I Flipping Love You

by Helena Hunting

  I cover his mouth with my palm. “You need to stop.”

  He grips my wrist gently and flips my hand over, pressing his lips against my knuckle. “Stop what.”

  “All this romantic nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense. It’s true. She’s alone. Her family isn’t here, and they don’t visit very often because they all have young children and it’s not as easy to travel. People want to be heard. They want to feel like they’re important and cared for.”

  “So it has nothing to do with seeing an opportunity and taking it.” It would be so much easier to maintain some kind of emotional distance with him if he fit my original perception of him, but he’s proving to be the opposite.

  His expression hardens and softens as quickly. “Do I want this house? Yes. I can see the value where her family won’t, like you can. But I’ve been coming here long before Muriel even thought about selling.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing this? Trying to seduce the elderly?” I gesture to his ridiculous body and his even more ridiculous lime-green Speedo. I’ll do anything right now to avoid making this serious. “You’re shameless.”

  “You don’t think Muriel deserves to have nice things to look at?” He runs his hand down his chest.

  This is what I need, this version of Pierce, fun, silly, the joker. The serious one is more than I can handle. “You’re lucky Muriel’s in good shape, otherwise you’d have done all that listening for nothing. She probably has heart palpitations every time you show up. If she had a pacemaker, you’d be wearing the battery out.” I gesture to the front, where the outline of the ridge is visible through the bright-green fabric. “She made comments about you and Trip being twins.”

  “Twins?”

  “She inferred you’re both tripods.”

  That ridiculous grin of his appears. “And did you confirm that for her?”

  “As if I need to. She can see exactly what’s going on behind there.” I poke the head.

  “You sound a little jealous, Rian.” He moves quickly, planting his fists on the counter on either side of me.

  I roll my eyes. “What exactly do I have to be jealous of? A sixty-five-year-old?”

  “You said it yourself, she’s in good shape.”

  I push on his chest. “That’s wrong on so many levels.”

  “I’m kidding. Obviously. I knew you were going to be here today. Usually I show up in board shorts. I wore the Speedo for you.”

  I frown, aware I’d kept this meeting to myself on purpose. “How’d you know I was coming here?”

  “Muriel mentioned she had a friend coming by to bake with her. She also showed me the fruit bowl in her kitchen and said it was from the same friend. I put two and two together.”

  I glance at the fruit bowl I brought by the other day. “Anyone could’ve made that.”

  “It looks like your style.”

  “Don’t make fun of my pottery.”

  “I love your pottery.” He runs his nose up the side of my neck, lips following behind. “You know what else I love?”

  “Showing off your junk in a Speedo?”

  He slips his hand under my sundress and finds the seam of my panties. He trails the edge, easing a finger under the fabric. “Knowing you’d be wet by the time I touched you.”

  “How do you deal with your ego?” My breathlessness makes it sound less snarky than I intend.

  “I’m right, though.” He nips along my jaw.

  “Well, look at you.”

  “Don’t try and make it so basic, Rian. You know as well as I do it’s more than that. Chemistry trumps compatibility every single time, and we have both, even if your test scores tell us differently.”

  He’s right, but his time in the Hamptons has an expiration date. I can’t allow myself to get more involved than I already am.

  “Where’s Muriel?”

  “In her lounger, half asleep. I came in to get her a glass of ice.”

  “Don’t you think you should do that, then?” I put my hands on his chest, but instead of pushing him away, I grope a little.

  “When you’re finished with the cookies, are we having dinner?” He nibbles my bottom lip.

  “Not if you’re dressed in this Speedo.”

  “I might need your help with something at sixty-nine before we eat. It’s currently empty.” He leans into me.

  “Does that something happen to be contained in lime-green spandex?”

  “Why would you think that?” He rolls his hips and I fight a moan. He’s so hard. I’m so glad I can hide my reaction to him better than he can hide his to me.

  The sliding door opens and Pierce steps away, but he’s tenting his Speedo and there’s no way to camouflage it.

  “Ri-anne? Are you in the kitchen?” Muriel calls out.

