Mr. July: An Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy (Bachelors at the Beach Book 1)

by Jax Hart

“Getting ideas Bun?” I winked at her again as the elevator dinged.

  “I’m reporting you to HR. You’re making me uncomfortable.”

  “Please. Admit it. I’m the most fun you’ve had in years. I’ll be over for Bridge on Friday.” I stepped in the elevator as Bun started clicking away again at her keys, this time muttering about my generation’s obsession with cameras and recording ourselves.

  I stopped by Starbucks, ordered myself a Venti double black. If the house was as bad as Doreen said it was, I’d have no choice but to keep the 3% damage fee. A few hours later, I was rolling in the drive. I let out a long breath. The house was fucking gorgeous. A sparkling gem. I raked a hand through my hair, steeling myself for what I was about to walk into.

  I inserted my key into the lock, letting the door swing open wide. At first, I thought Doreen was exaggerating. The main room wasn’t spotless but hardly a mess. Sure, ash and splinters of wood were by the fireplace. I expected that. The kitchen however was much worse. The trash was full. The sticky syrup on the back counter was raspberry colored and I knew it would be a bitch getting out of my natural white stone. I opened the screen door to the back patio. The cover was left off the hot tub, wasting energy and electricity. A pair of silk panties fluttered in the breeze when I lifted the cover of the hot tub off the deck. I found two more pairs in the bushes. The tip of my polished shoes almost touched the evidence of what went on here.

  There’s no way I’d make Doreen touch that.

  Even with gloves on.

  With a sigh, I walked back inside and upstairs. The master bedroom was tidy. The lines and towels were dirty, so what? The next room didn’t look bad either. It smelled faintly of orange blossoms and vanilla. I bent down to pick up a towel coming face to face with a vibrator that was under the bed. Next to it was a pink silk thong. I lived in a frat house; this was nothing. Nothing I haven’t seen or done myself. However, my shore house is not a fraternity house, and Ryan Hill lied his ass off.

  I went downstairs contemplating how to play this. I sat down on the couch, removing the throw blanket uncovering a handful of dick gummies. I pressed a hand to my forehead before getting back up. My eyes then noticed the pink stain on the top back of the couch. “Son of a bitch.” I knew a white couch was a bad idea. Char said it wasn’t returnable since she bought it at a sample sale. It still cost 2k though. Moving fast to the mudroom where I kept the cleaning supplies, I swung the door open, coming face to face with two dozen blown up dick balloons. I punched them out of the way so I could reach the cleaning supplies. On top of the washing machine was a bag someone had left behind. I peeked inside.

  “What the fuck?”

  Neon green dick rings, with tiny vibrating heads. Dick lollipops. Massage cream that when rubbed in heats to a tingle. Edible body cream. Handcuffs. Maybe I’d be horny if I weren’t so pissed.

  By the time I applied a stain stick to the back of the couch and started working on my kitchen counter, my left eye twitched. The nerve in my cheek wouldn’t stop ticking. I did the best I could with both before calling a commercial grade cleaning company. The kind you call after a fire or flood. Who knew what kind of orgy went down? Some strangers got their freak on, maybe in every room of my house. Forget rentals. I was one and done. From now on, it was reserved for me. I’d take on more at work if I had to. My yearly bonus was coming up anyway. I sat down on the front stoop knowing there was only one thing to do.

  From: homeowner1278

  To: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  Ryan,

  Consider this email notice of my intention to invoke the lease clause for property damage. I’m in the mind to sue you for mental anguish and trauma from your lies. Clearly, you didn’t have a relaxing weekend for your pregnant girlfriend. My housecleaner refuses to touch the evidence you left behind of what really went on. As you know, the security/damage fees for my property is three thousand dollars. I’m collecting.

  C.C.

  I worked from my car until the industrial cleaning crew left. After inspecting every inch of my house, I almost felt better. Until I opened the fridge and saw what was left of a cut up dick cake. Cursing, I slammed the door, reached for the cabinet above the fridge for my stash of red that I kept there. The fifty-dollar bottle of cabernet was my go-to after a long day of sanding floors or painting.

