college courses, but something the blonde says catches my attention and holds it hostage.

“Who is that guy?” she questions, and I look up from my book to glance at them out of my periphery on instinct.

And when I discreetly search for the guy in question, my roomie, Mack Houston himself, is the only man I find. He’s still paddleboarding across the water, his large presence undeniable.

“Dayum.He’s someone I certainly want to know,” Flower Bikini purrs. “The body on that man. I volunteer as tribute.”

Pathetic or not, this is the norm when it comes to Mack Houston. Women fawn all over him. Hell, I’ve seen both momsanddads of students flash flirtatious looks in his direction at all the school functions.

But I don’t normally have a front-row seat to the inner workings of people tripping all over themselves.

Out of the corner of my eye, I analyze the state of his new groupies. All three women have that familiar slack-jawed look as they stare toward him, and their mouths move a mile a minute as they pick apart his presumed situation manically. Unfortunately for me, my ears don’t miss a single word of their conversation as it continues.

“I bet he’s early thirties.”

“You think he’s that old?”

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