Hamptons Heartbreak: A Sizzling Summer Romance (A New York City Romance Book 4)

by Tara Leigh

  “Maybe not, but that’s how it would feel to me.” She looks away for a moment before returning her unwavering gaze to mine, her grip tightening on the towel she’s clutching like a goddamn lifeline.

  “This is a non-negotiable point, Lance. Take it or leave it.”

  “Everything’s negotiable.”

  “Not this.”

  “Why?”

  She shakes her head slowly, a wounded look creeping into her expression. “If you don’t understand, there’s no point explaining it to you.”

  “That makes absolutely no sense.”

  “Yeah? Well, your proposal makes no sense to me.”

  My hand tightens into a fist, and I have to fight the urge to slam it through the window. I need her time; she needs my money. Why can’t Vivienne just accept it and enjoy the next two months? Networking with the Hamptons set isn’t exactly exciting, but it has to be a hell of a lot better than waitressing.

  Seconds pass. Maybe minutes. Vivienne and I are locked in a staring contest, enemy combatants unwilling to back down.

  It’s ironic that we’re just a few feet away from the bed we’ve been fucking in every night for nearly a week. If I agree to Vivienne’s condition, those nights will only be a memory.

  “Have it your way,” I manage to choke out through gritted teeth, feeling like I’m destroying something great for a temporary triumph. “You’ve got a deal.”

  “Fine.” Her voice sounds disappointed, but I don’t bother turning around to see if her expression matches her response. If Vivienne wanted me the way I want her, she wouldn’t have forced this decision on me.

  Her footsteps land softly as she walks out of the room, but they echo inside my mind like gunshots.

  “Meet me downstairs in half an hour,” I call over my shoulder. “Since you want this to feel like a job, let’s go over my expectations and your responsibilities.”

  Chapter 24

  Vivienne

  I lock myself in the small bedroom at the end of the hall and scrub at my damp skin with the towel. But the plush terrycloth does nothing to strip away the film of filth left behind by Lance’s words.

  My expectations.

  Your responsibilities.

  They taunt me now, the collection of consonants and vowels buzzing inside my brain like a pack of angry wasps.

  If I could, I’d crawl under the covers and pretend like the last few minutes was just a nightmare

  But I can’t be late for this mockery of a job interview.

  He wants me to spend the next two months lying my ass off. And worse—I’m going to do it.

  How did this go from The Summer of Me to The Summer of Lies?

  The answer isn’t rhetorical. It’s obvious.

  Lance Welles. That’s how.

  He arrived in my life like a seismic event. A deep underground earthquake that shook the ground beneath my feet, leaving cracks and craters in his wake. Although—that’s not quite true. Yet, anyway. There is no wake. Because Lance isn’t gone. And now I’m forced to navigate this awful arrangement beneath his watchful eyes. One misstep and . . .

  I have no idea. I really don’t.

  I can only cling to what I know is true.

  Whether I am screwing Lance or working for him, I’m disposable.

  But at least our lies will expire, too. By Labor Day, I’ll have one hell of a nest egg. Enough for rent. Enough to tide me over as I build my client list. I won’t have to live with my parents. I won’t have to work for another interior designer.

  When someone says, “Wow. Who designed this? I need to hire them,” the answer will be, “Vivienne Radcliffe.”

  In two months, I’ll be free.

  But for now, I’m a fraud.

  I can pretend to be Lance’s adoring girlfriend. Easily.

  Which is precisely why it will be so damn hard.

  I won’t have to pretend that I love the sound of his laugh. I won’t have to pretend I want to rip his clothes off every chance I get. I won’t have to pretend that the sight of him sends a carbonated cocktail of happiness surging through my veins.

  Because all of those things are true. They have been since practically the moment we met. Well, maybe not the very first moment. I did think he was a cocky ass for a while.

  I don’t know if I can do this.

  When I get downstairs, Lance is waiting for me at the kitchen table. There is a legal pad, a pen, and a bottle of water in front of him, and an identical setup directly across the table for me. I take a seat, uncap the pen, and wait for him to begin.

  “I have a schedule of events for the rest of the summer I expect to attend. I’ll add you to my calendar once we exchange contact information, but in the meantime,” he pushes a piece of paper across the table at me, “you should review this.”

  A humorless smile flickers at the corners of my lips. Lance and I have exchanged bodily fluids, but we never bothered to exchange phone numbers.

  He frowns at me. “Is that a problem?”

  “No.” I write my phone and email address out for him, then rip off the sheet and push it across the table. “There you go.”

  He slides a check back. “Half today and the rest on Labor Day.”

  My bank account isn’t going to know what to do with one hundred thousand dollars. At the very least, it will certainly raise some red flags. I’ll probably get put on a terrorist watch list.

  “How do I know you’ll pay me the other half once the summer is over?”

  He doesn’t blink. “How do I know you won’t take off with fifty thousand dollars today?”

