Hamptons Heartbreak: A Sizzling Summer Romance (A New York City Romance Book 4)

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Hamptons Heartbreak: A Sizzling Summer Romance (A New York City Romance Book 4) Page 4

by Tara Leigh


  “I’ll be fine.”

  I swipe at the paper towels. “Put pressure on this for a second.” When he does, I take out the first aid kit I stashed in a cabinet after Memorial Day weekend. The Viking isn’t the first guy to bleed in this kitchen from stepping on a broken beer bottle, although he is the first to do it sober.

  At least, I think he’s sober.

  I rip open a square gauze bandage and dab ointment in the middle of it. “Have you been drinking?” I ask, moving his hand aside to apply the bandage to his foot.

  “Excuse me?”

  I take the bloody towel from him and toss it in the garbage, then kneel down to do another sweep with the dustpan. “Or just high?” Either would explain why he’s in the kitchen wearing just a towel. If I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that even the most conservative men have a strange inclination to take off their clothes when they’re hammered. It’s why I spend most of my weekends cooped up in my little room off the kitchen.

  Not that Savannah hasn’t tried to get me to go along with her and everyone else to bars and clubs. She’s said, “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else” so many times I want to scream.

  But Savannah doesn’t understand—I don’t need to get over Richard. I already am.

  It’s just that I finally feel like myself again, and I don’t want to mess it up by falling for some guy.

  The Hamptons is hookup central, filled with good-looking men looking for a good time. Wall Streeters blowing off steam from their stressful city jobs. Townies interested in a fling. Tourists from all over the world wanting a story to take home.

  I’ve turned down offers from all of the above, plus some. My sole focus this summer is to save enough money to afford a security deposit and a few months’ rent on an apartment in Manhattan. In another month or so, I’ll start sending out my résumé. Lining up interviews for after Labor Day.

  Although lately, I’ve been seriously considering starting my own business. I’m good at what I do, and maybe it’s time for me to work directly with my own clients instead of signing on with another big-name firm.

  But it’s risky. Most jobs are won based on reputation or word of mouth. Walking in to a gorgeous space and saying, “Wow. Who designed this? I need to hire them.”

  Despite the hours I’ve spent drawing up floor plans and imagining all the different ways I could furnish this house—beach chic, mid-century modern, luxurious bachelor pad, cozy family getaway, artsy bohemian—it will be years before I build up a portfolio to attract a client with a house like this.

  But when I look up into the Viking’s open, almost offended gaze, I feel something that makes me forget about being broke and at a confusing crossroads in my career.

  Lust. The hot, hard-charging current sweeps me into its grip from the place I’ve been clinging to—my comfort zone.

  The flat lines of his mouth pull outward, smoothing away the grooved frown creasing his forehead. “Sober as a judge.”

  Maybe it’s me. I’m not drunk or high, but I’m definitely intoxicated. From my body’s potent reaction, from the surge of desire that’s coming on too hard, too fast. I don’t know what to do with it all.

  “I—I have to go to work.” Through the fuzziness in my brain, I realize that I can’t exactly kick him out. Not now. If he won’t get his foot looked at by a doctor, then he should definitely keep off it for at least the next few hours. “I’ll text Seth. If he’s okay with you staying here while I’m gone, it’s fine with me.”

  Now his mouth fully extends into a smile, his lips parting to show a line of perfectly even, almost offensively white teeth. “Check your phone.”

  Chapter 6

  Lance

  “You’re renting the house for the rest of the summer?” The redhead’s eyes are wide, her voice several octaves higher than it was before.

  Earlier, when she asked if I paid Seth, I answered honestly. He earned a six-figure commission on my purchase of this house.

  “Yes.” Now the same answer is a lie, but it comes out just as smoothly. There’s no reason it shouldn’t. After all, I lie for a living. Just as I’ve lied all my life.

