by Tara Leigh
He leans against the molding, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Do you work tonight?” His question is a sharp pin, popping the shiny bubble of my fantasy—which is all it should be.
I can’t repeat the mistake I made with Richard—torpedoing a job I loved just because my romance went south.
“No.” I was supposed to help set up a new pop-up shop in town, but it was pushed back until tomorrow.
“Let’s get out of here while they work. No need to smell paint fumes all day. What’s there to do?”
I look away, needing a break in eye contact to fortify my ruffled composure. “Well, we are in the Hamptons. And it’s a gorgeous day. Let’s hit the beach.”
Chapter 10
Lance
“Get back to me with an update as soon as you have it.” I hunch over my phone, shielding it from the sun’s glare as I scan through the messages I received while on a call with my team back in San Jose.
“What would happen if you didn’t answer that thing every two minutes?”
“Hmm?” Since carrying blankets and towels and a cooler filled with beer and snacks from the house a couple of hours ago, Vivienne and I have been sprawled on the sand, just a few yards from the water’s edge.
“Lance, what exactly do you do?”
I rarely discuss my work with anyone who isn’t my partner, client, or employee. “I’m in the cybersecurity business. Why?”
“Because you’re on a gorgeous beach on a perfect summer afternoon—and you haven’t stopped working since we got here.” She shifts on her blanket. “Clearly, you’re very successful if you can afford to rent this house, but you don’t seem to be enjoying it much.”
Vivienne is wearing a black bikini held in place by a few discreet strings barely thicker than dental floss and a straw sunhat. The first time my phone buzzed in my pocket after we got out here, I didn’t even notice because my dick was fucking vibrating, too.
“I’m enjoying it.”
“If you say so,” she says with a shake of her head, the shadow cast by that damn hat sliding back and forth across her skin. “But . . . why come out to the Hamptons if all you’re going to do is work?”
“I tried that once. Getting out of the country, leaving work behind.”
“Let me guess—you didn’t like it much?”
“No.” Which probably had a lot to do with the reasons I forced myself to go halfway around the world, to one of the most remote regions of the globe. Except that there was no outrunning my grief over Krista’s death. No escaping the fact that selling a part of my business felt like chopping off one of my limbs. I brought it all with me and then had plenty of time to wallow in it. “Either way, you’re hardly one to talk.”
“What do you mean?”
I glance at the notebook beside her. It’s closed right now, but she’s been flipping it open every few minutes to jot a note or make a quick sketch. “And I saw that calendar in your room. It looked pretty full to me . . . and was it color-coded?”
Vivienne’s cheeks turn pink, and she looks away from me. “I like to keep organized. And, of course, I work. I have to.”
“They say that if you love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life.”
“Then I guess we’re both really lucky.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, how many people actually find the thing they love to do and actually get to make a living at it?”
My lips quirk. “You’re generalizing again.”
“You disagree?”
“Yeah. I don’t believe in luck. I believe in working hard to make the best of whatever situation you’re born into. Making smart choices based on careful analysis. When things happen, bad or good, you can always look back and pinpoint every decision along the way. That’s why hindsight is twenty-twenty, because luck doesn’t exist. Or rather, luck is made not given.”
She’s silent for a moment, her chin resting on her hand. “A businessman and a philosopher. Good to know.” There’s a trace of amusement in her tone. “I’m just saying, you might want to look up from your phone every once in a while. Maybe appreciate where all your hard work has gotten you.”
“I know exactly where I am,” I reply defensively. And where I’ve been. Three thousand miles from San Jose, and three miles from Hampton Bays. It’s where I’m going that’s the mystery.
After the summer, my plan is to return to California. I have a house out there too, although it’s not like there’s anyone waiting for me to come back. The feeling I’ve had for the past few years, since Krista’s death, sits like a ball of lead in my gut. I have houses, rather than homes. But at least I have RiskTaker. I help clients all over the world keep their assets and their data safe. And our initiative to help kids is growing, too. My work is my anchor. “And besides, it’s Tuesday. A work day.”
One eyebrow lifts. “So, you take weekends off?”
I haven’t taken a day off in . . . I can’t remember. Probably since I got back from Tanzania. “Sometimes,” I lie.
“Do you realize that you end every call with an order to call you back?”
I frown. “That’s ridiculous. I do not.”
She rolls her eyes and flips onto her stomach. “The people you work with, are they competent?”
I only hire the best. “Of course.”
“What would happen if they didn’t update you with every little thing?”
I bristle at the insinuation. “I prefer to stay involved.”
My phone buzzes with another incoming call. “Enjoy your day at the beach then.”
For the next few minutes, I listen to the adjustment being made to correct a glitch that occurred during testing. This time, I end the conversation with, “Call me if it’s urgent. Otherwise, I’m sure you’ll handle it.”
I toss the phone on the blanket as Vivienne turns her head and smiles. “Will you do something for me?”
“What?”
“Tell me what you see.”
A fucking gorgeous woman sprawled out on a blanket. With long legs, tempting curves, a tiny bathing suit, and a stunning smile. “You.”
