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

by Tara Leigh

  I don’t get an answer to my questions.

  Our food arrives, along with a fresh margarita for Vivienne and another beer for me. I make sure she eats enough to soak up some of the alcohol and drinks most of her water.

  I wasn’t lying about tequila being my remedy of choice when it comes to forlorn females. Except that Vivienne isn’t my sister, and I’m not in the habit of taking advantage of drunk women.

  However, she might be more of a lightweight than I anticipated. “Are you a Viking?” she asks, leaning forward and pointing her fork at me.

  “Am I a . . . what?”

  “A Viking,” she repeats, matter-of-factly. “I’m sure you’ve looked in the mirror. You’re all big and buff and blond. Very Viking-esque.”

  I take a bite of my steak, chewing slowly. “I can honestly say I’ve never been asked that question before. And no, I don’t believe there’s any Viking in my blood.”

  “That you know of. You should take one of those DNA kits. Because you know what they might find?”

  “Viking?”

  “Viking!”

  Vivienne is gorgeous. But drunk Vivienne is adorable. There’s an easiness to her expression, a playfulness to her otherwise elegant features.

  “Have you ever cried over an ex-girlfriend, Lance?”

  It’s not a question I need to consider for long. “That would be a hard no.”

  Missy and I grew up together. Two Hampton Bays kids surrounded by the kind of wealth we could only dream of. But then, after my father’s death, I was uprooted to Manhattan and a posh city prep school where I never felt like I belonged. Missy would take the train to Penn Station every chance she got, over two hours each way—a welcoming slice of home in unfamiliar territory.

  I thought we were in love. I thought we would be together forever.

  Then came the MC Partners scandal. Followed shortly by my move to California. And three thousand miles is not nearly as manageable as eighty.

  Missy and I lost touch, and I heard she started dating someone. Forever wasn’t very long at all.

  I focused on my schoolwork. Buried my frustration into building a business.

  RiskTaker took off, my bank account growing fatter with every new client. I was interviewed by the Wall Street Journal. I bought watches, cars, a house. I dated.

  But the best thing about having money of my own was that I could fly my stepsister out to California, give her everything she lost when her father went bankrupt. We weren’t related by blood, but she taught me the meaning of family.

  And then she was murdered.

  Missy showed up at Krista’s funeral back in New York. She was a rope to grab on to when it felt like I was drowning in a sea of guilt and grief and endless, relentless rage.

  She came back to California with me and I gave her everything she wanted. In return, she sucked like a Hoover and fucked like a whore—whenever and wherever I wanted.

  Quite frankly, the relationship Missy and I had wasn’t unusual. Not on Wall Street or Silicon Valley or Hollywood. Girlfriends and mistresses, even most wives, are paid in jewelry and designer wardrobes, black American Express cards and luxury penthouses.

  It’s a service economy that serves both parties extremely well.

  But either fate sucks balls or I’m an outlier. Because the thing about access to an unlimited supply of something you think you want—it doesn’t take very long to realize you don’t.

  I fell in love with Missy as a teenager. But ten years later, it was obvious she was more in love with my bank account than with me. Somewhere along the way, we stopped having fun, stopped enjoying each other’s company.

  Though I can’t ever remember a time when she would turn her face up to the sun, breathe in the salty air, and listen to the sound of the waves with a smile stretched across her lips.

  Not like Vivienne, who right now is waggling her auburn brows and dissolving into a fit of giggles after she asks, “How hard?”

  Drunk Vivienne has no filter. And she thinks her own jokes are hilarious.

  I can’t wait to introduce her to Tripp and Jolie. The thought comes suddenly, unexpectedly. But it’s the truth—and it has nothing to do with fending off their matchmaking efforts.

  I move her margarita aside, not that it matters. It’s practically empty. “You’re cut off,” I say, lightly chiding. She really is adorable.

  “I am.” She nods. “Definitely. Cut off from margaritas and cut off from men. No more for me.”

