I Flipping Love You

by Helena Hunting

  Last week, I stopped at this grocery store on the way to my brother’s after a meeting I had in Manhattan. It hadn’t been a fun meeting, so I’d already been in a salty mood as a result. I’ve never been to this store before—but it’s not too far from his place on the beach, and I was in a bit of a rush at the time and in need of a bathroom. I figured while I was there, I could pick up some steaks for the barbeque and a whole lot of beer. As I was standing in line, waiting to check out, I noticed a woman with a belt full of vegetables and a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch—one of my favorite juvenile indulgences.

  Once I cashed out, I headed to the parking lot, where I noticed the same woman slip into the driver’s seat of her car—parked beside mine. And then I proceeded to watch her scrape the front of her car across my rear quarter panel when she pulled out of her parking spot. I stood frozen in horror as she ruined the paint job on my two-hundred-thousand-dollar car. I was expecting her to jump out of her car to check on the damage, or even to leave a note, because that’s what a decent human being would do. But no, she stopped for a moment, looked around, saw me standing all the way by the entrance of the grocery store, and drove off.

  And now here she is again, except there are two of her. I hadn’t notice her then—she was just a woman who liked Cinnamon Toast Crunch and hit my car. But when I saw her in the cereal aisle and really got a good look at her, I noted how gorgeous she was. The kind of beautiful that numbs your tongue and jacks up your heart rate. It’s odd, but despite them being nearly identical, I’m only attracted to the one approaching me. It’s also good to know that I’m not into women who pull hit-and-runs.

  She stops when she’s about three feet away and motions behind her, to her sister. “Mar told me what she did. I’m really sorry about that. And about”—she gestures to my crotch and her nose wrinkles in a grimace—“getting hit with the cart. But in all honesty, I thought you were some weirdo who was stalking me through a grocery store, and you knew what kind of car I drive. You have to admit it’s kind of creepy, plus you made that inappropriate comment about my cleavage, which was completely uncalled for.” What begins as an apology quickly turns into righteous indignation. She snaps her fingers and crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re looking at my boobs.”

  I lift my gaze to her face. “You were talking about them.” She does have a legitimate point about the cleavage comment, but I’m not admitting to that yet, not when her sister pulled a hit-and-run.

  She plants her fists on her hips, eyes narrowed. They’re a pretty honey color, framed with long, thick lashes. She’s not wearing makeup, clearly the exercise wear is authentic, and she’s not one of those women who walks around in spandex all the time pretending she’s been to the gym. Based on the curve of her backside, which I’d been checking out in the grocery store, she definitely puts some work into it.

  “Can I have my purse back, please?” she snaps.

  “Sure.” When she takes a halting step toward me, I hold it out of reach. “As soon as I have your insurance and contact information.”

  She blows out a breath and her eyes fall closed for a few seconds. When she opens them again, she plasters on a sweet smile and holds out her hand. “It’s in my purse.”

  “Nice try, sweetheart, but that’s not going to work.”

  She purses her lips and her nose wrinkles. “Would you stop calling me sweetheart?”

  “Give me a name I can use if it bothers you so much.” Antagonizing her is ridiculously fun. I recognize I’m being an asshole, but then, I feel justified considering the three thousand dollars in damage that’s been done to my Tesla. I’ve had to resort to driving my truck most of the week, which is not as easy to park.

  She sighs. “Rian. It’s Rian, and you are?”

  “Ryan?” I try to fit the name with the woman standing in front of me.

  “Like the boy’s name, except it’s spelled with an ‘i’ instead of a ‘y,’ in case you’d like to write that down somewhere.” She shoots me an annoyed smile. “And you are?”

  “Pierce.”

  “Of course.” She rolls her eyes. I don’t know what that’s all about, and I don’t get a chance to ask because she barrels on, “Well, I’d like to say it’s nice to meet you, Pierce, but under the circumstances that’d be a lie, so…” She gives her head a shake and mutters something else under her breath.

  Beyond my ability to appreciate her appearance, I think I might be even more attracted to how prickly she’s being. “Not big on tact, are you?”

