by Tara Leigh
Anything is possible in the Hamptons.
Including, apparently, nothing. When I glance over at Lance, I realize why.
He’s sleeping.
For a moment, I just look at him. The overhead light is still on, illuminating the ruggedness of his features. The sharp jut of his cheekbones, the wiry blond hairs of his brows, the full slash of his mouth over a cleft chin. In sleep, he’s relaxed. Almost boyish. There is no insolent smirk, no brazen stare. My Viking looks so peaceful.
The interior light dims, though the streetlights still provide a waxy, yellowing glow. After only a minute, he stretches, all those muscles rippling and flexing. Yum. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
I was perfectly content admiring the view. “It’s okay. I’m not in any rush.”
Lance’s hand snakes around my neck, pulling me close. And I melt. This. This is what I’ve wanted all night.
Our mouths meet, and for a second, we both inhale at the same time. I angle my head to the side, feeling his tongue sweep along my mouth. Tasting me.
And then his phone ruins it. God, I hate his phone. “Do you need to get that?” I whisper.
Lance’s response is to work his fingers into my hair, tightening his grip on me and deepening our kiss.
But his phone keeps chirping.
Lance releases me, starting the car, and I ease back into my seat. “To be continued.” He pulls onto the street, making it two whole blocks before the phone starts chirping again. The screen on the console flashes with a name. NASH.
“Take it,” I say, feeling Lance’s anxiety rising. “I don’t mind.”
He taps a button on his steering wheel, and a voice comes through the Bluetooth speakers like a crack of thunder on a dry day. “Network Tech just got hit with a ransomware demand. We’re days away from—”
“Slow down. I’m in the car.” Lance glances over at me. “And I’m not alone.”
Nash, or whoever is on the other end of the call, barely pauses. “I need you and your best team in Nebraska asap. I have a plane gassed up and waiting for you at the private airfield in Westhampton and another sitting on the tarmac in San Jose.”
“Have you heard?” Savannah’s question is a screech, the words all blending together as I unlock the front door. It’s nearly midnight. I’m alone, and Lance is on his way to Nebraska.
So much for our night together.
“Heard what?” I’ve been dying to talk to her about everything, but now I’m instantly on alert. We grew up on the same street, our parents are friends. Savannah could be talking about the engagement announcement of a former frenemy she saw on Instagram or my father having a heart attack on the front lawn.
“The house! Seth just sent a group message saying there’s been a scheduling issue, and our house is no longer available. He’s moving us to Quogue.”
“I—”
“He’s refunding our money, but that’s not what’s important. Quogue, Vivienne. That’s not the Hamptons.”
“I—”
“So, have you heard? I didn’t see your name in the message.”
I pause for a second, waiting to see if she’ll interrupt again. I sigh. “Yeah, I heard.” I’ve been so wrapped up in Lance that I’ve barely given any thought to how the share house situation would impact Savannah. Crap. I’m such a shitty friend. “I’m sorry. It just—it happened really fast.”
“You knew? Did Seth tell you?”
“Um, yeah. Kind of.”
I hear the pop of a bottle being opened. Probably one of those horrid Kombucha drinks she lugs out here every weekend and then keeps in the back of the fridge, writing her name on the bag in enormous block letters. As if anyone else would want them. “Spill it, Viv.”
I don’t even know where to begin. But I do, starting with Lance surprising me in the yard and ending with Seth’s text. (And leaving out Lance’s tendency to lose track of his towels.) “Apparently, Seth rented the house to him, too.”
“Wait—setting aside that this guy showed up out of nowhere and proceeded to help you scrub toilets—I don’t understand what the problem is. If there’s not enough beds, we’ll just squeeze an air mattress somewhere.”
I can’t help but laugh at the image of Lance blowing up his own bed and sleeping next to a Ping-Pong table. “No, he didn’t buy a share in the house. He rented the entire place for the rest of the summer.”
“The whole house . . . just for himself? Jeez.” I can hear her mentally calculating how much that must have cost. “Fine. He’s rich. But why does his agreement with Seth trump ours? That’s not fair at all.”
I run a hand through my hair. Life isn’t fair.
“What’s it like?”
“What’s what like?
“The new house. You’re there now, right? It sucks that we’re in Quogue, but Seth didn’t shove us in some dump, did he?”
My pulse kicks up. “I don’t know, actually. I—”
“Oh my God, did you quit? Did Seth fire you? Are you back at your parents?”
This conversation would be so much easier if we were having it in person. “None of the above. I’m still in Southampton.”
Savannah draws a sharp breath. “Wait a minute … are you staying there? With the guy who stole our house?”
“His name is Lance. And he didn’t steal the house. Seth screwed up. It’s not Lance’s fault.”
“Whatever,” she brushes me off. “I just don’t understand, what are you doing there?”
“Exactly what I did before. Taking care of the house. And he—”
“Uh, no. You’re living with a guy you just met. For. The. Summer.”
“I’ve been living with strangers for the past month.”
“That’s different, and you know it.” She pauses and takes a gulp of whatever noxious concoction she’s drinking this week. “Tell me about him, this house thief.”