  Well, that wasn’t what I was aiming for. “Are you sure about that? Because you were eye-fucking me something fierce the other night.”

  “Sorry, not sorry,” she says, popping a chip in her mouth. “You have a better dick than Dick.”

  I grab my napkin and cough into it, banging my closed fist against my sternum.

  “Better everything, actually.”

  Jesus.

  “Can I ask you another question, Viking?”

  I motion for her to go ahead, not trusting my capacity for intelligible speech.

  “Do you ask your girlfriends to wax for you? And I don’t mean just the sides. I’m talking full-on Brazilian.”

  I’m waiting for the punch line, but Vivienne stabs a piece of shrimp from her plate and puts it in her mouth.

  “Are you asking because Dick did?”

  Her eyes widen, as if she’s surprised by my guess. “Yes! Can you believe it? I mean, I didn’t think much of it at the time . . . but it’s not normal for a guy to schedule his girlfriend’s waxing appointments, is it?”

  I rub my forehead. “No. Definitely n—”

  “And it’s not like he ever inspected their work. Not up close anyway. Richard didn’t go downtown.”

  I signal to the waitress for the check. But I can’t resist. “Ever?”

  “Nope. But you’d better believe he expected me to get up close and personal with his,” she waves her hands, “you know.”

  “Dick?” I supply.

  “Exactly.”

  “And yet you didn’t ask him to return the favor.”

  She looks horrified. “Of course not. How do you ask someone for that? They either want to and do, or they don’t, and it’s not worth asking.”

  I have absolutely no idea how we got onto this topic. It’s too personal for how little Vivienne and I know each other. And yet, it’s also perfect.

  Krista would have loved her.

  “Let me get this straight—there’s something you wanted from your boyfriend, but because he didn’t offer and you didn’t ask, you settled for not getting it at all.”

  Vivienne shrugs. “I guess so.”

  The waitress appears with a leather folder and I thrust my credit card in her direction, not taking my eyes off Vivienne. “Did he get you off in other ways?”

  Her head tilts to the side, her eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

  “Orgasms, Vivienne. Did you have them with Dick?”

  “Um, sometimes. And sometimes after.”

  “After . . .”

  “After he fell asleep.”

  Christ. “After he fell asleep, you would get yourself off?”

  She gives a reluctant nod. “You make it sound bad.”

  “It is bad. It’s fucking awful. How long were you with this guy?”

  “Two years.”

  “Two years? Please tell me you’re joking.”

  She balls up her napkin and sets it on top of her plate. “If I start to cry, can we do another tequila shot?”

  “For fuck’s sake, please don’t shed a single tear over that asshole.”

  “I won’t. But I could definitely go for another shot.”

  I raise a skeptical brow. “I thought you were done with men and margaritas.”

  “I am. But a tiny little bit of tequila is not the same at all.”

  I sign my name on the check and slip my credit card back into my wallet. Standing up, I extend my hand to Vivienne. “Maybe so, but you’re still not having any.”

  She sli
ps her small hand in mine and leans into my grip, locking eyes with me and rising smoothly from her seat. “What if I want to see what it’s like?”

  “What?”

  “Sex with a Viking.”

  “I’d say that’s the tequila talking.”

  “Maybe. But what if the tequila is just making me ask for what I really want?”

  My gut twists. If Vivienne were sober right now, I’d fuck her in the front seat of my car. I’d go down on her outside by the pool. And then I’d fuck her again, slow and leisurely, in my bed. If I had a bed.

  “Then you should have drunk more tequila when you were with Dick.”

  Vivienne slides her tongue across her mouth, sinking her top teeth into her bottom lip. “Touché, Viking. Touché.”

  Chapter 13

  Vivienne

  I’m in that weird place, caught somewhere between drunk and buzzed. Somewhere between saying everything that comes to mind and knowing I should shut my mouth. Between wanting to sleep and wanting to fuck . . . a Viking.

