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 22

by Tara Leigh


  “Yeah, we’re heading back in a couple of hours.”

  “Before you do, can you run over to my place?”

  There’s an entire industry devoted to closing down and maintaining summer houses during the months they’re not in use. Things like clearing out the pipes before the first freeze. Closing up the pool and storing the exterior furniture. Checking every window for the tiniest crack that might allow in moisture during a storm. Washing away the accumulation of salt that can damage cedar siding.

  And I’ve learned my lesson. Asking an opportunist like Seth to “keep an eye on things” is just asking for trouble.

  “The people I hired to winterize the place will be there this week and I just remembered that I didn’t wipe out the hard drives in my office.” I handed Vivienne her check and got the fuck back to California.

  Everything we do is encrypted, and there are probably only twenty to thirty people in the entire world with the skills to get past the firewalls I have in place. Plus, I installed a home security system capable of defending Fort Knox. But I’m not willing to take any chances.

  “Yeah, sure.” I give Tripp the electronic code to the garage door and he says he’ll call if he has any problems.

  Ten minutes later, my phone rings. Fuck. “What’s wrong?”

  “Your hard drive is clean. But I’m bringing it to my house just to be safe.”

  “Good idea. Thanks.”

  Tripp sighs. “Look, don’t hang up on me. But there’s a check for fifty grand made out to Vivienne just sitting on your desk.”

  That’s impossible. Who forgets to take a check with that many zeroes? It was the only reason she stayed with me. I was nothing but a job to her, and she’d more than earned her money. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m looking at it right now.”

  I log into my banking portal and look through my transactions. As a kid, if anyone had told me that I wouldn’t notice an extra fifty grand in my account, I would have said they were insane. First of all, I didn’t have a one until I was in college. And second, I never had more than a few bucks in my pocket until I moved into my stepfather’s place in Manhattan.

  Sure enough, of the two checks I gave to Vivienne, only one was cashed.

  “It’s ripped clean in two. And it’s sitting right next to a donation receipt for,” Tripp pauses for a moment, “eleven dresses, eight skirts, fourteen shirts, seven—”

  “I get the idea.”

  “Really?” Tripp snorts. “Because I’m not sure you do. Vivienne was the real deal and you’re too wrapped up in your own goddamn bullshit to see it.”

  My hand tightens on my phone, but I don’t hang up. “You’re wrong. I saw Vivienne and her shitbag of an ex. They were in the bathroom together on Nash’s yacht the night of the party.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I wish it was. And when Vivienne came out, she looked like the cat that ate the canary. The next day, she breezes into my office telling me that she had a great talk with Abbott and she’s really excited about it. What am I supposed to think?”

  “You’re supposed to fucking fight for her, asshole! Not roll over and play dead. Not fly off to California and leave her in the hands of, in your words, her shitbag of an ex. Man the fuck up and go after her.”

  Chapter 50

  Vivienne

  62 DAYS AFTER LABOR DAY

  I smile brightly at Eva Daniels as she opens the door of her new penthouse. “Congratulations, Eva. This place is absolutely perfect for you.”

  It would be perfect for anyone. Spanning the entire forty-third floor of an ultra-luxury apartment building on Central Park South, it’ss four thousand square feet of floor-to-ceiling windows with panoramic views of Central Park and the Manhattan skyline, generously sized rooms, and an Upper-East-Side-meets-Hamptons-cottage aesthetic.

  Eva is one of my new design clients, a friend of Jolie’s I met out in the Hamptons. As a single mother of twins, she said she wanted my input during her apartment search. Now that the place is hers, I can get started on the interiors.

  It’s unusual to work with a client before they actually purchase their home, but it does happen. Some people want to get a designer’s eye before making their decision. You can change just about everything in a condo, but things like sun exposure, plumbing and heating vents, and weight-bearing walls are difficult or impossible to alter.

  “Are you sure that this is the one you would have chosen for yourself?” she asks.

