I Flipping Love You

by Helena Hunting

I like that she refers to me as “our man.” Purposely or accidentally, either way I’m a fan.

  I drop her off at a small, quaint duplex in a decent neighborhood. It’s a mix of renovated homes and older ones in need of work.

  “Well, this is me.” She fidgets a little, maybe unsure of herself.

  I push Trip’s head out of the way so I can kiss her. “I want to see you later this week. What days are you free?”

  She laughs against my lips. “You realize the way you say that makes it sound very unquestion-like.”

  “There’s a what in there, which makes it a question.”

  “But you phrase it like an order.”

  “It’s not intentional. I want to see you, and I want to know what days you’re free so we can coordinate a date. A real one. Where I take you out for dinner at a restaurant, and then I drive you home. At the end you invite me up, and I spend the night in your bed.”

  “I only have a double.”

  “That’s fine. I like cuddling with you, and you can’t escape in a double like you can in a king.”

  “What about Trip? How will he manage without you?”

  “He’ll deal for one night. Or I can take you back to the Franklin bungalow if that’s better. Whatever works for you. I’ll make it happen.”

  “What about Thursday night, then?”

  “That seems like forever.”

  “It’s three days from now.”

  “Exactly. Practically forever, but I’ll take what I can get with you.”

  I lean in for a kiss that ends with me hard and Rian breathless. She’s a glassy-eyed, slightly uncoordinated mess as she makes her way to her door. I wait until she’s inside before I head to my brother’s. I have to deal with him at some point, and I need to get some real work done today since I slacked yesterday. It was totally worth it, though.

  I drive back to the beach in a good mood and park at the Franklin bungalow. If Lawson’s being a pain in my ass, I might stay here tonight. Besides, the sheets will still smell like Rian, which is a bonus.

  Trip gives me one of his Ewok barks, tongue lolling as I grab his leash and we stroll down the beach to my brother’s place. He’s out on the deck, taking pictures of Amalie Dolls playing tennis on a fake court.

  He’s stretched out on the deck, clicking away on his camera. “Sleeping with the enemy, huh?”

  “Rian isn’t the enemy.”

  “I still think she and her evil twin are shady.”

  “Because they took an opportunity when they saw it? Isn’t that what you did when you visited the granddaughter down the beach and got the details on the Franklin house? Isn’t that what I’m doing with Muriel when I drop by and water her flowers and clean her pool?”

  “Not the same.”

  “Totally the same. I think it was a mistake to fire them.”

  He gives me an incredulous look. “Of course you think that since you’re sleeping with one of them. You’d think you’d be using that to get insider information.”

  I drop into one of the lounge chairs. “Why are you so pissed about this? It’s not like we have time to start another renovation.”

  He snaps a few more pictures and then sits up. “I heard a rumor that the owners of the Mission Mansion are thinking about selling, so the more property we own on this stretch of beach, the better.”

  That gets my attention. “Where’d you hear that?”

  “Does it matter?” He motions to the dolls. “You want out and so do I. If we keep doing what we’re doing, it could be a possibility.”

  “How is the Mission Mansion going up for sale going to do that for us?”

  “If someone fixes it up, it increases our property value. We buy low and sell high, bank the profit and watch our money grow. I know you don’t want to go back to Manhattan at the end of the summer. So you need to keep your head in the game and your eye on the prize, which doesn’t happen to be located between your girlfriend’s thighs.”

  “Business is business with Rian.”

  “Is it?”

  “She can buy a house to flip, Lawson. We don’t need every single one of them.”

  “I know that, but I think you need to keep in mind that her interests are her top priority, and remember what yours are.”

  I guess that’s the real question, because I don’t think my priorities are quite the same as Lawson’s. I don’t want to spend my life hating what I do, but I also don’t want to put myself in a position where I’m scrambling financially, or giving up what I love to make a buck.

  But beyond that, I’m a little tangled up in a woman I can’t seem to get out of my head. Which is clearly his point.