She laughs. “No. Look out at the water, the sky, the sand. What do you see?”
“Water, sky, and sand.”
“You’re very bad at this game.”
“We’re playing games now?”
She sighs. “I see water the color of old-fashioned glass soda bottles, not quite green but not exactly blue. The clouds overhead look like fresh cotton balls, straight out of the bag. But the ones at the horizon, over there, look like they’re smudged with ink. And the seaweed washed up along the shore, baking from the heat of the sun, could be discarded cuttings of lace. Now you play. What do you see?”
I glance at my phone. For once’s it’s completely silent and still. “I see sand.” I pause, feeling Vivienne’s eyes on me. “It’s darker by the waterline, more firmly packed. Like a baseball mound. And the sand further up, near us, is loose and textured. Rippled, I guess. Kind of like the surface of the sea.”
Beneath her sunglasses, Vivienne’s grin is absolutely blinding. “Now you’re really here, really present. Welcome to the Hamptons.”
She rolls back onto her stomach and unties her bikini top. The flawless landscape of her skin is a temptation I have no intention of resisting. “Actually, I think my observational skills are needed in another area. It looks like you could use some assistance. Your back is looking a little warm.”
She snorts a laugh. “Let me guess, you’re just the man to keep me from getting burned?”
I glance around pointedly at the sparsely populated beach. This stretch of shoreline is private, access limited to the residents who can afford to rent or own here. “Looks that way to me.”
“Well, if you insist.” She nestles her head against her crossed arms. “But don’t get any ideas. I have a rule against getting involved with anyone in the share house.”
“It’s not a share house anymore.”
“We’re sharing the
house. Let’s not make things awkward.”
My hands slide over Vivienne’s warm skin, thumbs digging into the muscles lining the column of her spine, fingers kneading at the rise of her shoulders. “I’m surprised by your rule, given the rather thorough examination of your new roommate last night.”
“I was checking on your foot.” Despite the massage, her muscles turn rigid. “And I thought you were sleeping!”
A low chuckle escapes my mouth. “Don’t worry. I have a few rules of my own. But sex . . . well, I don’t believe in arbitrary limitations on who, how, or how often I fuck.”
Vivienne is silent and tense. She clears her throat. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
I bend low so that my breath ruffles her hair. “You do that.”
My hands are covered in sunscreen when my phone rings again. Vivienne looks over her shoulder at me, a curious expression on her face. “You gonna get that?”
I bite down on a groan. “Nope.”
“You sure? Because it looks like you really want to.”
She’s right. Ignoring a ringing phone goes against every instinct I have. “I’m fine.”
“What if it’s important?” she whispers. “Like, a completely catastrophic cybersecurity problem and you’re the only one who can fix it.”
I know she’s mocking me, but those are the exact thoughts running through my brain. I quickly wipe my hands on the towel and grab my phone. “Hello?”
Chapter 11
Vivienne
I don’t believe in arbitrary limitations on who, how, or how often I fuck.
Well, I’m glad Lance cleared that up.
Which is why I prodded him into answering his phone when it seemed like he wasn’t going to. Despite my reservations about Lance—his money, our unexpected meeting just twenty-four hours ago, the fact that we are now some strange combination of living and working together—he is, hands down, the sexiest man I’ve ever known. Just hearing the gritty, growly way he says fuck . . . I needed to get Lance’s hands off me before I begged him to put them in places that don’t require sunscreen.
As he jabbers more acronym alphabet soup on the phone, I can’t help but wonder what it would actually be like to fuck him. Not make love. Not make out. Not hook up.
Apparently, Vikings don’t do that.
They fuck.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek until the coppery taste of blood coats my tongue. But the pain doesn’t bring any relief to the heat pulsing between my thighs or the memory of his hands on my skin. Wide palms. Long fingers. And I already know what’s beneath his swim trunks.
I’ve seen every inch of Lance Welles naked. Which makes his words hit harder.
Because, while I’m far from a virgin, I’ve never had sex without intimacy. Never given my body to a man without first giving him my heart.
And since Richard broke that vulnerable organ a month and a half ago, I haven’t even entertained the notion of having sex. Not because it would be a betrayal of him, but because it would be a betrayal of myself. Turning something that should be meaningful into something that means nothing at all.
But what if I’m looking for meaning in all the wrong places? What if pleasure is the point? Lance sets my body on fire with just a glance. And I bet he’d approach sex in the same intense, smoldering way he looks at me. Am I holding back because of some outdated sense of morality?
No, I tell myself. It’s not morality at all. It’s simply common sense. Don’t sleep with your . . . What exactly is Lance?
My roommate? Coworker? Boss?
Whatever he is, he’ll be gone at the end of summer. Why bother when the only sure thing is goodbye?
Lance ends his two-hundred-and-eighty-seventh call with a sigh, and a moment later asks, “Want to go check on the house?”
“Um, sure.” I quickly retie the straps of my bikini and stand up. Together, we pack up the cooler, towels, and blanket and head back to the house.