  “Motherfucker.”

  It was gone. I made a mental note to add that to the tab Ryan Hill owed me.

  Eleven

  My high was short lived. After arriving back on campus, I spent the rest of the day searching classifieds. Even on the offseason, there were no places I could ever afford close to the research facility. If it were warmer, I could make do living on Pop’s boat at the marina. I found one that had a shower facility and free Wi-Fi. On a whim, I logged into the rental app I used for the weekend. It was a long shot, but I thought just maybe there’d be something. I scrolled listings, until I found one that might work. It was an older home, on the bayside. Un-winterized. No heating. It did have a fireplace. Two bedrooms and one full bath. A dock…. I started dreaming about bringing the boat. Making fires. Having my own slice of heaven. It was a thousand dollars a month off season and was available until May. I’d drain my savings—with little options left, I booked it. I’d get about a three-thousand-dollar housing refund for leaving so early this semester. After a refund on my food plan—it’d be a wash. I was about to close my laptop when my bleary eyes could barely focus, noticing I had a new notification from the booking app.

  I scanned his message, twice. Surely there was a mistake. I perked right up. No longer bone-tired. I had cleaned the sink and ran the dishes myself. The girls had promised they would tidy up before leaving. I didn’t want to upset Kells but the homeowner threatening to charge my debit card three thousand dollars was no laughing matter. I texted Soph.

  Me: Hey. Did you guys clean the shore house before leaving? The owner just sent me a nasty email.

  Soph: Kells had an OBGYN appointment so we left after lunch. Hannah said she’d do it.

  “Well, that explains a lot,” I muttered. We didn’t do any damage. Did we? “Shit. The couch. I meant to tell him about the wine.” Biting my lip, I decided to respond. We had clean fun. Well except for Hannah.

  To: homeowner1278

  From: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  Hi,

  I am terribly sorry for any mix-up. I had a business meeting and had to leave early this morning. My friends assured me they would handle the trash and dirty linens. I made sure to run the dishwasher myself. When the power went out Saturday night my friend tripped and spilled wine on the back of the couch. We cleaned it as best we could, and I truly apologize for forgetting to mention it. A baking soda/bleach/steam clean might do the trick.

  As for suing me, perhaps you shouldn’t rent out your home to guests if you can’t handle a little fun.

  Sorry again,

  Ryan

  P.S. Would you please consider not taking such a large fee? I could really use the money.

  Twelve

  After a hot shower and three Tylenols, the headache I had all day finally subsided. Apparently work blew up after I left the office.

  The partners were fighting with the partners at a competing venture firm over the latest contract for the sale of one of the financial funds. The contract was a bitch to decipher. Everyone was demanding changes. I called my honeybun on the way home, asked her to print two copies of the deal and have a courier service pick them up from her to deliver to my condo. Instead, I came home to a neatly sealed box on my doorstep with the paperwork tidily tucked inside. A homemade lemon cake sat on a separate box on top, decorated with a new pack of highlighters with a note from Bunny herself. “The six-pack might not like it, but the rest of your stomach will.”

  Damn, Bunny was a keeper.

  I devoured half of it, chased it with milk and got to work. Three hours later, my bed was littered wit
h highlighted papers with scribbled notes in the margins. I was about to take a break when my cell dinged. It was a message from the rental app. My jaw clenched instinctively.

  Cursing I stuck the highlighter between my teeth, opening it up scanning the response. “Un-fucking believable. No, you can’t have your money back, you nymphomaniac liar.”

  Ryan Hill was probably some rich frat boy from Duke. Pregnant girlfriend my ass. Maybe he was bi with all the dicks I found in my home? Who the hell knows? I didn’t care, I just did not want that crap to go down in my dream home. Hell, I had dragged all the bedding and sheets to the beach, made a bonfire and watched that shit burn. I was never using them again, washing it a hundred times wouldn’t matter.

  I hit respond.

