I Flipping Love You

by Helena Hunting

At five thirty Marley decides she’s had enough of the volleyball boys, and we head back to the beach house.

  She grabs my arm as she stumbles up the steps and flops down on the couch once we’re inside. “Oh wow, it’s so much cooler in here.”

  “You should put on some after-sun lotion.” Neither of us is particularly fair, but she’s been out there for hours and I doubt she thought to reapply. I cross through to my bedroom and root around in my overnight bag for the aloe lotion. By the time I return, she’s relocated to her bed and she’s already passed out. I adjust her position so she’s on her side and put a garbage can beside her in case she can’t make it to the bathroom. I didn’t monitor her consumption, but she’s had far more to drink than me.

  While she’s napping, I take a quick shower, throw on a pair of jeans and a loose shirt, and pull my hair up in a messy bun. An hour later she’s still fast asleep and my stomach is rumbling. I don’t want to wake her on the off chance she’ll get up ready to party.

  Instead, I head down the beach toward the restaurants so I can grab us some food.

  There are some nice restaurants along the beach, many of which boast a lovely view of the Mission Mansion in the distance. We’re still quite a ways off financially from being able to buy it if it went on the market, but we’re closer now than we’ve ever been to the one part of our past that I’d love to have back.

  I glance at the patio to my left. Couples sit across from each other, hands clasped, wine glasses full, appetizers waiting to be shared, bodies angled toward each other as they engage in private conversation. It’s intimate and romantic, something I haven’t had in such a long time. It’s then I realize I’m back at the scene of my horrendous date with Terry and am once again staring at Pierce. Unless I had far too much sun. In which case, I’m having a hallucination and he’s not actually here.

  “Hey.” He lifts a hand in greeting, a small questioning smile on his full lips. He’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a crisp white golf shirt. I’m grateful he’s fully clothed this time.

  It means my mouth works slightly more efficiently. “I’m really not stalking you, despite how this looks.” Or maybe my mouth is still a problem.

  “That’s rather unfortunate. I’m actually quite fond of the idea of you stalking me.” He slips the papers in front of him into a leather messenger bag. “Where’s your sister?”

  “Sleeping off the booze she drank this afternoon.”

  “Ah.” He nods in understanding. The server drops off a glass of wine and a plate of calamari, the delicious aroma wafts over me, making my mouth water and my stomach rumble.

  I take a step back. “I should let you eat.”

  “Or you could join me this time.” Pierce pushes out the chair to his right. “The calamari here is fantastic.”

  “Oh, uh. Thanks, but—” I take another step back, flustered.

  “You don’t like calamari?”

  “I like calamari, but I—”

  “Still don’t want to have dinner with me?” he asks, head tilted, fingers tapping on the table.

  “I was going to pick up some takeout and bring it back to the house.”

  “I thought you said Marley was sleeping off her drinks.”

  “She is. I’m not really dressed appropriately for this place, though.” I adjust my shirt, drawing attention to my distressed jeans with the strategic tears all the way up my thighs.

  “You look perfectly appropriate. Come keep me company.” He taps the chair to his right again, eyebrow raised in challenge. As if this is some kind of dare.

  The car situation is sorted out so there’s no chance of blackmail, and he’s been nice about us staying in his rental despite Marley and the hit-and-run. I don’t want to be rude. I can order takeout and sit with him while I wait. It’s not like this is going to turn into a date.

  Pierce stands and pulls out the chair kitty-corner to him. He tucks me into the table before taking his seat again. Moving the calamari between us, he hands me a set of silverware and beckons the server over.

  “What would you like to drink? My sister usually gets the sauvignon blanc with the calamari.”

  “That would be perfect, thank you.” I try to recall what the cost per glass is from the last time I was here.

  “We’ll take a bottle, please,” Pierce tells the server who sets a menu on the table and leaves us alone.

  He props an elbow on the table and leans in. “You got a little sun today.” I startle when he skims my cheek, and once again, the connection between our eyes and the point of physical contact create a current that steals my breath.

  I’m caught, trapped, unable to break eye contact.

  The server returns with the wine, snapping the spell. I still haven’t looked at the menu, so I ask for a few more minutes. I have to wonder how long we sat there, staring at each other, or if our server is just very fast.

  Pierce takes a sip of his wine and I do the same, flipping open the menu so I have somewhere else to look that isn’t him.

  “Did you play football in college?” I blurt the question before I can really consider what I’m asking. It’s a weird lead-in.

  “Not college, but I played in high school. Why?”

  I lift a shoulder. “You look like the kind of guy who would play. Were you a quarterback?”

  “I played offensive line. Think you got me all figured out?” He stabs a piece of calamari with his fork and pops it into his mouth.

  I roll my eyes. “No. You just have that look.”

  “What look?”

  “The jock look. Like you played all the sports and were probably good at them without even having to work at it.”

  He laughs. “Well, that’s untrue. I didn’t love playing football, but my father wanted me on the school team so I endured it for a few years. I’m better at golf. What about you? Did you play sports in high school?” He leans back in his chair. “Wait. Let me guess. You were a cheerleader.”