  He mutters a curse, rushing past me and disappears into the bathroom down the hall.

  Muriel peeks her head in as the oven beeps. “Oh! It smells delicious in here! Where’s Pierce disappeared to?”

  I point a thumb over my shoulder. “He’s in the bathroom. Can I get you anything?”

  “I think I might need to take a wee nap. All that sun and those vodka-lemonades have made this little old lady tired.”

  “I could make you coffee.”

  “Oh no. I’ll have a glass of water. And maybe one of those cookies when they’ve cooled enough.

  It’s another few minutes before Pierce comes out of the bathroom, his problem apparently solved. He sits at the table with Muriel, accepting a glass of milk to go with the fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies. Once they’re all baked, Muriel insists that Pierce take half of them home.

  He helps clean up and tucks the Tupperware box full of my cookies under his arm. “I’ll return this in a couple of days.” He bends to kiss Muriel on the cheek.

  Her smile is ridiculous. “Thanks so much for all your help today, Pierce, and thank you for the cookies, Ri-anne.” She walks us to the door. Hugging me, she murmurs in my ear, “Offer to drive his fine ass home.”

  I choke on a laugh. I love this lady. She winks and closes the door, leaving us alone.

  I shoot a glance at his crotch. “Looks like you took care of your issue.” I admit I’m a little disappointed it’s not currently available for use.

  “It’s resolved for now. Thanks for your concern.” He follows me down the driveway.

  “Would you like a ride? Probably safer than you wandering down the street dressed like this. You’re liable to cause an accident otherwise.”

  He opens the driver’s side door for me and saunters around the front of the car, grinning all the while. He drops into the passenger seat, spreading his legs wide in the confined space. I back out of the driveway and head for sixty-nine. I’d like to say I’m not distracted by the lime-green Speedo, or the way it highlights his assets, or the fact that we’re in this small car and he smells a little like cologne, sweat, and pool water, but that would be a lie.

  I deflect the sudden rush of warmth in the pit of my stomach with sarcasm. “Must’ve been disappointing to let loose your load in a toilet.”

  Pierce arches a brow. “Who said I let my load loose?”

  “How else would you deflate the beast?”

  “I thought about unpleasant things.”

  “And that works?”

  “For a while.”

  I turn down beach house sixty-nine’s driveway.

  “You gonna come in and help me with that thing?” he asks.

  I glance at his crotch, which has magically reinflated on the short drive. I poke at the head through the spandex. “You mean this thing?”

  He groans and I shriek when it kicks behind the shiny, stretched fabric.

  Seat belts click and doors slam as we both rush to get out of the car. I hit the lock button as he rearranges his erection with one hand and keys in the entry code with the other. Open door, step inside, close door.

  The tsunami meets the hurricane as I’m slammed against the wood, Pierce’s body flush agai
nst me, teeth clashing, tongues warring. I’m writhing against the thigh between my legs while he aggressively rubs his erection against my stomach. I shove my hand in his Speedo, gripping him tightly. My panties hit the floor, the top of my dress is yanked to my waist, and my bra gets tossed somewhere over his shoulder.

  Pierce lifts me up, his cock sliding along my wetness as he carries me away from the door and deposits me on the counter, beside his wallet. We’re both frantic. I pull my dress over my head. His stupid Speedo is still on but pulled down over his butt.

  “What are your plans for Muriel?” he asks as he dumps the contents of his wallet on the counter. Bills flutter out.

  I snatch up the condom and tear the foil open. “What’re your plans? Other than to seduce a widow.”

  He grabs the latex ring by the tip and positions it over the head. I roll it down the shaft and his hips shift in my grip. “Lawson wants to buy it, and I agree it’s a good investment. You never answered my question.”

  “Stop talking and get in me.” I line us up, wrap my legs around his waist, and pull him forward by digging my heels into his butt.

  Pierce’s forehead rests against mine and he grips the counter, sinking all the way into me. “It’s always so good.”

  I lace my hands behind his neck. “Right?”