  Throughout the process, Eva was particularly interested in my opinion. Which surprised me, because she’s clearly a smart, confident woman. Jolie told me that Eva was absolutely instrumental in the success of her business.

  We toured at least a dozen units all over the city and her questions were endless. Which one feels like it could truly be a home? Which view is your favorite? What location do you like the best?

  I always answered honestly, but I kept having to explain that it’s not my apartment. She should choose what most suited her, not me. But . . . it was nice to dream.

  “Absolutely.” I walk into the empty living room, my head arched back as I take in the high ceilings, thick molding, and double-paned windows.

  I’m back in Manhattan again, in a studio apartment not much bigger than the tiny bedroom I initially claimed in Southampton. It’s not luxurious, but it’s clean, affordable (by Manhattan standards), and all mine.

  Affordable being the most important.

  I never did cash the check Lance gave me the day he told me my services were no longer needed. That I was no longer needed. I didn’t even leave his house until the Tuesday after Labor Day. Because I thought he would come back. I thought he would come to his senses. That he’d realize he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But he didn’t.

  I don’t want Lance’s money.

  I don’t want his clothes, either. I donated them all to one of my favorite charities, Dress For Success, and left Lance the donation receipt in case he wanted to claim the write-off for his taxes.

  I wish I could afford to give Lance back the first fifty thousand, too. But I did the next best thing. I had the lawyer I hired to incorporate my business, Vivienne Radcliffe Interiors, draft a contract making it a loan, payable over five years, with standard interest. The contract is in my purse and I plan to swing by FedEx later today.

  So it will be a long, long time—i.e. never—before I’ll live in a place like this myself. And that’s just fine. I left the Hamptons, and my broken heart, behind me. And I turned down Anne Abbott’s offer. Between the money I earned waitressing, staging, and all my other odd jobs, plus my loan from Lance, I’m confident about my future career success.

  My love life is another story. I can’t imagine falling in love with anyone, ever again. Not when I still dream about Lance every night, when I wake up feeling achy and sullen because my fantasies are just that—fantasies. No amount of dreaming will ever make them real. I loved Lance—I still love Lance—but it wasn’t enough.

  “Let’s spend a few minutes just walking around the space together,” I call over my shoulder, forcing a cheerful tone. “I’d love to get your initial impressions, make note of anything you’d like me to work into the design. For instance, in this room, what is your eye naturally drawn to?”

  “You.”

  A lightning bolt of shock sets fire to my spine, white-hot heat racing through my bones and melting the soles of my stilettos. I’m glued to the bleached bamboo floors, pulse throbbing and heart aching. Breathless.

  Lance.

  He shouldn’t be here. He should be in California. Or the Hamptons. Or anywhere I’m not.

  Because I carry the memory of him with me, everywhere I go. Lance is a rock in my shoe, a splinter beneath my skin, a wound that hasn’t healed. I carry him with me, everywhere. Always.

  Finally, I muster the strength to turn around. “The summer is over. My time is my own, remember?”

  He takes a few steps toward me. “I was merely answering your first ques
tion. In this room, in every room, my eyes are drawn to you. And to answer your second question, yes. I remember, Vivienne. I remember everything.”

  I try to walk past him. Eva will probably fire me for bringing my drama into her new apartment, but Lance reaches out to grab me. His touch takes me right back to the very first time we met. But there’s no burning bush to sidestep. The biggest danger is standing right in front of me. Lance himself.

  I want to weep at the wave of longing that shoots through me at the feel of his hand closing over my wrist. But like all waves, it crashes. And what remains is fury. Pure and unbridled, it wells up from the deepest part of my soul, an avalanche of indignation. I yank my hand away, barely able to restrain myself from slapping the face that haunts me every time I close my eyes. Damn him.

  “What happened to your Fitbit?”

  “I got rid of it.” I tossed it in a trash can the day I left the Hamptons. I don’t need to track my steps anymore. There are too many other things to keep track of. My clients, the room I’m decorating in an upcoming Designer Showcase, my social media accounts, which are getting more attention everyday thanks to consistent posts and eye-catching photos.