“Lance.” I hesitate. “He’s nice. And I was trying to tell you, he hired me to fix up the house.”
“What’s there to fix? You’ve been there all summer—the place is gorgeous.”
“The house itself is gorgeous. But it looks like what it is, a share house for a bunch of drunk adults trying to relive their college days.”
“And Lance wants you to make it look like something out of a magazine?”
I’m grinning. “Yes. And I’ll be able to take pictures of it for my portfolio. Savannah—this is huge for me. On my own, I would never get a job like this.”
“You were absolutely made for a job like this. It’s going to be gorgeous, and Lance and his boyfriend had better tell all of their friends about their new genius interior designer.”
A laugh breaks free from the tightness in my chest. “What boyfriend?”
“Come on, Lance has to be gay, right? Wanting a place he’s renting for two months done to the nines. Asking you to stay with him and not hitting on you.”
“Well, technically, it’s not for Lance. The owner—”
“Viv! Oh my God, I’ve been so thrown by this whole house thing, I didn’t notice the way you say his name.”
“Lance?”
“Yes. It’s like those five letters make you smile.”
I touch my lips, feeling them curve beneath my fingertips.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Does he make you smile?”
As I hear Savannah’s laptop chime with a series of notifications, I think. Yeah. He does.
I’m about to tell her everything but Savannah says, “Shoot. I have to go, but you are not off the hook. I want to hear all the details. In the meantime, just tell me his last name.”
“You are not cyberstalking him.”
“Vivienne, Google is your friend and so am I. This is what friends do,” she admonishes. “Don’t you want to know if you’re living with a criminal? Or a billionaire?”
“Are those the only two options?”
“You wouldn’t need options if you googled him. You would know.”
> “Savannah, this summer is about me, not a guy. Me.”
She sighs. “Fine. Will I see you this weekend or will you be busy dusting Lance’s shelves?”
“Very funny. Drop your stuff at the new place in Quogue and then come over. You can help me Windex the mirrors.”
Chapter 18
Vivienne
58 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
“Holy shitballs, Batgirl.” Savannah throws herself onto the living room couch and gazes up at the enormous fan made of reclaimed wood I had installed yesterday. “I can’t believe what you’ve done with the place.”
I feel a little thrill of pride run through me, even though I’m not even close to finished. Truthfully, it isn’t hard to make this house shine. I’ve kept things fairly neutral and tailored, and now I’m just adding texture by upgrading the lighting and fixtures. Over the next few weeks, I’ll layer in the finishing touches—artwork and accessories. “Thanks, Savvy.”
“So, what did you say Lance’s last name was?”
“Very funny. I didn’t, and you know it.”
She sticks her tongue out at me. “You know, I tried getting it out of Seth and he acted like he was guarding a state secret. Just tell me, is he a celebrity? A professional athlete? A politician?” She sucks in a breath. “Is he married?”
“No. None of the above. He owns a cybersecur—”
Savannah cuts me off. “Say no more. He’s a suit, isn’t he?”
I think of the clothes I’ve seen Lance wear. Dark jeans, crisp button-downs, khaki shorts, polo shirts. I bet he’d wear the hell out of a suit. “Yep.”
“Damn. I was really starting to get invested in this one.”
A laugh leaves my lungs as I set two glasses of iced tea down on the shagreen cocktail table—using coasters, of course. “Yeah, that’s my problem too.” I sink into the chair opposite Savannah and cover my face in my hands. “Ugh. What is it with me falling for guys I really shouldn’t?”
“You tell me,” Savannah asks wisely, and I shoot her an annoyed look.
“Don’t use your interview voice with me. I’m not one of your research subjects.”
“I’ll have you know that this interview voice is responsible for some pretty incredible breakthroughs. Like last week, I was talking to a woman who witnessed her own father murder her mother when she was a little—”
Now it’s my turn to cut her off. “Stop right there. True crime is not my jam. Remember that podcast you made me listen to a few years ago? I still have nightmares about it.”
“Okay, okay. I won’t tell you about my work, but I do want to hear more about what’s going on with you and Lance.” She looks around. “Where is he, by the way?”
“Nebraska.”
“Will he be mad I’m here?”
The possibility hadn’t occurred to me when I invited Savannah over. “I don’t think so.”
She takes a slow sip of her iced tea. “Good. Now, tell me more about him. About you and him.”
“There’s not much to tell.” Not yet, anyway. We only spent one night together. Well, one night and two days. But I tell Savannah about it all, even the parts I either skated over or didn’t get to when we spoke the other night. Nearly setting me on fire. Cleaning bathrooms. Walking in on him naked. Our dinner. My tequila-fueled oversharing.
What happened in the pool.
What didn’t happen in the hammock.
“It broke? Just like that?”
I nod glumly. “Just like that.”
“So, then what happened?”
“We aired out the house. The furniture trucks arrived. And then I had to go to work.”
“After that,” she says impatiently. “You saw him after you got back, right?”
“Only for a few minutes. He picked me up—”
“He picked you up? Like, from work?”
“Yeah. He’s funny about me getting back here at night.”