  From: homeowner1278

  To: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  You mean the bottle of red that was my personal favorite? Taken from my kitchen cabinet? That was the one your “friend” spilled. No. No refunds. I was perfectly fine renting out my home to a nice couple who were expecting. Instead, I found gummy dicks in my couch, dildos under beds, and panty sets outside. Oh yeah, a bunch of dick balloons in my laundry room with sex toys.

  I’m scarred for life. Shell shocked. I suggest you don’t misrepresent yourself again. I am contacting the rental app, petitioning them to have you permanently banned from screwing over another homeowner.

  C.C.

  A response hit my inbox almost immediately.

  To: homeowner1278

  FROM: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  I never misrepresented myself. My girlfriend is expecting. We had a small group of women for a bachelorette. Sorry if sex toys or sex is a trigger for you. My friends were supposed to clean up. They forgot the trash and to put the linens in the laundry room. If they had, they would have removed the sex items we forgot. Feel free to keep them. (Unless they make you feel uncomfortable.)

  P.S. Gummy dicks taste better than the real thing. Don’t judge.

  Ryan

  P.S.S. Can I please have my fee back if the stain on the couch comes out?

  I jumped out of the bed, two hands raking through my head. Was this person high? Was I triggered? Did Ryan Hill think I was some old cat lady renting out my house for the hell of it? I never disclosed my name, just my initials out of safety. Didn’t want some person Googling me and finding out I had deep pockets. Someone could “slip on the deck” and sue me for damages. “Triggered,” I snorted. I snatched up my phone typing back.

  From: homeowner1278

  To: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  Triggered? The only thing that triggers me are liars. No, you can’t have jack-shit back. I burned the linens. They cost a few grand. Serena and Lily 500-thread count sheets with real down duvets. Made a nice bonfire. Kept me toasty while ServiceMaster cleaned the shitshow you left behind. Did I mention my white, natural stone counters were stained pink from daiquiri juice? I had to call a stone and granite store. They sent out a worker with a stone-sanding machine. They had to grind the stone, sand it and re-seal it.

  No backsies. Goodbye. Good riddance.

  P.S. How would you know that gummy’s taste better. Aren’t you a dude? Sorry if my question on your “sexuality” triggers you.

  To: homeowner1278

  FROM: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  You must be joking? Why would any sane person put such high-end items in a rental? I know you are lying about the counters. I made the margaritas, and I didn’t spill. My trigger are liars too. I think you are just keeping my deposit to make money off me. I’ll see you in small claims court if you don’t release my funds within 48hours. Consider this your notice. Please provide me with copies of your invoice from ServiceMaster, the stone worker, and the Serena and Lily receipts. Since you claim all the damages justify stealing my money.

  Ryan

  P.S.

  I’m a woman and very comfortable with my sexuality.

  From: homeowner1278

  To: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  Small claims court? I’ll see you there, honey. I’m an attorney. Clearly, you are overly comfortable in your sexuality. I’ve seen the evidence. Do it. File your small claims.

  P.S.

  You knew what you were doing in your initial inquiry. Misrepresented the situation. Intentionally. I’m going to have your butt in court. (Don’t get any kinky ideas. It’s rhetorical hyperbole a.k.a fancy-ass lawyer term.)

  FROM: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  You’re an attorney? Well, that explains the huge stick up your obnoxious behind. Can’t wait to roast your cocky rear end in court. (Don’t get any ideas.) I’m not into paddle play despite what was in the goodie bags. Lighten up, we were just five girls and a stripper having a bit of fun. Sounds like you wouldn’t know how to do that without a “How to Have Fun” book for dummies with page-by-page illustrations.

  I read her last email, threw my phone on the bed, paced around my room while daydreaming about all the ways I could “trigger” her. “She has some fucking nerve!” It takes a hell of a lot to get me worked up. Pissed and angry, somewhat horny, if I were being honest—I couldn’t work. Couldn’t sleep. With nothing else to do, and unable to yell at the person of my frustrations, I grabbed my workout clothes. It was almost midnight, but I went out into a light rain and ran a good five miles. Sweaty and out of breath, I checked my phone when I got back. Nothing. I let her have the last word for now, because in the morning. I was going to personally call the attorney for the rental app and threaten all sorts of litigation against them if they don’t bar Ryan Hill from ever renting on their site again. I’d pull the ‘triggered sex card” if I had to.