  It’s been so long since I’ve let myself lose control. Tequila is a lubricant, making all my rules slippery and hard to hold on to.

  Right now, I just want to hold on to Lance. Hold more than just his hand.

  Common sense says I shouldn’t give into my feelings—no sex until I’ve completed my work on the house and have the photos to prove it. But when will that be?

  What if these next two months are all we’ll have?

  I lean into him as we walk out of the restaurant, sighing as we step outside. The summer breeze carries the salty tang of the nearby sea as it caresses the bare skin of my shoulders, my hair swaying against my back. “I love the Hamptons. Especially when all the weekend warriors are back in the city.”

  Lance glances around the quiet street. “It’s not like anyplace else, that’s for sure.”

  “What made you decide to spend the summer here?”

  “A lot of very boring reasons.”

  “Oh, so now you’re boring too?”

  “Maybe we’re more alike than we seem.”

  “I doubt that. But seriously, why the Hamptons? Why now?”

  “My business partner has a summer place here. We have something we’re working on and it made sense for me to come out.”

  “So, two months and then you go back home? Where is that, anyway?”

  “California,” he says, smiling as he looks down at me. “That’s the plan.”

  The breath stills in my throat as his eyes lock onto mine. Not just because of the way Lance affects me. It’s because he has something I don’t. A plan.

  I don’t have one of those anymore. I did, before I quit my job and left Manhattan behind. The next ten years, all mapped out with goals and milestones and a vision board. Now I just have a to-do list.

  1. Save money.

  2. Get an apartment.

  3a. Find a job.

  Or

  3b. Start my own business.

  3a and 3b are two entirely different tracks. A job comes with a sense of security. Benefits. A paycheck.

  If I decide to go it alone, I’ll be relying on just one person. Me.

  And I don’t know if I trust myself with that much responsibility.

  Case in point—what am I doing right now?

  Lusting after a sinfully sexy Viking is not a task to be checked off my list.

  Yet, that’s exactly what’s happening.

  And no, it’s not the tequila talking.

  Lance’s fingers graze my elbow as he opens his car door for me, sending a rush of goose bumps careening down my forearms.

  He starts the car, pressing a button that allows the roof to break away from the windshield and fold itself into a neat package behind us. “Topless. Nice choice.”

  Lance’s lips twitch as he pulls out of his parking spot. “What are the odds that the house is all painted?”

  “How many coats are they doing?”

  “Just one, except for the office. The walls were in fairly good shape, only a few scuff marks here and there.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And the molding only needed touching up.”

  She turns her head to me. “Still, it’s a big house. I’m guessing the odds are slim to none.”

  “A pessimist, huh?”

  “Just a realist.” I stretch my legs out in front of me and kick off my wedge sandals, tipping my head back against the headrest. “What’s your prediction?”

  “Oh, I’m guessing they’ll be done.”

  “You gave them an incentive, didn’t you?”

  “Of course. There are some problems money can solve. And when that’s the case, I take full advantage.”

  I rouse myself as the Maserati’s wheels crunch over the layer of white gravel lining the driveway. “Did I win?”

  “The van’s gone so I’m guessing that’s a no.”

  We get out of the car at the same time, and I lean against the hood, my sandals dangling from one hand. “Maybe the driver went out for coffee.”

  Lance plants his feet on either side of mine. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. The action makes me arch my back, my breasts rising from the neckline of my dress. He lifts his arm, tracing the line of my collarbone with his fingers.

  “I think we’re all alone, Vivienne. And I think I dug my own grave by pouring tequila down your throat tonight, because I can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  I bite back a groan as a drop of sweat gathers between my shoulder blades and slides down my spine, my pulse tripping all over itself trying to send blood cells to every part of my body.

  I press the palm of my free hand flat against his chest. It’s like solid rock. But so, so warm. “What do you want to do?”

  “Everything,” he says with a chuckle.

  Me too.