  CHAPTER 22

  SHOPPING TRIPS

  PIERCE

  I pull up in front of Rian’s duplex and park on the street since both cars take up the narrow driveway. Rian needs to price out house supplies. It’s the excuse she gave me for not having time to get together for lunch today. We have a date planned for later in the week, but I don’t feel like waiting, so here I am.

  She and Marley took possession of the Paulsons’ two-story fixer-upper last week. Lawson got over it after he managed to snag another beach house—in better condition—a week later. It’ll give her an excuse to be on the beach more often. Which will mean more opportunities for quickies. Or not so quick quickies. And sleepovers, obviously.

  My excuse for showing up unannounced is that there’s no way her piece-of-shit Buick can hold all the things she needs, so I’m here with my truck. To be nice. At least that’s what I’m going to tell her.

  I’m aware I’ve already got it bad for this woman. My conversation with Lawson about priorities and business made that clear. Also, my motivation for getting out of law and making renovations and rentals my full potential future has shifted to include her.

  I preemptively whacked off before I came over so I won’t be tempted to jump her the second I see her. I figure this is a good way to spend some time with her beyond the bedroom, which is where we end up a lot. Or any available surface, really.

  “Please don’t tell me you forgot the code again,” Rian says as she opens the door, a saucy grin on her face. She’s wearing a pair of yoga shorts, a tank, and no bra. I know there’s no bra because her nipples are saluting me. Her expression changes to confusion as she takes me in. “Oh, hey.”

  “Expecting someone else?” I raise a brow. And suddenly I wonder who might forget the code to their house. And why the hell would that person have it? Is she seeing someone else?

  We haven’t framed this as anything other than two people enjoying each other’s company, often without clothing. I’m supposed to move back to Manhattan at the end of the summer, so despite what she’s said before, it’s entirely possible I’m not the only guy she’s seeing.

  I should be glad that she’s not all clingy and needy. I should like the fact that she’s not all over my ass, texting me at all hours of the day and night. But I’m not. Right now, I’m irrationally angry.

  I clench my fists, my good mood crushed by potential, unknown competition. At least until she responds. “Marley went to grab cream.”

  “Why would she forget the code?” I’m suspicious.

  She tilts her head to the side. “Because I change it at the beginning of every month.”

  “Oh.” That’s smart. And possibly a little excessive.

  “What’re you doing here?” Her eyes slide from my face down to my feet and back up. I’m wearing work boots, jeans, and a T-shirt.

  I rub my chin, a little uncertain based on her reaction. Maybe this was a bad idea. She likes my pushy, but maybe I’m taking it too far. “You said you have to go house supply shopping.”

  “I do.”

  I motion to my truck. “I thought it might be easier if you didn’t have to jam things in the trunk of your car.”

  “Oh. That’s really sweet, but I’ve never driven a truck that big.”

  “I was planning to come with you, you know, to help with the heavy stuff.
Besides, I have some things I need to pick up too.” I’m rambling. Why am I so nervous right now?

  A tentative grin breaks across her face. “You don’t have anything else to do today?”

  “Nah. I’m all yours.”

  Her grin widens and she steps back. “Wanna come up for a few minutes? I need to change.”

  “Sure.” I have to turn sideways in the narrow hallway to get past her. Even then my arm brushes against her breast and that sweet, tight nipple saying hello under her thin tank.

  I lean against the wall, wait for her to lock the door and lead the way up the stairs. It also means I get to watch her ass. I may not be here for sex, but I can still appreciate the fine specimen of woman I’m going to spend my morning with.

  She opens the door at the top of the stairs and ushers me in. It smells like her, warm and sweet, a combination of flowers and freshly baked cookies. I glance around the small kitchen, searching for her signature Tupperware. As I suspected, there’s a box of cookies on the counter.

  “So this is our place. It’s not much but it’s home.” She tucks her thumbs in the waistband of her shorts and rocks back on her heels.

