Bad Girl Reputation by Elle Kennedy

She winks, and I catch her meaning. A job isn’t the only thing we have in common.

“Sure,” I agree, and a few minutes later we’ve got our sunglasses on and are following Daisy as she runs up and down the beach digging for crabs and chasing the waves.

It isn’t long before the subject of Evan rises to the surface.

“You two go way back, huh?” Mackenzie says. “It sounds like kind of a complicated history.”

“No,” I answer, laughing, “not that complicated. A couple teenagers running amok while the town burned in the background. Pretty simple, actually.”

Smiling, she picks up a stick and tosses it for Daisy. “That doesn’t sound awful, if I’m honest.”

“Oh, it wasn’t. Especially not when we were drunk, high, naked, or some combination of the three most of the time. It was incredible, even. Until the buzz wore off. Then I looked back at the destruction in my wake and decided I couldn’t live with the consequences.”

“And that’s why you moved?”

“Essentially.”

“Evan talked about you a lot while you were gone.”

I know she doesn’t mean anything by it, but it seems there’s no end in sight to being reminded that Evan was one of those consequences. That to fix myself, I had to hurt him. Maybe my decision to leave town was rash—cowardly, in some respect—but looking back, I still think I made the right decision.

“I hit a nerve,” Mackenzie says, pausing as we stroll the beach. “I’m sorry. I only meant to say he missed you.”

“It’s fine. I’ve made this bed.”

“He said you’re trying to work things out, though, right?”

Daisy brings her stick to me, pushing her nose into my hand until I accept the stick and fling it down the beach. Her tail furiously slashes through the air as she chases it down.

“He’s wooing me,” I say with a sigh.

Mackenzie breaks out in a grin. “Oh my God. Please tell me those were his words.”

“They were. He’s wooing. I’m being wooed.” I can’t help but laugh. “We never dated in the traditional way, so I guess he’s trying to change that. And I figured, what the hell, let’s give it a shot.”

Ever since he asked me out on the boardwalk, I’d been waiting for the tug of regret, the jolt of dread over this impending date, but it hasn’t come. When I moved back home, I convinced myself that I needed to stay away from Evan out of sheer self-preservation, but the more I think on it, the less it makes sense to rest my problems at Evan’s feet. He didn’t make me drink. He didn’t make me blow off school or sneak into abandoned buildings. I did those things because I wanted to, and doing them with him let me pretend I wasn’t responsible for myself.

Truth is, we’re both different people now. And in all the ways we’ve changed and grown up, we’ve also grown closer somehow. He’s made the effort. Only seems fair to give it a chance.

“So when’s the big date?” Mackenzie asks. “Tonight?”

“Next weekend. And before you ask, I have no idea what he’s planning.” I groan. “I’m worried there might be a corsage and limo involved.”

She hoots in delight. “Please, please take a picture for me if that’s the case.”

“Tonight I’m meeting Alana at the Rip Tide. If you want to come,” I hedge. “Our friend Jordy’s reggae band is performing.”

“Ahh, I can’t.” She appears genuinely disappointed. “Coop and I are having dinner at his uncle’s place.”

“Next time, then. Say hi to Levi and Tim for me.” I hesitate for a beat. “And thank you again for considering me for this position, Mackenzie.”

“Mac,” she corrects. “We’re dating twins, Genevieve. I feel like that moves us into nickname territory.”

“Deal. Mac.” I smile. “And you can call me Gen.”

“Hey, sorry, I’m late.” Alana slides across from me at the table near the small stage of the Rip Tide. Her dark-red hair cascades over one shoulder, appearing a bit tousled.

“Swear to God, if you’re late because you were hooking up with Tate—”

“I wasn’t,” she assures me. Then she rolls her eyes. “And even if I was, you’re the last person who should judge. Your love life is a series of bad decisions.”

“Ouch.” I grin. “But true.”

As we laugh, Alana flags down a server and orders a beer. Friday nights are half-price pitchers at the Rip Tide, a deal I would’ve taken full advantage of not so long ago. But I’m drinking a virgin mai tai, which is damn good if I’m being honest. Who knew the taste of virgin cocktails would start growing on me.

“What’s the holdup?” she asks, nodding toward the empty stage. “Weren’t they supposed to go on at nine?”

“Technical difficulties.” About ten minutes ago, one of Jordy’s bandmates came up to the mic to make a vague announcement. Naturally, I’d texted Jordy for more details, and he admitted their steel drum player showed up with a hangover and has been puking backstage since his arrival.

“Technical difficulties?” Alana says knowingly.

“Yeah, as in, Juan is technically having difficulties not projectile-vomiting all the Jägerbombs he inhaled last night.”