  “Not really, no. Surprising I’m single, huh?” She looks up at the clear blue sky. “So, Pierce, why don’t you take down my contact information so we can deal with the scratch on your steel baby, or whatever, and we can all be on our way.”

  “It’s a three-thousand-dollar scratch.”

  She blinks a few times, mouth dropping open. She shoots a glare over her shoulder. “For the love of Golden Grahams. She couldn’t have parked beside a Civic or something. Had to be an expensive car that’s expensive to fix.”

  I dig my phone out of my pocket, pull up my contact list, and add her name. “Your number?” I consider how differently this might’ve played out if I’d approached her under alternative circumstances.

  Rian rattles off a number, and as soon as it’s added to my phone I call it. Muffled lyrics come from inside the purse dangling from my finger.

  She arches a brow. “Satisfied?”

  “I will be when I have your sister’s license and insurance information.”

  “Mar, get over here,” she calls over her shoulder.

  Her sister trudges our way, looking more than a little cagey, and angry. Which is ironic since she’s the one who hit my car, not the other way around. “What?”

  Rian motions to me. “He needs a picture of your license and insurance information.”

  “My license is at home. You drove.” She’s still doing that hand-twisting thing. “I really thought I tapped it.”

  “Tapped? Feel free to check out the missing paint.” I motion to the side of my car.

  Rian’s eyes go wide as she takes in the long scratch gouged out of the side. “Oh, for frack’s sake. Look at this!” She drags her sister over to see the damage.

  “That could’ve been there before. Maybe I really did bump his car and someone else did that and he’s using us so he can get our insurance to pay for it.”

  “My paint is still on your car.” I point to the streak of black marring the front bumper.

  “Maybe you put it there,” Mar says.

  “Seriously? Well, if you had bothered to stop and get out of your car to look at what you did instead of driving off, you would know. You fled the scene. That’s a crime,” I point out. “Punishable by law.”

  That gets her back up. “I panicked! And obviously you can afford to have it fixed. Look at you.” She motions to my suit. “What is this, an Armani?”

  “It’s a Tom Ford, actually, and I could’ve called the cops and reported it. Do you have any idea what the fine is for that?”

  Rian holds a hand up in front of her sister’s face. “Can you stop talking and get the insurance card out of the glove box? This is so embarrassing.” She directs her next comment at me. “I appreciate you not calling the police on my sister.”

  “Especially since it was an accident,” her sister chimes in.

  Rian grabs her sister by the arm and hauls her about fifteen feet away. They have a brief whispered, but heated, conversation. When they return, Rian passes the keys to her sister. “Get in the car, please.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I’d like to avoid making this situation worse.” Rian has a stare down with her sister that lasts all of four seconds. She heads for the driver’s side until Rian stops her. “Passenger side.” There’s a lot of huffing and muttering of profanity as she rounds the hood and throws herself into the passenger seat.

  I feel a little bad for Rian as she rummages around in the glove compartment and produces the ins
urance card and her license since her sister doesn’t have hers, especially considering how stressed she seems to be over the cost of the repairs. I have her number now, which is nice, although it’s come with quite the price tag.

  Rian rubs her forehead with a sigh. “If you can forward me the quote and the bill for the repairs, we’ll work something out. I don’t know if it’s possible to avoid going through insurance, but we’ll manage it, however it suits you best, considering the circumstances.”

  “I’ll get everything to you in the next couple of days.” I hand her back her purse.

  “Great.” She gives me a smile that in no way matches that single affirmative word. “I’ll just wait until you leave before I do, you know, to avoid further potential damage to your very pretty, very expensive car.”

  “Your thoughtfulness is much appreciated.” I give her a wink, to which she responds with pursed lips, flushed cheeks, and a muttered right.

  I motion for her to get in her car before I get in mine. I even go so far as to hold the door open for her, like the gentleman I can sometimes be. She gives me a strained, slightly frustrated smile as I close her door, then get into my own car.