It doesn’t take long to realize that the painters are going to be working for most of the night. After ordering a dozen pizzas for them, Lance turns to me. “Can I take you out to dinner?”
I immediately demur. “You don’t have to, I—”
He puts a finger over my lips, putting an end to my words and sending a ripple of shock through my nerve endings. “I want to.”
Well, all righty then.
Lance ushers me through the restaurant with his hand on my lower back. Which is probably why it feels like my entire spinal cord is vibrating with anticipation.
I sink into the chair he pulls out for me. “I’d kill for a margarita right now.”
It’s true. I rarely allowed myself to have any alcohol at all when the house was full of drunk twenty-somethings who forgot to flush toilets, turn off faucets, and close doors. Every weekend felt like a forty-eight-hour game of whack-a-mole to make sure that the house was still standing and no one wound up in the hospital. Mondays were reserved for cleaning up the mess and working. By Tuesday night, I either celebrated with a cocktail or a carton of Häagen Daz. And since I don’t like to drink alone, my reward is generally consumed with a spoon. With the long weekend, now it’s Wednesday.
Lance grins and relays my order to the waitress, adding an IPA for himself. “You can curb any latent homicidal tendencies until after Labor Day.”
I sigh dramatically. “I guess I can try.”
Our drinks arrive, and he taps the edge of his beer bottle against the salted rim of my margarita glass. I close my eyes to take the first sip and ohmygod. Tequila and lime juice over ice with a sprig of cilantro. “This is so good.”
I don’t notice Lance is looking at me funny until after my second sip. “What?”
His warm, whiskey-colored eyes have darkened to a decadent chocolate, and he reaches out a hand, curving his palm over my jaw and swiping his thumb over my lips. “Salt.”
For a moment, his hand just hovers there, holding my face like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
But if it were natural, it wouldn’t feel like my body was imploding.
And when he pulls away, the feeling barely dissipates. In an attempt to hide my agitation, I take another sip of my drink. More than a sip. A gulp.
I set the glass down to find Lance staring at me with his lips quirked in an amused smile, like he knows exactly what I’m feeling. I clear my throat awkwardly. “So . . .”
He lifts his beer again. “Tell me about yourself, Vivienne Radcliffe.”
“Me? I’m boring.”
Lance’s features pull together in an irritated expression I’m beginning to get used to. “To whom?”
I raise a hand. “I just am, objectively. Only child, my parents are still together. My father is a high school teacher, my mother is a local event planner. I grew up less than an hour away from here. Went to school in New York City. Had a few boyfriends, nothing dramatic. I thought my last one would turn out to be something more, but that didn’t work out. I’ve never left the country. Never—”
“Why didn’t it work out?” he interrupts gently.
This time, the ice rattles in my drink when I set it down on the table. “We just weren’t a match. It’s . . .”
“Boring?” Lance prods.
“To everyone but me, yeah. I worked for Richard’s family and lines got crossed—”
“I see your problem.”
My brows edge upward. “My problem?”
“You were dating a dick. You should be glad it didn’t work out.”
It’s such an awful joke that I can’t help but laugh. “That is truly terrible,” I manage to wheeze, thinking that Savannah would love his sense of humor.
“It is, isn’t it? But don’t blame me, you chose to be with him.”
Somehow, the laughter dries up in my throat. “I did. I really did.” My voice has turned into a froggy whisper. Lance’s expression becomes concerned.
“Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“No, no.” I shake my head, fe
eling like an idiot. “It’s fine. I’m fine, really.” I wrap my hands around my drink, focusing on the cold glass against my palms.
Until Lance’s palms are pressed against the top of my hands, his long fingers reaching past my wrists. “Has he tried to get you back?”
“No. I haven’t heard from him at all.”
“Then Dick doesn’t deserve you.” Suddenly, two tequila shots arrive on the table, and Lance lets go of my hands to push one of them in my direction. “Come on, nothing makes you forget about an ex faster than Patron.”
I take a shuddering breath and lift the shot glass, clinking rims with Lance, before tossing it down my throat. It sears a path down my esophagus and sends me into a coughing fit. But when I finally get control of myself, I look at my Viking with clear eyes. “How did you learn that?”
“That tequila is a heartbreak cure?” He snorts, catching the eye of our waitress and signaling for another round. “My sister. Well, technically, my stepsister. But we were close. After every breakup, she’d insist that I take her out for shots. Said that by the time her hangover was gone, so was her bad mood.”
“That’s actually pretty smart.” When our shots appear, I lift mine and say, “To your sister.”
A flash of something crosses Lance’s face, something that runs deeper than this casual conversation is meant to excavate. “To Krista.” And I realize everything he said about her was in the past tense.
We both down them, relieved at the distraction. This time, the liquor stings a little less.
“Well, her cure is working. I feel better already.”
I can see the effort it takes for Lance to pull on a lopsided smile, his full lips protesting with a quiver. But then, like the sun throwing off the shadow of a storm cloud, it shines bright, reaching his eyes and revealing the dimple carved into his cheek. Jesus, just slay me now. “Because of the tequila? Or because of me?”
Chapter 12
Lance