  To the teachers who looked at my greasy hair, dirty nails, and emaciated frame and asked if anyone was taking care of me when I wasn’t in school. To the rich kids who asked why I built computers from the discarded parts of their castoffs rather than buying the latest model at a store. To my clients, who ask if I can protect them from whatever cyberthreat comes their way.

  So far, I’ve done just that. Not alone, of course. Tripp is the best partner I could ask for. And we’ve built an incredible team to support us.

  My entire life has been a high-stakes confidence game, more or less.

  “And you want me to stay here . . . with you?”

  “Yes,” I repeat the same word a third time. It could easily be another lie. But it’s not, I realize. I’m not exactly sure why, but some instinct makes me want to keep Vivienne here, with me.

  She might turn out to be just another gold-digger, like my ex-girlfriend Missy. But there’s something about her—a haughty kind of scrappiness, maybe—that I find undeniably appealing. Not many women can look regal holding a toilet brush in one hand and a can of Scrubbing Bubbles in the other.

  Plus, maybe she’ll be useful. Either as a housekeeper or . . . something else. Maybe keeping her around will get Tripp off my back.

  “I can’t—I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t even know your name!”

  I extend my right hand. “Lance Welles.”

  She looks from my face to my hand, a long moment passing before she reluctantly takes it. “Vivienne Radcliffe.”

  “There, it’s settled.”

  “Ah, no. I still can’t stay here with you.”

  Something occurs to me that I should have thought of before. I lean to the side, glancing at her left hand. “I don’t see a ring . . . ?”

  “Being single has nothing to do with it,” she huffs.

  My grin returns. Single. Good. “I thought taking care of the house was your job? That you live here, free of charge, in exchange for looking after things for whoever rents the place.”

  “Yes, but that was when there was a whole bunch of people staying here, not just,” she pauses, scowling as she waves a hand at me, “you.”

  “You’d rather clean up after ten people than just one?” I drop my voice conspiratorially. “I assure you, not only was I taught to aim in the bowl, I don’t expect you to clean it.”

  Rather than looking relieved, her scowl deepens. “I have no problems scrubbing toilets. It’s honest work.” She tilts her head to the side, glaring at me. “But while we’re on the subject—what would you expect?”

  I roll my shoulders and ease off the counter, my bandaged foot light on the floor. A few hours ago, I’d been looking forward to a fairly quiet summer. Long runs on the beach. Catching up with old friends. Expanding the charitable foundation Tripp and I started two years ago and taking it nationwide. But now, something new and thoroughly unexpected has piqued my interest.

  And her name is Vivienne Radcliffe.

  Even better, she might just be the perfect excuse to ward off my friends’ well-meaning but completely unwanted attempts to set me up with every available female in their contacts list.

  Actually, I’m living with someone, has a nice ring to it.

  “The same thing you’ve been doing for the past four weeks, but for me.”

  “Not the same.”

  “Well, then, what do you do besides house-sitting and looking after a pack of twenty-something slobs?”

  Her lips give a reluctant twitch upward. “I worked for an interior design firm in the city.”

  “Worked? As in past tense?”

  “Yes. I was an assistant to one of the owners. I have my degree, but it’s almost impossible to get hired for any job of consequence without apprenticing with a bigger name first. I’m not with th
em anymore though.” She chews on her lower lip for a moment. “I’m considering starting my own firm—I mean, not really a firm, it would just be me. But I’d like to start working for myself. That’s why I’m taking whatever comes my way. If I can build up a little nest egg, I’ll actually be able to give it a shot.”

  So . . . maybe not like Missy at all.

  “Would a Hamptons beach house be considered ‘a job of consequence’?”

  She grabs a dish towel and starts wiping at the counters. “Absolutely. But a job like that isn’t easy to come by, and it’s certainly not going to land in my lap. I’ll have to work my way up, one client at a time.”

  “Consider today your lucky day. You’re hired. Take this place from a sloppy share house to—” I pause, glancing at the cheap furniture and impersonal fixtures.