  “Where is Eva?” I look around, but I don’t see her. “I’m working and this is incredibly unprofessional. You need to leave.”

  “Eva’s gone.”

  “What? Did you—I can’t believe—How dare you walk in here like you own the place, interrupting my time with my client, expecting me to drop everything—”

  “I do. I do own this place.”

  “What?”

  “I signed the contract this morning.”

  “I don’t understand. This is Eva’s apartment. We looked all over the city. I helped her pick it out.” I have a disconcerting sense of déjà vu. Once again, Lance is claiming a space I consider my own. First, the beach house where I was living. And now, the penthouse where I’ll be working. “Get out! Get your own place, Lance.”

  “I bought it for us. It’s ours.”

  “Ours? There is no us, Lance. You put an end to that the day you paid me to be your girlfriend and treated me like a whore. The day you told me money was real but we weren’t.”

  “I was an asshole. An absolute idiot.”

  I take a deep, shaky breath. “At least we can agree on that.” I pull my notebook out of my purse. “And now that we’ve got that settled, please go find Eva and tell her that whatever stunt you’re trying to pull didn’t work. It’s safe for her to come back.”

  “Vivienne, this isn’t a stunt. Eva’s helping me. I didn’t want to just show up on your doorstep and beg you to dump Richard. I don’t know what you see in the guy, considering—”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m taking about us.”

  I interrupt. “There is no us, damn it.”

  “There was. And there can be again. Just leave Dick and—”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I left Richard in May, six months ago. I haven’t seen him since the RiskTaker party.”

  A confused tic pulses in Lance’s jaw. “You didn’t go back to Abbott, even after he asked you to?”

  “Richard never—” I stop, finally sensing the poisonous pit at the middle of this misunderstanding. “It was Anne that wanted me back. Not Richard.”

  “But on the yacht. I saw the two of you . . .”

  Lance made the same mistake I once did. A mistake I only recently uncovered during the week I spent at my parent’s house between leaving Southampton and returning to Manhattan. My mother and I finally had a heart-to-heart talk that was years overdue. It turns out the affair I thought happened . . . never did. Her boss tried, following her into the garage to hit on her. But she rebuffed his advances and quit. What Lance saw, his interpretation of it, was the same as mine. And just as wrong.

  “Richard showed his true colors, yet again, and I stood up for myself. Believe me, after what I did to him, I’m sure he never wants to see me again And the feeling is mutual.”

  Lance looks away, running his hands through his hair and closing his eyes as a look of anguish pinches his features. After several long beats, he shakes it off and shifts his focus back to me. “What did you do?”

  “I kneed him in the balls. And before you go feeling any guy-to-guy sympathy, he deserved it.”

  “Don’t tell me he—” Lance’s nostrils flare. “I’ll fucking kill him.”

  “He didn’t have a chance to do anything, and I handled it myself.” Those chocolate eyes cause a distracting flutter inside my belly, but I force myself to stand my ground. “So, are we done here? Because I have better things to do than—”

  “We both do. That’s why I’m here. Vivienne, you turned my house into a home. And I want to live there, or here, or anywhere, with you.”

  “I turned your sloppy share house into a Southampton wow house. Any decent designer could have done that.”

  “Fuck decent. What I want, what I found in you, is incredible. You’re fireworks and ocean breezes. You’re my home. My anchor. I’m lost without you. Please, give me another chance. Give us another chance.”

  “If you’re lost, hire someone to find you. A life coach, maybe. I don’t do that.”

  Suddenly, I’m airborne in Lance’s arms. His mouth crashes down on mine, swallowing every one of my protests. And, damn him, it’s better than I remember. Better than my dreams. It’s love and lust and loss. It’s hate and regret. This kiss is pure passion, every shade and shape and angle.

  I cling to Lance’s shoulders as he carries me through the apartment. Until we’re outside, the wind whipping my hair into a frenzy around us.