  I survey the space, wondering how she must feel about me being here. She’s aware I have money, but she’s never made it a thing. Some mornings I’ll find cash tucked into my wallet that wasn’t there before. I only know because there’s change, and the bills are always folded, the amount always half of what dinner cost, regardless of whether she saw the bill.

  It’s a modest apartment, the furniture older, but it’s well maintained and tidy. “I like it. It’s cozy.”

  “Cozy’s a good word for it.” She runs her foot up the back of her bare calf, possibly scratching an itch. She’s too tempting, hair pulled up in a loose knot on top of her head. Nipples still obviously hard.

  “Why don’t you get changed?” I really need her to be wearing something other than that tank. Otherwise my plan to spend time with her, doing something aside from making her come, will fail miserably. “The hardware store gets busy around eleven with contractors. We want to get there before then.”

  She gives me a cautious, questioning smile. “Okay. I’ll be back in a minute. Make yourself comfortable.”

  I have vague memories of living in an apartment as a little kid. Lawson was just a baby. We moved to a small house when my mother was pregnant with Amalie. It was nicer, in a better neighborhood, but still not big. At least not the kind of big I’ve grown accustomed to over the past twenty years. We never really wanted for anything, but we also didn’t have the kind of luxury I often take for granted now.

  Rian and Marley clearly have to work hard for everything they have. I don’t really know much about her family history. Just that she has a twin and that she was close to her grandmother. I know nothing about her parents. She’s never mentioned them, not once.

  Pictures of Rian and Marley together line the bookshelf. Some of them look recent, within the last year or two based on the lean angles of their faces and the curve of Rian’s hips. An older photo catches my eye, and I pick it up off the shelf, hoping for a glimpse of her past that might fill in some of the blank spaces.

  They’re teenagers in the picture, maybe seventeen or eighteen at best.

  They appear to be on a yacht, arms slung casually over each other’s shoulders, huge sunglasses covering their eyes. Rian’s skin is pink from too much sun, her bikini is white, but classy and pretty, the top a high halter. Marley isn’t quite so tasteful in her bright-yellow number with tiny little triangles of fabric held together with flimsy strips of crisscrossing fabric. Branding tells me their clothes are expensive, as are their sunglasses.

  The picture not only captures the teenage versions of the girls, but also the beach backdrop. In the distance, the Mission Mansion rises majestically behind them, in much better condition than it is now.

  I scan the other framed photos, but they’re only of Marley and Rian together—no parents, no grandmother, no hints of family apart from each other, which makes me wonder how literally she meant it when she said they take care of each other.

  I set the photo back down beside an oddly shaped bowl. It looks like a six-year-old’s pottery project and very much the same as the one she made weeks ago when I went to a class with her. I pick it up and turn it over. Rian’s name is etched into the bottom in her gentle handwriting, not child scrawl.

  I put it back and continue to snoop, discovering an entire shelf of misshapen vases. I check the bottom of each one—all named and dated and belonging to Rian. That she continues to do something she doesn’t seem to get better at, even after all this time is another endearing quality.

  “What’re you doing?” Rian’s high, slightly embarrassed voice startles me, and I nearly fumble the vase. Recovering, I set it back on the shelf.

  “You made all of these?” I gesture to her sad-looking shelf of pottery.

  “It’s relaxing.”

  “How many of these do you have?”

  “I don’t know. A bunch.” She moves the vase so it’s lined up with the others in all their warped glory.

  “Does Marley ever go with you?”

  She laughs. “No. It’s not a Marley thing.”

  “Is it, like, something you do with your mom?” I’m fishing now.

  Her eyes flare briefly and fill with sadness before resolve settles in. “Uh no, my mom isn’t…” The doorbell rings, startling us both. She blows out a breath and laughs nervously. “That’s Marley. I’ll be right back.”