“Funny how? Protective or possessive? There’s a big difference.”
“It’s not creepy. I don’t know. He has a thing against taking cabs for some reason.”
Savannah makes a soft grunt. “Honestly, I can’t blame him. Remember that case I told you about—the killer cabbie? I don’t even like getting into taxis by myself anymore, and that guy is locked up for life.”
“Maybe Lance heard about it, too.”
“Oh, it was horrible. He killed at least six—”
I slap my palms against my ears. “Hey!” I wait until I see Savannah’s mouth stop moving before letting my hands drop. “Anyway, he picked me up but then he got a work call and he had to go.”
“To Nebraska.”
“Yep.”
“So, explain to me why you think this guy should be off-limits. He sounds fan-freaking-tastic to me.”
“I’m just worried I’m repeating the same mistakes with Lance as I did with Richard. He got me this job. And now we’re living together. If things go south, I’ll be out on my ass with nothing again. In the hammock, I’d pushed all that aside and decided to go for it. But since then . . . I’m not so sure.”
“Is Lance like Richard?”
“No. I mean, there are a few things that are similar, but—”
“Like what?”
“Just the way they carry themselves. Like they’re totally comfortable in their own skin.”
She barks out a laugh. “Richard? No way. He is one of the least confident men I’ve ever met. He puts on a good front though. I was just in Texas and they have the perfect expression for it—all hat and no cattle.”
Savannah has a thing for quirky idioms she picks up from her travels.
“Really?” A frown of confusion burrows between my eyes.
“Yes. And I’ll bet that’s why he treated you like the hired help. You’re smart and creative and everything you’ve achieved, you’ve done all on your own. Meanwhile, Richard is a glorified pencil-pusher who only has a job because Mommy and Daddy own the company.”
“That’s not true,” I disagree. Richard might not have inherited the design talent of his parents, but he’s incredibly organized and efficient. He never missed a single detail, and Abbott Interiors was only able to grow at the pace it did because Richard made sure the bills were paid on time, vendors and contractors were held accountable for their budgets and timelines, and clients were kept informed of every aspect of their projects. “He’s the glue that holds that company together.”
“Oh, honey.” Savannah shakes her head. “No one remembers the glue. Only the stars.”
For a moment, I feel a ripple of sympathy for Richard. Savannah’s right. Richard will never be featured in Architectural Digest or the Style section of the New York Times, like his parents often are. And maybe that’s what he craves. Recognition, and the financial rewards that come with it.
Abbott Interiors is successful, and Richard is compensated well. But there were times when I could see his cool smile falter and something like envy twist his lips instead. He might be able to rent a house in the Hamptons, but definitely not an oceanfront property like this. And not for two whole months.
“Look.” Savannah draws my attention back to her. “Don’t throw up a wall with Lance because of your douche of an ex. And besides, Lance isn’t actually paying you. You’re doing him and his friend a huge favor by making this house into a knockout. The way I see it, you two are even. And if this guy’s as amazing in bed as he was in the pool, it would be a tragedy not to spend the rest of the summer enjoying every minute.”
Chapter 19
Lance
59 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
Most of my work with RiskTaker can be handled remotely, but not all of it. Some situations require a more personal touch. And with Tripp juggling a wife, an almost-teenaged daughter, and a new baby, that person is me.
The situation in Nebraska took two days to resolve, but the ransomware attack was foiled and Network Tech’s systems are running smoothly once again. I arrive back in the Hamptons, where Tripp and Jolie are wait
ing for me.
“I’m dying to hear all about your new girlfriend,” Jolie says as I get into the back seat of their Range Rover, which isn’t nearly as roomy as it should be, especially with the car seat buckled behind Tripp.
Ken Kendrick, one of the richest men in the country, is hosting a barbecue at his estate in East Hampton today, and he’s our first choice to join the newly established board of the RiskTaker Foundation, the charitable initiative Tripp and I launched a little over a year ago, which so far has only three members. Tripp, Jolie, and me.
To expand our pilot program nationwide, we need a team of wealthy and well-connected philanthropists to join us.
“There’s not much to tell.” And Vivienne’s hardly my girlfriend . . . though after implying to Tripp that she was more than just an unexpected arsonist inhabiting my house, I’ve definitely warmed to the idea.
“Where’s she from? How’d you two meet? What’s she like? Come on, I’ve barely left the house all week and my most interesting conversation today was the hour I spent on the phone with my lactation consultant talking about Joey’s nipple confusion. Help a girl out, would you?”
“For fuck’s sake. Jolie, you know I adore you. But I want to hear about your nipples about as much as you want to hear about my balls.”
She laughs. “I’ll trade you. No more nipples for a rundown on your new girlfriend—what’s her name?”
“Vivienne.”
“Vivienne. I like the sound of her already. Keep going.”
“How much longer until we get to the Kendrick’s?” I ask Tripp pleadingly.
“You have about six minutes before you’re free.”
Jolie adds, “Quit stalling.”
Do I even know enough about Vivienne to fill six minutes? “We met through my real estate agent. She’s helping me with the house.”
“Helping you . . . how?”