  “I don’t think I fit the cheerleader profile.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?” He nudges the plate of calamari closer to me, encouraging me to try some.

  “Friendly, chipper.” I unfold my napkin and spread it across my lap. I cross one leg over the other, my foot brushing Pierce’s shin.

  “You don’t consider yourself friendly?”

  “What did you call me before?” I tap my lip. “Prickly.”

  “I like your prickly.”

  “You’re kind of intense, huh?”

  He hitches a shoulder and smiles. “So are you.”

  I shove another piece of his calamari in my mouth and browse the menu so I’m ready to order when the server comes back. This place is expensive and not what I would’ve chosen had I not run into Pierce. I settle on pasta—a smart and cost-effective choice.

  “So is Amalie your only sibling?” I ask once I’ve placed my order.

  “I have a younger brother. What about you?”

  “It’s just me and Marley. So you’re the oldest of three?”

  “I am. Let me guess, you muscled your way in front of your sister so you could be the first born.”

  “Ah.” I hold up a finger. “That’s where you’re wrong. She was first out of the gate. I was behind her by three minutes. She took her sweet old time getting out, so she was born at eleven fifty-eight and I was born at twelve oh one, so technically we don’t even have the same birthday.”

  “So you were prickly right from your first breath, then,” he says with a smile.

  “Seems that way.”

  “Tell me about the date you were on the other night.”

  Oh, no way. That was mortifying the first time around; I don’t need to relive it. “There’s not much to tell. You saw how it ended.”

  “I assume he’s tried to reschedule, though.”

  “How would you know that?”

  Pierce crosses one leg over the other, posture deceptively relaxed, but his eyes are sharp. “He’s not an idiot. He knows he’s dating up
with you.”

  I’m sure my confusion is obvious. What does that even mean? “Dating up?”

  “As in, he’s aware that you’re out of his league and that he’s lucky to have had an opportunity to go out with you at all. Especially with a name like Terry.”

  “What’s with everyone ragging on his name? My name is Rian. I sure don’t have a right to make fun of anyone else’s name.” I take another sip of my wine, mostly to keep my mouth and hands busy. Pierce does that chuckle thing. I fight the urge to look at him, and lose. “What’re you laughing about?”

  “I think your name suits you perfectly, and I think Terry’s name suits him perfectly, but I don’t think you and Terry suit each other at all, so I’m curious as to how you met and how many times you’ve been out.”

  “What is this? Some kind of dating inquisition?”

  “Like I said, I’m curious. Especially since you’ll go out with him and not me.”

  “Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?”

  “Only by chance.” He props his chin on his clasped hands, giving me his full attention. It’s unnerving. “So back to this Terry guy. I want to know how he managed to get you to willingly go out with him, yet I have to pretty much blackmail you into it.”

  “If you must know, I met him through a dating site,” I mutter into my glass.

  “Excuse me?”

  I glance up to find him staring at me with disbelief.

  “Don’t give me that look. Lots of people use online dating sites. It helps weed out the undesirables, and it’s a lot better than the kind of guys I’d find in the bar.”

  “Based on what I witnessed the other day, I’m not so sure the site you’re using is doing a very good job at the weeding part, or the matching you up with someone appropriate.”

  “Oh? How would you know what’s appropriate for me?”

  He lifts a casual shoulder. “I’m calling it how I see it. Terry isn’t a good match for you. Even my sister agrees.”

  “Well, you’re wrong about that. Terry and I are a nine out of ten on the compatibility scale.”

  He arches a brow. “Is that so?”

  “It is so.” Why do I enjoy this tension so much? I avoid guys like Pierce for a reason. I might be attracted to him, but I’m well aware nothing good can come from dating someone like him. Especially if he ever found out about my past and my scandalous family history. The last guy I told couldn’t ditch me fast enough. His excuse? He couldn’t associate with someone who came from a family of thieves. Those were quite literally the words that came out of his jerk mouth.

  “And how exactly does one determine a nine out of ten level of compatibility?”

  “There’s a test.”

  “Of course there is.” He pulls out his phone. “Which site would I find the test on?” He starts thumb typing. “Is it e-Love Forever, or The Right Fish, or oh, what about this one, LoversRUs?”

  “It’s none of those.” I shrink down in my seat, my face heating under his scrutiny. “It’s a paid site. Those are better.”

  “Ah yes, that makes sense. So Match4Life then?”

  I purse my lips and glare.

  “Perfect.” He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and flips it open, slipping out a black Amex.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Setting up an account so I can take the test.”

  “But why?”

  “So I can see how compatible we are, of course.”

  “Oh, of course.” I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he’s making fun of me.

  We’re both silent as he fills in the credit card information. Next he completes his general profile. My curiosity piques when he gets to the questionnaire portion of the test. I don’t know what I want more, for the test to come back determining we’re incompatible, or the opposite.

  “Height, six two,” he mumbles, “Am looking for, hmm…” He scrolls through the options. “What did you put down here? Hang out? Is that like playing video games in Terry’s basement apartment in his mother’s house?”

  “Haha. He has a condo, and he doesn’t live with his mother.”

  “So he says. Have you been to his place?”

  “No! Absolutely not!”

