Love at First Fight

by Aarons, Carrie

  Love at First Fight

  Carrie Aarons

  Copyright © 2020 by Carrie Aarons

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing done by Proofing Style.

  Cover designed by Okay Creations.

  For my daughter, with whom I was stuck in quarantine with during the penning of this story.

  Everything I do is for you, even if it means writing late into the night or when you’re taking naps. Or when you’re pulling at my hand to let you give me a “checkup” for the sixtieth time that day.

  I love you more than I could ever put into words.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  Do you want a free book?

  Also by Carrie Aarons

  About the Author

  1

  Molly

  The universe is seriously trying to conspire against me.

  I swear it, whoever is sitting up there in the clouds accidentally poured salt in their coffee this morning, or for the past months’ worth of mornings, and is taking it out on me.

  I’m standing in the aisle of the Jitney, staring down at my threadbare, three-year-old suitcase that just popped a spring and busted open in front of everyone. And when I say everyone, I mean the hippest millennials able to rent a summer house in the Hamptons, to New York’s elite that think it’s cute to still take the bus to their million-dollar vacation abodes.

  My baby pink cotton underwear is on the armrest of a forty-something blond woman’s seat. My toothbrush lays in the middle of the bus, bristles now unusable. I’m pretty sure I heard my perfume crack, and I’m positive it’s leaking all over the dozen items still trapped within the faulty travel case. Half my shirts are littered in front of me, while my string bikinis dangle perilously in between the teeth on the zipper of the bag.

  I pray that the vibrator I packed and then unpacked and then packed a dozen times had enough sense to stay in this broken bag.

  “Do you need help?” someone behind me says, but they sound annoyed.

  I’m holding up the entire line of people trying to board this bus, and now I’m sure everyone is ticked at me for the extra five minutes I’ve made them wait before they can get to weekend paradise. Don’t mess with New Yorkers work-week escape from the city, it won’t end well.

  Bending, I begin to shove all of my things back into the tattered suitcase while also trying to hold it shut and keep anything else from falling out. My face heats every time someone watches me snatch a pair of underwear or a bra, and no one already seated offers to help.

  The thing is, I shouldn’t even be on this bus. I should be riding shotgun in my boyfriend’s car, on the way to the house share we went in on with his friends. In the months leading up to June twenty-fifth, all I thought about was the salty ocean breeze whipping through my hair as Justin drove us down a coastal highway. I thought about days on the beach and nights of romantic dinners and sitting on a deck overlooking the sea. I thought about getting closer as a couple, falling more in love, and forming a tighter bond with his friends, who we’d be sharing a house with.

  Now all I’m thinking about is how embarrassed I am to be cleaning up my unmentionables in front of total strangers. Well, that and how heartbroken I am.

  My boyfriend, now ex-boyfriend, of exactly one year and a month decided to take a job in Singapore—and not ask me to go with him. Not only did he not ask me to go with him, but he made no indication of the move. Not when he was tying up loose ends like the lease on his West Village apartment. Not when he gave notice at his current job and I kept calling his secretary to connect me to Justin during the day. Not even when he packed up most of his things five days before the move and shipped them overseas.

  No, my stellar pick for the man I’d decided to fall in love with told me he was moving an hour before his plane took off, via text, and proceeded to dump me in the most asshole of fashions.

  You’ve never been blindsided until you’re at work, in your blissful bubble of being in love, having a great job and thinking you’ve figured it all out, and your boyfriend texts you that he’s about to take off for his new life in Singapore. That while he’s loved the time you’ve shared, he is looking forward to this adventure without attachments. And then disconnects his number!

  Nope, this is definitely not the place I should be. I wavered on whether I’d even come out to the Hamptons, because five of the other six people in the house are Justin’s friends. We were supposed to make six and seven, and then my best friend, Heather, made eight. Now it’s just Heather and me, with five of Justin’s closest pals, and I’m quaking in my heartbroken boots.

  I know they’ll be supportive, as they’re all pissed he left without giving them notice as well. And I have the bulk of my money invested into this summer house, no matter if my ex-boyfriend helped me out with part of my share.

  But it was Heather who coaxed me from my sulking shell and told me to chin up because he wasn’t coming back. I could either spend the summer eating takeout Chinese in my fifth-floor walk-up, or I could spend it sunning on some of the most classy beaches on the East Coast. When she put it that way, I knew I’d swallow my pride to at least get a tan.