  I watch her rush down the stairs, yelling for Marley to relax when she hits the doorbell again three seconds later. I’m annoyed by the interruption. It felt like we were on the brink of a moment, and now it’s gone.

  She returns a minute later with Marley in tow. The sadness in her eyes is gone, and back is the slightly guarded version of the Rian I’ve come to know over these past weeks. “We should go before the store gets too busy, right?”

  “Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.”

  She grabs her purse and we head for the stairs, but I make a mental note to find a way back to this discussion.

  CHAPTER 23

  HARDWARE AND OTHER NECESSARY ITEMS

  RIAN

  My stomach churns with anxiety and guilt as I follow Pierce around the hardware store, pushing the cart. I’d been on the verge of either telling him the truth or a half lie, and I don’t know which would be worse. He’s been so open and honest, and here I am, shrouding myself in secrets to avoid letting him in. Thankfully, Marley’s poor memory saved the day.

  I try to put it out of my head and focus on my pricing mission. I would’ve done this online, but I can’t see quality in an image. Fresh paint, a kitchen upgrade, new floors, and updated bathrooms is all the house needs, plus an exterior cosmetic facelift and some minimal landscaping. We have fifty thousand dollars to work with. My goal is to get it done with ten grand to spare.

  We’re currently in the paint section. Pierce picks up a five-gallon bucket of primer like it weighs a much as a Styrofoam cup. The muscles in his forearms flex, making the golf ball under his skin pop. I watch, enthralled by the flex and pull of muscle as he hoists it into the cart.

  He ducks down so his face is level with mine. “’Sup?”

  “Huh?” I blink and realize I’m probably sporting a very blank look. I squeeze his arm. “Just enjoying the gun show.”

  He smiles, but it’s not as cocky as usual. “I can do push-ups on top of you later if you want.”

  “While you’re naked?”

  “Is there any other way?”

  I push on his chest, not because I can’t handle the flirting or the promise of what’s to come later, but because I’m full of conflict. I want to confide in him, but I’m afraid of what will happen if I do. I’m also afraid of what it means that I want to tell him the truth, and that I almost did. I’m getting attached, which is fruitless for so many reasons.

  I scan the brands of paint, anything to get out of my own
head, and note an alternative to the one in the cart. “That’s twenty dollars cheaper.”

  He glances at it, but reaches for another five-gallon bucket of the more expensive brand. I want to point out how he’s wasting money, but I bite my tongue. He drives a Tesla and his second vehicle is a truck. A big truck with a push-button start and chrome everything. He’s not worried about money. He’s seen where I live now and is aware that we’re definitely not even close to the same pay grade—I’m sure he’s known that since he saw my Buick, but it still makes it more real. All of this feels more real than I want it to.

  He drops the second bucket in the cart. “Cheaper but not the same quality. I’d need to use twice as much of the less expensive brand to cover the same square footage, so it would end up costing more in the long run.”

  “Oh. I didn’t realize that.” Now I feel like a jerk for thinking he was wasteful. At least I didn’t say it aloud.

  He points to another brand, even more expensive than the one he’s chosen. The kind my father likely would’ve chosen based on cost alone. “This stuff isn’t worth the price tag. Not when this”—he taps the buckets in the cart—“does just as good a job.”

  “Good to know.” I check average square footage of coverage on the paint bucket, then mentally do the math for one of the bedrooms in our beach house, all four walls and the ceiling, and break it down by cost per square foot. “So this is about ten cents a square foot, but that would cost more like twenty?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes. “Did you do that math in your head?”

  “Yes.”

  He crowds me. “You need to stop that.”

  I have to tip my head up so I can meet his serious gaze. “I need to stop doing mental math?”

  “In public places, yes.”

  I bite my cheek to keep my smile in check. “Do I want to ask why?”

  “Because I find it sexy, and it makes me want to do inappropriate things to you in this aisle. The kind of things that would get me arrested.”

  I grin. “You probably shouldn’t have told me that. I’m definitely going to use that against you in the future.”