  The slam of a cabinet door brings my attention back to Vivienne. Her smile is gone. “Don’t even. I might not be able to afford to rent this place, but I’m not an idiot.”

  I watch her as she cleans the kitchen, angrily tossing half-empty bags of chips and wadded up paper towels into the trash bin. “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s no sense investing in a place you’re going to just walk away from at the end of summer.”

  I hate feeling backed into a corner. “Maybe not, but I don’t intend to spend the next two months living in a place with bean bags and folding chairs.”

  “You know, you fired me an hour ago.”

  I flash my teeth in a mischievous smile. “Good thing you didn’t listen to me.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not listening to you now either.” She disappears into the laundry room, moving another set of sheets from the washer to the dryer. She comes out holding a basket of towels, folding them on the kitchen island as she takes as she takes in our surroundings with fresh eyes. After several minutes, she looks back at me. “You rented this place furnished, right?”

  I nod again, not entirely sure what the correct answer is.

  “I’m not agreeing to live with you for the rest of the summer. But if you have Seth send the rental company here to pick up all this furniture, I’ll help you choose pieces that will make this place feel more like a home than a glorified frat house.”

  “Done.” I lean forward. “How is it that you ended up managing a share house for the summer?”

  She releases an embarrassed laugh. “That is a very long story.”

  I shrug. “I have time.”

  Hesitance flickers in her emerald eyes. “I don’t. I have to go to work.”

  I walk into the living room, ignoring the burn as I step on my heel, then slouch into the couch cushions. “Didn’t I just give you a job?”

  Vivienne grabs one of the bean bag chairs and pushes it in front of me. “You should really keep your foot elevated.” She waits until I do and then adds, “You offered a job that justifies the free rent. You’re not paying me on top of that.”

  I sigh. “Where do you work?”

  “Tonight, I’m waitressing at a place in town.”

  Tonight. “Where else do you work?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  That’s because I’m damn curious. Vivienne’s obviously struggling to make ends meet, and yet, getting her to accept help is like pushing a boulder uphill. “I have another one. Need a ride?”

  She rolls her eyes. “You aren’t going anywhere. It’s not far. I either ride my bike or take an Uber.”

  That explains the bike I noticed on the front porch. “What time do you get off?”

  “Usually around one or two.”

  “You shouldn’t be riding a bike in the middle of the night.”

  “If the weather’s clear, it’s fine. When it’s not, there’s always Uber, Lyft, or Hamptons Taxi.”

  I frown. “You get into a car, alone, with some guy you don’t know at one or two in the morning?”

  “Yes. That’s the idea.”

  A damn stupid idea. The psychopath who killed my stepsister had masqueraded as a cab driver. True, he wasn’t an actual cab driver. Just a guy who pulled to the curb in front of a bar and drove off with Krista in the back seat.

  Her body, what was left of it, wasn’t found for a week.

  “Take my car. It’s out front, keys are on the kitchen counter.” It’s a pointless act of contrition, more for my own peace of mind than anything else. I could give away cars like Oprah and it wouldn’t bring Krista back.

  “No.”

  “Either take it, or I’ll be waiting for you in the parking lot.”

  “I haven’t told you where I work.”

  “Believe me, I’ll figure it out.” When you own a cybersecurity company, and are widely considered to be one of the best hackers in the world, with a slew of national and international security clearances, there isn’t much I can’t learn in a matter of minutes.

  Vivienne’s mouth tightens with suspicion. “What will you expect in return?”

  “Not a damn thing.”

  “There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

  “Good thing I didn’t whip out the peanut better and jelly, then. Like I said, keys are on the counter.”

  She spins on her heel, her skirt flaring up briefly and exposing another few inches of smooth, toned thighs. Nothing I didn’t see when she was in a bikini, but somehow the skirt makes—

  Vivienne storms back inside. “Your car is a Maserati.”