  After cramming my suitcase shut and scurrying off to a seat, I huff out a breath when the whole saga is over.

  The rest of the bus ride is uneventful, a three-hour journey that I spend most of with my eyes closed and head resting against the bus window. When we finally get to the drop off point, I have to clutch my suitcase with two arms the entire way down the steps of the Jitney to keep it from springing open.

  Thank God I thought ahead and ordered an Uber, because the thought of standing at this bus stop waiting for a taxi makes my already rising temper flare. And I’m not much of a hothead. It’s just been a trying month.

  My junky bag gets thrown in the trunk, and then I fold myself into a neon green Chevy that’s bumping Bob Marley. “Everything’s Gonna Be Alright” sings to me through the radio, and I think maybe I’ll take this as a sign. Maybe the universe has gotten over the bone it had to pick with me.

  The Uber comes to a stop at a red light, and the hum of a motorcycle engine coming up on the right of the car dea
fens me. I didn’t even realize the residents of the Hamptons put up with motorcycles; I thought they’d be too noisy for the stuffy old geezers. And yes, I have a bone to pick with this beach town. Being a girl from a working-class New Jersey family, who spent summers in a tiny rental of the ever classy Seaside, New Jersey, I always viewed this as the place for people who stuck their noses up at people like my parents.

  I only agreed to summer here because Justin wanted to, and I would have done anything to please him. I could barely scrape together the money to buy into the shared pot of this rental, but I’d eaten crackers for basically the month of March so I could afford it. Even then, Justin had covered a bulk of my financial portion. Before he left for Singapore, he hadn’t asked for that back or pulled his money, so I guess I could thank him for that generous parting gift.

  My vision slides over as the motorcycle pulls up alongside the Chevy I sit in, and the moment the driver’s eyes glance at my tinted window, my stomach plummets through the floor of the car.

  I pray to all that is holy that this tint is thick enough that those midnight blue eyes, the color of inky purple lust, can’t see me. Screw you, universe, because apparently that song was not a peace offering but a trick to throw me off your evil scent.

  You see, no good stroke of luck would have Smith Redfield be the first familiar person I lay eyes on when I stepped foot in the Hamptons.

  Because the only thing worse than spending the summer without the boyfriend who just dumped you and literally took off for another country, is spending it with his sex-on-a-stick best friend.

  Who also happens to hate every single one of your guts.

  2

  Smith

  The Chevy next to me, the color of one of those highlighters that exploded on me in elementary school, is playing Bob Marley so loudly that I can hear it over the thrum of my engine.

  I chuckle, thinking of how out of place it seems in the middle of downtown Sag Harbor, but have to give props to the driver. Being on a motorcycle gives me a rare glimpse into the car activities of many, but not this guy. His windows are so tinted that I can barely see through the windshield, which is illegal.

  Not that I’d ever report anyone for that kind of shit. Do you, man, I think before the light turns green and I’m off to the races.

  The whip of the salty ocean air in my face might be one of my favorite sensations ever. I might be considered too badass for these parts, but I’m also a businessman, which means I can rub elbows if I choose to. Or most times, if it serves me a purpose.

  See, I don’t do things I don’t want to, unless they result in the end goal of earning me something I do want. And when it comes to this summer, well, it’s a little bit of both.

  I want to be here, because where better to party and let off steam from my life in the city than Manhattan’s favorite beach town? But I also don’t want to be here, in light of recent events.

  I curse my best friend, Justin, for coordinating the rental of a summer share house and then taking off to start a new life in Singapore. Not only am I pissed that he took off without much notice, because what kind of childhood buddy does that? But it’s caused a shitload of complications for me. I’ve had to take over communications with the rental company, and the agents haven’t taken kindly to that. Because the agents on this island are stuck up and pretentious. They expect things to go a certain way, or maybe just to sit in their cushy offices and not work at all because people in the Hamptons “don’t make waves.”

  How ironic for a beach town.

  Either way, I’m ticked off just pulling up to the massive waterfront mansion. Justin and I have been best buds since we were eleven, and I’m not typically the guy to get hurt and upset by another dude’s actions, but I would never take off like he did. It’s like he doesn’t give a shit about anyone or anything he left behind, and even my issues-with-commitment ass can’t relate to that.

  Parking my bike and hopping off, I cut the engine and stare at the enormous Hamptons-shingled house in front of me. With six bedrooms, a pool table, hot tub, in-ground swimming pool, tennis court, and full chef’s kitchen—it’s obnoxious. The eight thirty-somethings who are about to occupy this place for two full months are not going to use half of it, and most of us will probably sleep until one p.m. after haunting the local hot spots until all hours of the morning.