  We finish our conversations in moans and orgasms.

  CHAPTER 18

  FLIPPING OUT

  RIAN

  Pierce and I agree that Muriel’s beach house has nothing to do with the sex we’re having. I doubt he’ll get her to agree to sell him the house without a Realtor involved, but that green Speedo is rather compelling, so it’s entirely possible. As is the incredible, mind-bendingly awesome sex. The kind of sex where he doesn’t require a wall or counter as support while doing it standing up. It was amazing.

  I came like a tidal wave. Violent, ceaseless.

  So yeah, if he wants to play pool boy while I play little Suzy Homemaker, I’m game. It makes for interesting foreplay. And Muriel is fun to be around. It’s almost as though she believes she’s playing matchmaker with us.

  Less than two weeks after we make the deal with the Franklins for the bungalow, the paperwork is finalized, the house officially belongs to Pierce and Lawson, and the money finally hits our account. It’s the benefit of a cash deal. Things happen so much faster.

  The day after we get paid, Pierce’s daily message fails to come. While we’ve only seen each other a few times since the Franklin bungalow sale, we message consistently, so I have a moment of panic when he doesn’t return mine for a twenty-four-hour span.

  I immediately come to the worst conclusion, certain he’s found out something about me, or my family history. It’s the problem with guilt and paranoia. All I want to do is eat a pint of ice cream and worry.

  Marley and I are sitting on the couch, half watching a house-flipping show while we check emails and scour the listings. “Oh my God!” Marley slaps my arm.

  “Ow! What?”

  “I got an email from the Paulsons, that older couple on the beach.”

  I sit up straighter. “You need to be more specific. There are a lot of older couples on the beach.”

  “I visited them last week while you were baking cookies with Muriel. They’re the ones closer to the Mission Mansion. They have the place we might actually be able to afford. They’d like to meet to talk about a private sale.”

  I don’t want to get my hopes up. This house is in need of some serious cosmetic surgery. “No market competition?”

  “A straight sale. No commission, no messing around. This might be it, Rian. This could be our in. We could finally pull a flip.”

  “This would triple profit. We might be able to manage a second one before the high season is over.”

  Neither one of us says what we’re both thinking. That a flip will bring us one small step closer to our goal. We have a lot of work ahead of us. But we’ve come back from almost nothing to get here.

  I haven’t seen this kind of cash flow in our account since before our parents abandoned us, and my initial instinct is to hoard it. If we’re ever going to get out of our shared duplex, we have to reinvest. It’s the laws of real estate. Still, it’s terrifying to consider parting with any of it so soon after it’s hit our account.

  We’re meeting with the Paulsons tomorrow morning at eleven. We go to bed early, but nerves make my sleep restless. At one a.m. my phone buzzes with a text.

  I debate checking it. Sometimes Marley texts me from her room with ideas or thoughts because she doesn’t want to forget them, or she’s too lazy to get out of bed.

  I know who I want it to be. I need to be logical about this thing with Pierce. He’s been very clear about going back to Manhattan at the end of the summer, so wanting more out of this is pointless. We’re just casual, his lack of communication today reminds me of that.

  It’s with this thought in mind that I pull my pillow over my head and forgo checking my messages. My alarm goes off at a stupidly early hour. We have plans to bring fresh-baked muffins with us to the Paulson meeting. Bran muffins and the elderly are always a win.

  My brain is already booting up as I hit the snooze button on my phone. There’s no way I’ll go back to sleep. Message alerts clog my screen. There are new ones from Terry—the man still hasn’t given up, which is … unbelievable. There are ten from my sister—I was right about her messaging me with stuff she didn’t want to forget. But there are also texts from Pierce. Several of them. Sent just after one in the morning; the messages I ignored last night.

  I fight with myself to leave it alone and not check them right away.

  Instead, I go through the ones from Terry. He would still like to reschedule our date. He would also like to know if I’m still getting his messages or if I’m ignoring them.

  I move onto the messages from Marley. Basically it’s a list of things we need to address with the sellers today.