  “And?”

  “And I know how much they cost. I’m not driving it.”

  “Why not?”

  She glares at me as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m on the special end of the IQ scale or I’m pulling a prank. “Because it’s a Maserati.”

  “That’s a brand, not a reason.”

  “What if I get into an accident? Or clip the curb? Or someone keys your door in the parking lot?”

  “It’s a car, Vivienne. Not an heirloom or a priceless work of art.”

  Though, I wouldn’t care if it were. When you see the world through my eyes, you realize how little money actually means. It can’t buy parents that actually give a shit. It can’t turn back time or bring back the dead.

  People matter. Things don’t.

  The expression on Vivienne’s face eases into one of astonishment. “You really trust me with your car?”

  Apparently, I’ve been trusting her with my house for the past month without knowing it. My car is worth a fraction as much. If she wrecks it tonight, I’ll buy a new one tomorrow. But there’s no store to go to for a new human being. “Just drive safe. Come back in one piece.”

  Chapter 7

  Vivienne

  Come back.

  There was something about the way Lance said those two words in particular that was different than all the others. An undercurrent I can’t quite put my finger on. Worry. Concern. Protectiveness.

  Don’t be ridiculous, V. He barely knows you. Stop seeing what isn’t there, projecting emotions onto people that don’t exist.

  I start the engine, the soft purr vibrating through me. God, this car is nice. After adjusting the mirrors, I clear my mind. I’m overthinking things.

  Lance is loaded. That’s all.

  Hunching forward, I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Not that I notice until after I carefully navigate into the parking lot, into the most well-lit section, making sure to park perfectly centered in the narrow spot.

  Tim looks up from the bar when I walk inside, flexing my aching hands. “Hey, Vivienne.”

  I manage a quick smile and stash my purse behind the bar. “Quiet night so far?”

  “So far. But you never know, it could pick up any minute.”

  Tim’s optimism feels like a wake-up call. What the hell is wrong with me? Lance is offering me a job, an incredible opportunity, and I’m looking for hidden motivations.

  Do good things ever happen for no reason at all? Of course they do. So, why am I so suspicious when they happen to me?

&nb
sp; And if Lance is really serious about letting me transform the beach house into a more sophisticated retreat . . . My mind is blazing with ideas for every room. So many possibilities.

  It would also be a chance to add to my portfolio, a virtual lookbook shared with potential design clients. So far, my portfolio contains the work I’ve done for Anne Abbott. Lately, I’ve also documented my house staging for several local interior designers and the merchandising I’ve done for a few small shop owners—revamping window displays and store layouts to better showcase their products. But an entire house—a waterfront Southampton beach house with high ceilings, huge windows, and limitless potential—could be huge for me. It would prove that I have both the creative vision and the organization skills to take on large-scale projects.

  I busy myself by wiping down the tops of all the tables, checking the silverware, napkins, and salt and pepper shakers. But in my mind, I’m drawing floor plans, sketching out ideas, writing lists.

  After a while, I feel Tim’s hand close gently over my shoulder in a quick squeeze before pulling back. “The way you’ve been floating around here tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I need to hang on to you in case you just drift up to the sky.”

  I blink, reminding myself not to get my hopes up too high. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has made promises he didn’t intend to keep just to get in my pants. “Today’s been a bit of an odd day. Must have breathed in too much Windex, or maybe it’s my allergies acting up . . .” I let my voice trail off, not knowing how to explain my mood.

  Tim’s kind eyes meet mine. “It’s good to see you smile, kiddo. Whatever you’ve been doing, keep it up.”

  It turns out to be a quiet night, after all. Not surprising after the three-day Fourth of July weekend. Bad for my bank account, good for jotting down ideas for the beach house in my notebook.

  Tim shoos me out to the parking lot before midnight, and I’m relieved to see Lance’s car made it through the night unscathed. And even more relieved when I finally ease into the driveway and kill the engine.

 

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