  Slowly, oh so slowly, he releases me and I slide down the front of him, our new surroundings coming into focus. I gasp. Lance has recreated the yard of his Hamptons house. Artificial grass covers the two thousand square feet, cushioned chairs surround a gas fire pit, and a hammock sways gently beneath a gazebo. Instead of a pool, there is a massive blue demilune couch, as big as a bed, with a sunshade arching overhead. A teak dining table is arranged beside a grill. And a bar is set up in the corner, with a sweating bottle of beer, a margarita glass, a bottle of tequila, and two shot glasses.

  My eyes continue sweeping the space as he leads me to the bar. “Lance,” I say in a hushed tone. “What did you do?”

  “I took a page from your playbook, creating a space I hope you want to be in. Preferably, with me.”

  I swallow, not knowing what to say. This isn’t showing up with a dozen roses and a half-assed apology. This is . . . completely over the top. It doesn’t feel real.

  Lance uncorks the Patron first, pouring us each a shot and handing me one of the glasses. “Are you trying to make me forget about an ex?”

  “Yes. But more importantly, I’m trying to make you forget about me—the guy I was this summer. The jackass who let you go. But me . . . I don’t want to be your ex.”

  I blink, my heart fluttering as I toss back the tequila. Lance might think it’s a heartbreak cure, but no amount of alcohol can erase the past. I set the glass down on the bar. “What do you want to be?”

  Lance’s mouth pulls into a blazing smile. “Your everything, or course.”

  I blink again, and Lance is down on one knee, a diamond ring in his hand. “I love you, Vivienne Radcliffe. We can live here, or in the Hamptons, or in California, or anywhere you want to be. But you are my home. And I don’t ever want to live without you. Will you marry me?”

  Maybe tequila really is a heartbreak cure.

  My eyes fly briefly to the ring. It’s stunning. Really. I’m stunned. A clear white oval diamond, flanked by two pear-shaped rubies. It’s unique and gorgeous and so completely me.

  The ring. The penthouse. The patio.

  It’s all incredible.

  But it’s the man I really want to drink in, my eyes bouncing right back to Lance’s face. It’s the words that tripped off his tongue, the love and hope radiating from his face. It’s the way he cradled me agai
nst his chest—like I’m precious, like he never wants to let me go. And it’s the intensity of his kiss. The way I melt from his touch.

  Right now, my heart is pounding. Banging on the wall of my ribcage like an out of control metronome. I sink down onto Lance’s thighs, throwing my arms around his neck.

  “I like this proposal much better than your last one.” The one where he asked me to be his pretend girlfriend.

  “Please tell me that’s a yes.”

  I hesitate. Because I want to say yes. The man I love just asked me to marry him in the most epic proposal I could ever imagine.

  And yet . . .

  “Can you walk inside, count to one hundred, and then come back?”

  He blinks once, twice. Clouds of disappointment bloom in his eyes, worried wrinkles appearing at their corners. “You want me to walk inside and then come back?”

  I nod, the movement jerky as I let go of his neck and stand up. “Yes.”

  I don’t watch him leave. I use that time to take a few deep breaths. And then I gather our drinks and bring them over to the table, setting them down across from each other. I grab two pens from my purse, and rip two pieces of paper from my notebook.

  By the time Lance returns, I’m sitting on one side of the table with my drink, a sheet of paper, and a pen, with an identical setup waiting for him

  I did not like how our last interview went. This time, I’m going to be running our meeting. And I have an altogether different agenda.

  He sits down stiffly in his chair, his muscles tense as if he’s bracing for rejection.

  “First things first,” I say in a rush. “I’m not saying no. But I can’t say yes, either. Not until we agree on a new set of expectations and responsibilities.”

  “Vivienne, I—”

  “Hear me out,” I interrupt. “I never wanted to be your employee. And I never wanted you to pay me for my time. If you had given me a chance when I said I needed to work, been at least a little flexible and understanding, I think the summer would have gone very differently. But, that said—what I need you to know now is that, even though you paid me, you were never a job to me.”

 

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