  He chuckles. “Good to know. So just dating then, or did you go with long-term?”

  I hold my glass with both hands to keep from biting my fingernails. I feel far too exposed with this line of questioning. “I put dating.”

  He quirks a brow but says nothing as he clicks boxes and makes selections.

  “You should put athletic for body type,” I say, to be helpful.

  “What did you put?”

  “Average.”

  Pierce’s gaze roams over me in a slow sweep. “There’s nothing average about you, Rian. Terry is average. You are spectacular. Too bad that’s not a category.”

  I watch as he types in his profession, a little surprised by his response.

  “You’re a lawyer?”

  “I am.”

  “But you own rental property? Are you a real estate lawyer?” My mouth is suddenly dry, and I try to tamp down on the panic. I don’t go by my given last name. It’s unlikely he’d be able to connect me to my father and the shitstorm he caused almost a decade ago, and Pierce doesn’t look old enough for that to be relevant. But still, it’s another potential red flag. In the past, when people have found out who our family is, it can be painfully embarrassing. Career-wise it could be damaging.

  He laughs. “No. I’m a patent lawyer.”

  That’s a relief. “Here in the Hamptons?” I wasn’t aware there was much to patent around here, except maybe boob jobs and collagen injections.

  “No, I work out of Manhattan most of the time. It’s not a particularly riveting job. Mostly it’s a lot of paperwork and attention to small details. The rental properties are a hobby.”

  “How do you manage a hobby in the Hamptons when you work out of Manhattan? That seems like a long commute.”

  “I’m, uh, taking the summer off, so I’ll be back to boring patents in Manhattan soon enough. But I like working with my hands, so for now it fits.”

  “If patents are boring, why are you going back after the summer?” I press.

  Pierce rubs the blue-black nail with the pad of his thumb. “Obligation and financial security are the two primary reasons.”

  “Ah, but if those two factors weren’t in the way, what would you do?”

  “I’d create and fix things. As a kid, I was always taking stuff apart and figuring out how to put it back together, or making things out of other people’s junk. Drove my dad nuts, but I loved it. Still do, I suppose.”

  I glance at his hands; the ones that did all the work on the rental. They’re nice hands, despite the nicks and scabs and the one black nail, or maybe that’s what makes them nice. “Well, you’re good with them.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He winks, and I roll my eyes.

  “You’re getting distracted.” I tap the edge of his phone.

  “Right. Well, I think it’s almost pointless to finish. I already know what the outcome is going to be.”

  “You think so?”

  “Most definitely. The test will determine, without a doubt, that you and I are meant to be, and all this denying me the opportunity to take you on a real date is futile.” He focuses on the test again. “Describe my personality in one word?” He scrolls through the list. “Hipster? Princess? I’m at a loss here since they don’t have asshole as an option. Any suggestions?”

  “Hmm, that’s tough.” I spin the stem of the glass. “What about professional, or athletic? Those fit.”

  “Professional sounds too stuffy, like I sit behind a desk all day and tell people what to do.”

  “Is that accurate?”

  “Not currently, no. And athletic has other implications. I don’t want people to think all I want to do is go for runs and pump iron and look at my own reflection.” Pierce clicks animal lover.

  �
��Do you have a lot of pets?”

  “I have a rescue dog.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “That’s me, sweet as pie.” He flashes a grin and moves on to intent. “Wow. So there’s a category for looking for marriage, huh? That must be for the superserious online daters. Don’t want to give any mixed messages, I guess. Is that what you picked?”

  I shoot him a dirty look. “I put dating, but nothing serious.”

  “Really? I would’ve pegged you more for a relationship kind of woman, not the casual hookup kind.”

  “Guess you pegged me wrong.” He’s not wrong, actually. As much as I might like a boyfriend, I have some trouble staying in a relationship once I’m in one. Being open and honest with a background like mine proves difficult. The last serious relationship I had went up in a ball of flames when I stupidly trusted the guy enough to tell him things I obviously shouldn’t have. Hence, I want to date, but not get to the point where I have to share. Besides by putting “dating, but nothing serious,” I think it casts a wider net, even if I only date one guy at a time.

  He moves on to the question about his longest relationship. I’m surprised when he scrolls to over three years. That’s a long time to be with one person. My longest relationship was almost two years, but that was in high school. Since then I haven’t made it past seven months. I wonder what happened to end his, and who initiated the breakup. I decide it was probably him. I imagine she wanted to settle down and he wasn’t ready to commit.

  I avert my gaze when he moves on to income. Based on his credit card, it has to be pretty significant. You can’t get a black Amex without a hefty bank account. When he finishes the survey portion, he moves on to the description. “I feel like I’m writing my Miss America Pageant speech.” He types away for several minutes before he finally hits submit. “Now what?”

  “You can check for matches.” I don’t know why I’m suddenly so nervous.

  “I don’t want to check for matches. All I want to see is how compatible this site thinks we are.”

  “Then I guess you pull up my profile.”

  “Which is what?”

  “JustBeachy90.”

  “You didn’t use your name?”

  “Are you kidding? Never use your real name on a dating profile unless you want some creep to knock on your door in the middle of the night.”