  Her windows aren’t tinted the way mine are. So despite her best efforts, I can clearly see she and her sister are having some kind of tight-lipped argument. Her sister is also flailing her arms all over the place. Which is quite entertaining. I’m only half paying attention to what’s behind me as I back out of my spot, and nearly end up getting hit by a little old lady, also driving a powder-blue Buick.

  Rian’s eyes are wide, one hand covering her mouth as I slam on the brakes and narrowly miss losing the back end of my car.

  Once the old lady passes, and I’m sure I’m in the clear, I back the rest of the way out and give Rian a jaunty wave as I pass her car.

  Her sister is right. I don’t need the money. In fact, if I wanted to, I could replace this Tesla with a brand new one. But that’s not really how I do things. Just because I have access to excessive funds, doesn’t mean I want to fritter them away on unnecessary toys. Well, more than the ones I already have. I secured three quotes for the repair to make sure my dealership wasn’t trying to scam me.

  Regardless, it’s the principle that matters. Hitting someone else’s car in a parking lot and driving away is a shitty thing to do. And while I feel bad that Rian seems to be the one taking the heat for it, someone needs to assume ownership for the mistake.

  Besides, it’ll give me an opportunity to talk to her again. And despite her prickly demeanor, or maybe because of it, I’m hoping it’s going to be her I deal with.

  CHAPTER 3

  NEGOTIATIONS

  RIAN

  “I seriously can’t believe you!” I keep a tight grip on the steering wheel so I don’t end up flailing, as my hands want to do when I’m agitated like this.

  “That guy was a total asshole.” Marley slouches down in the passenger seat with her arms crossed over her chest like a petulant teenager. Which isn’t far from reality some days. It’s hard to believe she entered the world before I did, considering her lack of maturity in this current situation. Those three extra minutes of life haven’t made her any more aware of the repercussions of her actions.

  “You hit his car! He had every right to be an a-hole.” I’m still going to perseverate on the cleavage comment, and maybe find a way to use that sexist remark to my advantage when it comes to managing paying for the paint job.

  “He was parked way too close to me. It’s his own damn fault I hit his stupid, pretentious car.”

  “Well, I guess you should’ve waited him out and told him about his subpar parking job instead of ruining his paint job. Like we can afford three thousand dollars in repairs right now!”

  “We’ll have the money when we sell those two houses on the beach in a couple of weeks, and the trust comes due soon, so it’s not even really an issue.”

  “The commission and the trust aren’t supposed to be for some guy’s paint job.”

  “Well, he seems to like your rack. I say you use your boobs to get some kind of Tesla repair discount so we don’t have to use the commission money.” Marley pulls out her phone and taps away on the keypad.

  “I’m not using my boobs to get a discount.” I’d like to say it’s odd that my sister and I often have the same train of thought, but it’s not. Being twins means that we frequently already know what the other one is thinking, or planning, before it happens. The more I think about it, the more I consider the validity of her suggestion, regardless of how abhorrent it seems.

  She gives me her bitch brow. It’s the expression where she arches a brow evilly, with a knowing look. “Why the hell not? That asshole was hot, which are two of your favorite qualities in a man. And rich. He’s a rich, hot asshole. And he thinks you’re hot.”

  “I do not like hot a-holes, and he does not think I’m hot.” The truth is, I have a very bad track record when it comes to dating attractive men; they always turn out to be grade-A jerkfaces. I hit the brakes when the light turns yellow and come to a stop before it changes to red. It annoys the person behind me, but I’m nothing if not a safe driver, unlike my sister.

  “I saw the way he was checking you out. You need to capitalize on his hormonal impulses. Use it to get us out of having to pay for his scratched paint.”

  “Are you suggesting I sleep with him so we don’t have to pay for the repairs?” I don’t know why I sound appalled. I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised that Marley has intimated this. It’s totally something she would consider.

  “I didn’t say anything about sleeping with him, but I find it interesting that’s where your head went.”

  “That’s what you were implying!”