  Just as I was drifting off to sleep my cell pinged.

  FROM: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  No response hot shot?

  From: homeowner1278

  To: ryanhill99@gmail.com

  SUBJECT: Cleaning Fee/Damage

  Sorry, I was busy pulling that stick out of my ass. You might be sorry I did.

  I fell asleep grinning like a motherfucker. Visions of me in court, airing all my grievances while a faceless Ryan Hill sat mute played in my head. Then that dream morphed into another one. I was at my shore house with a woman I knew, however her face was blurry. She smelled like vanilla and oranges. Her breasts were full and round, the moonlight caressed her curves. I had her handcuffed to the wooden fencing behind the hot tub. The ocean roared behind me as I took a fluffy paddle and whacked her behind.

  “More!” she cried.

  I whacked her again until her skin turned light pink. She bit her lip, and I popped a dick gummy bear in. “Soon it won’t be candy in your mouth,” I growled before biting the back of her neck while nudging against her.

  I woke up sweaty and horny as hell. Ryan Hill was really fucking with my head. Both of them. I was so hard, I hissed through my teeth. The only remedy a very cold shower. I didn’t know who this Ryan Hill was, but I was on a mission to find out. I couldn’t let this go. Not until I fucked with her head the way she did mine.

  Thirteen

  It was a new day. The sun was out. I felt great. I felt like I was on a warpath. Mr. Hot-shot Homeowner really got under my skin. I didn’t act like myself. Said things when I’d normally bite my tongue. If I’ve learned anything these past few months between Wade, the research program, and Mr. Weekend rental it was to speak up. Say my peace. Refuse to be silenced. I know he’s shaking me down for money. He’s also probably lying about being an attorney. If he thinks he’s going to take a damage fee, I want the proof. The invoices. Which of course he doesn’t have. But I didn’t have time to craft another email to him. I was days away from leaving this small campus behind and needed to get over to the administrative offices to sort
it all out.

  “What’s up?”

  I turned from my open suitcase on the bed. “Oh, hey. I have some news.”

  “Oh?” Gretchen arched a brow.

  “Yup. You are getting a single for the rest of the semester. I’ve been offered a spot in Duke’s research program. Effective immediately.”

  She sucked in a breath. “How did you pull that off?”

  I shrugged. “Luck and a prayer.”

  “That must’ve been one heck of a Hail Mary.”

  I grinned. “Tell me about it. I only have a few days to pack my things, find a place to crash and transfer all my credits.”

  “I’m happy for you,” she smiled softly. “You deserve it. To hell with Wade and his sex-bot. You got the jump on them.”

  “Sex bot?”

  Her face turned red. “Yeah, um, I guess they were really loud Saturday night. There was a party at Wade’s frat—everyone heard.”

  “He’s not that great. She must’ve been acting. Truthfully, I had a better time with the sex toys at Kell’s bachelorette than I did in two years with him.”

  “Ryan! You dirty girl. Good for you though.”

  “Was I that boring?”

  “Responsible. Definitely responsible,” she nodded.

  “Well, when you’re living on loans and scholarships, you kind of have to be.”

  “True. Wade’s going to shit a brick when he hears.”

  “Wait. Wait until I’m packed and gone before you let the cat out of the bag.”

  “My lips are sealed,” she made a motion with her hand across her mouth. “Gotta run, I have a study date!”

  Smiling, I finished packing, zipped up my suitcase and was about to empty my desk when I noticed a new notification on my phone from the rental app.

  I bit my lip so hard, I tasted blood. “Son of a bitch!” I was being cancelled. Literally. My rights to rent or use the app to rent was “revoked” pending an internal investigation. “Investigation my ass!” This had Mr. Hot-Shot Homeowner’s fingerprints all over it. I was sure of it.