  My mouth goes dry as I finally click on the messages from Pierce.

  Had a shit day. Just got home now. Had to go to NYC for a bullshit meeting that took all fucking day. Phone died at noon. You still awake? Wanna sext with me to make me feel better?

  Is sexting not your thing? I’m drinking bourbon now. Alone. It sucks.

  I’d like to sip bourbon out of your navel. I like your navel. I like you.

  Im drunk as shit. I wanna cu.

  Can u stop ignorin me pls?

  Shit. Its one in the morn. Im a ducking idiot.

  Ducking not ducking

  F U C K I N G

  Autocorrect is an asshole. I guess we have that in common 2nite.

  This isn’t a version of Pierce I’m familiar with, and I can’t decide how I feel about it. Last night I was trying to convince myself that keeping this dating thing casual is for the best, but there’s a tight feeling in my chest over the sexting message. I’d actually like to know what made his day so bad, not just be a porny distraction, and that’s a dangerous thing to want, because it sets me up for inevitable heartache when he leaves the Hamptons. It’s easier when we’re having fun and pushing each other’s buttons. It’s for that reason that I don’t respond right away.

  Marley and I make muffins, shower, and get ready to meet with the Paulsons. I put Pierce out of my mind until we’re done with the meeting.

  Except that’s easier said than done, because we have to drive past his brother’s beach house on our way to the Paulsons’. Pierce is pushing a lawn mower, wearing heavy work boots and jeans, a white T-shirt pulled tight across his thick chest and bulging biceps.

  He looks up, adjusting his ball cap as we pass. Marley’s too busy chattering away, rehearsing her spiel, to notice him.

  I watch him grow smaller as we continue on. Less than a minute later, as we’re pulling into the Paulsons’ driveway, my phone buzzes with a message. Then it rings. I’m sure he recognized the car. Pierce and his late-night drunk texting will have to wait.

  Our meeting with the Paulsons lasts t
hree hours. We make them a cash offer, which they accept. They have their own legal paperwork drawn up, thankfully by someone reputable since they want to sell privately. By the time we’re done, we’re the proud new owners of a home that needs an epic facelift to bring it from the seventies to the twenty-first century.

  Despite it being a private sale, the Paulsons agree to let us put up the SUTTER REALTY SOLD signs on their lawn. Marley smiles all the while as she hammers the post in with the rubber mallet. This is it. This is our opportunity to turn small profit into big financial gains. I’m so happy I could cry.

  We walk around the house to the beach side, where we’ll put up the second sign. That’s the thing about beachfront, you want everyone to know from both sides who sold the property.

  I glance in the direction of the Mission Mansion. It’s so close. I can almost hear the echo of flip-flops slapping against the marble floor. The smell of cinnamon and espresso coming from the kitchen. On days like this, I miss my grandmother so much, her warm smile, her soft hugs. I wonder if she’d be proud of us for not giving up. I hope so.

  “We should grab some lunch. Celebrate,” Marley suggests as she sets the sign down and surveys the yard, deciding where exactly she wants to put it for the best visibility.

  “Sure. We could grab something down the beach.”

  “We can drive over.” She walks the perimeter of the yard. The yard we now own.

  I glance in the direction of the restaurants close to the beach. From here I have a great view of Lawson’s house. Pierce is nowhere to be seen—which makes sense since lawns don’t take hours to cut. I need to return his call. I didn’t think our meeting was going to last quite this long, or I would’ve done it sooner.

  I root around in my purse for my phone and find that I have both a text and a voicemail from Pierce.

  Did you just drive by?

  Obviously I was right about him seeing us. The voicemail is sent less than a minute after the text:

  I just reread last night’s texts. Sorry about that. Yesterday was rough. I do like both you and your navel, though, and I would be totally down to sext with you. But only if that’s your thing. If not, that’s cool too. I’m pretty sure I just saw your car blow by. If you’re in the neighborhood, you should drop in for a visit. I can make you cinnamon roll French toast again. Or take you out for lunch. Or eat you for lunch. You know. Options and such.