  Thankfully, Lance has enough self-control for both of us. He inclines his head toward the door to the house. “Come on. Let’s go check out the paint job.”

  Fumes hit me like a wall as he opens the door. “Christ. Who needs tequila? We can get high just by staying in here for a few minutes.”

  I follow him inside, and we wander through the main floor quickly. “Let’s open some windows, air the place out.”

  “We can’t. The humidity will slow down the drying time. Let’s go outside.” I pull at the sliding glass doors, a laugh climbing up my throat as I survey the empty patio. “Oops. I forgot they took all the furniture out here, too.”

  Lance pulls what’s left of the pool float out of the water. “Do you think it’s worth a try to blow this guy back up?”

  I shake my head. “That duckie’s been on his last legs all summer. I’ll toss him out with the bean bags.” I take a few steps forward and dip my toe into the pool. It feels so good. “Want to go for a swim?”

  He raises a brow. “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  His hands begin working the buttons of his shirt. “I’m not going back inside for my bathing suit.”

  For a moment, I can only watch Lance’s long fingers manipulate the small buttons, his movements precise and efficient.

  I want to feel them on me.

  The ends of his shirt slide open, and the twanging below my pelvis grows stronger, more insistent. Pectorals, abs, biceps. Lance’s perfectly honed muscles make my mouth water. I give myself a little shake when his shirt drops to the ground, his hands immediately working his belt buckle.

  Sliding my hair over one shoulder, I spin around to present my back to Lance. “Would you mind?” Earlier tonight, it took me several minutes to manage the zipper, and I broke a nail on the tiny hook and eye closure.

  “Oh, sure.” Lance steps closer, the leather of his open belt dragging against the fabric of my dress, his breath a warm caress against the nape of my neck.

  I swallow heavily as the tips of his fingers brush my skin, lingering for just a moment after the clasp gives way before pulling the zipper down. The sharp hiss is barely audible over the pounding pulse vibra
ting inside my ears, and the ever-present hum of the pool filter and HVAC unit.

  The night air is warm, but it’s the heat of Lance’s bare chest I feel as the edges of my dress split apart. “Thank you.” The words are a choked rasp.

  Lance takes a step away from me. “Of course.”

  My strapless bra and panties are no more revealing than the bikini I wore earlier today, but I still keep my back to him as I wriggle out of my dress, not turning around until I hear a splash.

  Before he surfaces from his dive, I sit down at the edge and bring my hair forward, over my bra, my calves dangling in the water. After breaking up with Richard, I considered chopping it all off on a whim, but chickened out at the last minute. Now I’m glad I didn’t cut it.

  Lance breaks through the surface in the shallow end, shaking his head like a shaggy retriever. Rivulets of water glisten beneath the light of the moon, streaking down his neck and chest. A Viking Adonis.

  I press my legs together as he swims back to me, using steady, even strokes with his long arms. “Were you a swimmer?” I ask, when one of his hands grabs the edge of the pool by my thigh.

  “Yeah. Swimming, sailing, water polo, crew. Anything in the water, really.”

  I smile. “Very Viking-esque.”

  He belts out a laugh, his full mouth parting to reveal those Colgate commercial teeth. “No long boats, I’m afraid.”

  “Shh. A girl can dream.”

  “Rowing is a dream-worthy activity?”

  In my mind, I have a sudden vision of Lance’s calloused hands gripping a heavy oar, his thick thighs bracing his weight, his chest glistening with beads of sweat beneath a bright sun, powerful muscles rippling with each stroke. “I have a very vivid imagination.”

  “Are you going to get in the pool or will you just imagine that, too?”

  “I’m working on it. It’s a process.”

  He lets go of the edge and pushes off the side, floating into the center. The interior lights are on, and I can see his legs kicking beneath the surface. “Are you—Are you naked?”

  He shrugs. “You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

  I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. Had I known Lance was awake, I would have gone straight to my room. “You’re not going to let me forget that, are you?”