  Well, not all of us. The house is made up of two couples, Jacinda and Peter, and Ray and Marta. Followed by a girl named Heather who I’ve met twice or so, then there is me.

  Last but not least, she’s still coming to stay the summer. It boils my blood just thinking about that cornsilk hair glinting every day in the sunlight.

  Shaking my head to knock her out of it, I focus on the task at hand. There are about seventy boxes piled high in front of the door. I’m sure those are the groceries and supplies Jacinda said she’d ordered ahead so no one would have to go to the store after the two-hour drive from the city. But of course, I got here first, and will have to lug them all inside.

  As if I didn’t do enough manual labor at the new restaurant location today. Another reason I didn’t want to spend my summer in the Hamptons? I’m opening a third restaurant with my business partner, Campbell. We have two highly successful Italian places, one in midtown Manhattan and the other on the Upper West Side, and he finally convinced me to open up a third. They’re not a chain or fast casual, they’re respectable eateries with James Beard Award-caliber chefs.

  It’s my absolute passion, one I fell into as an eighteen-year-old kid who didn’t want to go to college. My father had shoved me out the door and told me to get to work then. I somehow ended up as a dishwasher in one of the most notable French kitchens in the city, and from that point forward, fell in love with the whole industry. The grind of it, the hard work equaling up to a finished product. I began to rub elbows with some of the most influential chefs and restaurant owners in the world, and by the time I turned twenty-five, was managing a Michelin star steakhouse. Two years later, Campbell approached me about opening our own place, and my dream was born.

  But balancing my vacation plans with my workaholic tendencies won’t be easy this summer. Whenever we open a place, do a renovation, or even rework a sitting plan at one of our restaurants, I want to be involved on the ground level. But with everything that’s happened in the last six months, Campbell has warned me that I better take a step back for my own mental health. The break has been nice, but I’m getting to the point of grief boredom, and I need an outlet.

  I’m about to head to the front porch and tackle the boxes when the sound of wheels on pavement has me turning my head.

  The green Chevy, the one I was stopped next to at the light, pulls down the driveway. And now I’m thoroughly confused. What the heck is Bob Marley doing here?

  The back passenger side door opens, and the main reason I’m furious with Justin steps out.

  Molly Archer.

  Justin’s petite, blonde, fairylike ex-girlfriend.

  City school teacher for the underprivileged.

  Sally homemaker who prefers baking blueberry muffins on a Saturday night than tipping back vodka shots.

  The fair-skinned, doe-eyed woman who looks like a Swedish princess and gets my cock harder than any of the busty brunettes I woo on the island of Manhattan.

  I fucking hate that she affects me in any way, but loathe even more that she’s the seventh guest in our summer house. And I don’t even have the buffer of Justin between us anymore. It’s a miracle I didn’t revoke her stay, but I wasn’t going to cover her share. Over my dead body was I going to replace Mother Teresa’s money, even if it meant I could throw her out of the rental.

  Her eyes drop to the ground as soon as she sees me standing in front of the house, but then she regains that bright, infuriating smile.

  “Hey, Smith, good to see you. How was your drive?” Her voice is full of fake sunshine.

  Why does it piss me off even more that no matter how mean I am to this woman, she always attem
pts to be cordial? Sometimes I see just how far I can push her until she snaps.

  “It was better than yours.” I sneer, tossing my head in the direction of the retreating Uber. “You couldn’t afford to take an Uber all the way from the city. Let me guess, did you take the train?”

  The way I phrase it, it definitely sounds as if I’m making it known the train is for peasants.

  Her hair blows in the breeze as some of the friendliness dies in her swirling hazel eyes. “No, I took the Jitney.”

  “Even more pathetic.” I snort, turning my back on her.

  I don’t mean to be such a dick, I swear I don’t. But over the last year, I’ve had to put up some kind of shield. I’ve had to demonize her in my head, make it like she’s the worst kind of person. I’ve had to lie to my own brain to trick it into thinking that Molly Archer is a stuck-up brat.

  Because if I don’t, I’ll have to admit she’s my kryptonite.

  I’ll have to admit that the minute Justin introduced her to me a year ago, I understood. It clicked.

  I know what it feels like to fall in love at first sight. Because I did, with her.

  And then she went on to fall in love with my best friend.

  3

  Molly