  “Actually, no, it wasn’t. I’m just saying he’s smokin’, and he clearly thinks you are too, so you can use that to cut our paint-scratch bill.”

  “Well, if he thinks I’m hot, he thinks you’re hot. So maybe you should sleep with him.” I pull into the driveway of our duplex and come to a jerky stop.

  “Not true. He doesn’t want to hump my rack; he wants to hump your rack.”

  “Our racks are nearly identical, much like everything about us.”

  “Again. Not true. I’m a B cup and you’re a C. You have way more curves and your butt was made for twerking.”

  I glare at my sister. “Are you quite done?”

  “Based on how angry you look, I’m going to say yes. It’s not an insult, Rian; it’s a compliment. I’m a stick with boobs. You actually have a shape.”

  “Please stop.”

  I’m more than a little annoyed by this whole situation. I’m also concerned about having to part with thousands of dollars for an unforeseen car repair. We have financial goals we need to meet in order to execute our plan, and this is going to cause a setback. I don’t like setbacks. Especially the financial kind. We’ve had more than our fair share of those over the past decade, and we’re finally getting our lives on track. I don’t want anything to mess that up, especially not an antagonistic suit.

  For the past few years we’ve been making a decent living in the real estate market, but the real money is in flipping, which requires a lot of capital and a fast turnaround. The quicker the flip the better, and the right piece of property can mean big profits. The kind that can make a bank account sing “Hallelujah.” As long as Marley doesn’t hit any more Teslas.

  I get out of the car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary, and round the vehicle, popping the trunk. It isn’t until I get a load of the whole bunch of nothing inside that I remember all my groceries are still in the cart in the store where I left them, my hour of price matching wasted.

  I bang the trunk closed and walk around to the front of my car, where smudges of black paint mar the bumper. My car once belonged to an elderly person who could only tell if she was close to something when she hit it, so it’s no wonder I didn’t notice the paint smudges until now, since all the edges have dings. None of which a
re my fault.

  “I think you need to look at the positives in this, Ri,” Marley says as she follows me up the driveway to the side entrance. “At least I wasn’t driving the good car.” She pats the Acura on the hood as we pass.

  It would be smarter financially to have only one car, but the truth is, we need two. And one of them has to be nice. Arriving at a showing in a beater doesn’t scream success, and in the real estate market, driving a nice car says very loudly: I’m successful, buy from me, sell through me! It’s a fake-it-till-you-make-it world out there.

  So Marley gets to drive the Acura to all the open houses, and I drive around in an old Buick previously owned by a person who hit stationary objects on a regular basis.

  I key in the code and drag my poor, already achy legs to the second-floor apartment, Marley following close behind. It’s a far cry from the home we grew up in. But when you’re orphaned at eighteen, left with a mountain of debt and an army of enemies, you learn to appreciate what you have, even if it isn’t much.

  This little duplex was a gift from our grandmother, God rest her beautiful, intelligent soul, because without it, Marley and I would’ve been homeless a decade ago. It’s the only thing we have left from Deana Sutter. Thanks to our fraud of a father, everything else we had was either repossessed by the bank or put in foreclosure.

  Marley is an excellent agent and I’m very adept at the money-managing side of our venture. But this bill for the paint is an unexpected expense and puts distance between our financial position and our house-flipping goal. And the ones in the Hamptons are incredibly desirable, particularly the properties surrounding the Mission Mansion.

  It’s a beautiful, although rundown, estate in the more affordable part of the Hamptons, if any of it can actually be considered affordable. Anything on the beachfront boasts prestige and exclusivity, but this unique property and its location make it a desirable piece of real estate, despite the work it needs.

  From what we’ve observed over the past few years, it’s the homes owned by elderly couples or widows and widowers surrounding the mansion that make the best investments. They’re tired of the maintenance, of the busy beaches on the weekend, and the inevitable changes that come with time. They want the warmth from down south, where the temperature never dips below zero. They’re also the same people who last updated their home in the early eighties or nineties, so everything is out of date. And surprisingly for the Hamptons, the prices of some properties aren’t as astronomical as one would think.