  “Because I keep my promises.”

  “As do I.”

  “Well, okay then. What else do we need to discuss?”

  “If we’re going to pull this off, I expect some degree of intimacy.”

  I uncap the water bottle and take a long sip. “When we’re in public.”

  Lance’s eyebrow lifts, as if reminding me of the irony of this conversation. We’ve been intimate all over this house. “If you insist.”

  “I do.”

  “Any restrictions?”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “I didn’t realize you were so concerned with PDA.”

  “I don’t anticipate bending you over a table in the middle of Le Bilboquet.” I cross my legs and squirm in the chair, trying to alleviate the throbbing in my core. “But if we’re sitting together, and I curve my hand around your neck or stroke my thumb against your inner thigh, maybe lean in to kiss you—”

  His words land like a whip across my back, each lash a white-hot slice of pain. From now on, when Lance touches me, it will be performance rather than passion. And I hate him for it. So. Damn. Much.

  To distract myself, I start reading through the calendar. Beachside barbecues in Sagaponack, Southampton, Sag Harbor, and Water Mill. Dinner parties in East Hampton and Bridgehampton. Cocktails at the Meadow Club. Brunch at the Maidstone Club. Wine tasting at Société du Vin. A clambake. A fundraiser. Two yacht cruises. A polo match. “You need me at all of these?”

  I’ve spent enough time around the rich clients of Abbott Interiors to know the dress code. The wardrobe I have here with me isn’t going to cut it. And I’m not entirely sure what I left behind at my parent’s house will either.

  “Yes. Do you have a conflict?”

  “No. No conflict. Just thinking about what I’ll need to buy.”

  “Buy?”

  “Clothes. What I have here—”

  He eyes my casual outfit. “Right, of course. If you’re going to be my girlfriend, you have to look the part.” He pulls a credit card out of his wallet and tosses it my way. “Go shopping. Buy whatever you need.”

  “You are not buying me clothes,” I protest. And stop acting like a rich, entitled asshole.

  “You’d rather spend your own money on things you might never wear again?”

  I bristle at the suggestion that I’ll never mingle with Hamptons socialites once I’m through with this charade. Screw it, and screw him.


  I pocket the card. If money is all Lance understands, I’ll give him one hell of a lesson.

  Chapter 25

  Lance

  52 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY

  Vivienne tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear, glaring at the mountain of shopping bags I’m trying to shove in the minuscule trunk of my car. “I’d offer to help but since it wasn’t expressly outlined in my expectations, it’s your responsibility.”

  I came with her to make sure she didn’t shop at the sale rack, worrying over every purchase. But I needn’t have worried. Vivienne had absolutely no problem spending my money. I’m not even sure that Missy ever did as much damage in a single afternoon.

  I eventually manage to Tetris them all in and slam the trunk shut with a grunt of satisfaction. “Duly noted.”

  “Where to next, boss?” Sarcasm continues to drip from her lips as she slides into the front seat. “Though I’m going to go cross-eyed if I have to look at another price tag.”

  I start the ignition. “You know what they say, if you have to look, you can’t afford it.”

  “Well, they would be right. There wasn’t a single thing I could afford in that store. I mean, what kind of idiot pays four hundred dollars for a T-shirt?”

  “That would be me. And if I remember right, I bought you half a dozen of them.”

  “Congratulations. You’re an idiot six times over then.”

  “I’ve been called worse.”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  The banter between us has had an edge to it ever since I asked Vivienne to be my girlfriend. My fake girlfriend, anyway. Which is really too bad. I miss the casual, lighthearted dynamic we used to have. A lot.

  But I also need this tension between us. This distance.

  Because, until yesterday, I believed that Vivienne actually wanted to be with me. That she was nothing like my ex.

  But I was wrong. Vivienne needed a paycheck to make room for me in her life.

  At least now I know exactly where I stand. At the front of the line, thanks to my money.

  Even if it meant giving up my place in her bed. Saying goodbye not just to Vivienne’s incredible body but also to her spontaneous laughs, her teasing retorts.

  “And, for the record, I was only looking at the tags to ensure I was spending obscene amounts of your money. They did have shirts for three fifty, but I knew you’d want the best for your sweetheart, right, Mr. Moneybags?”

  I bite back a sigh. “Are you hungry? Do you want to grab a bite?”

  “I guess you want to take me out for a test drive, huh? Where were you thinking—Nick & Toni’s? Or maybe Topping Rose?”

  I grimace at the Hamptons hotspots she mentions. Truthfully, I’d been thinking of the glorified shack out near where I grew up that has the best lobster rolls I’ve ever eaten. “How about something a little more casual?”

  “Right. I’m not in my uniform yet.”

  Vivienne Radcliffe could wear a paper bag, and she’d still look better than anyone else. Although I hate the pinched expression I’ve put on her face.

  “Right,” I force myself to agree. “So . . . how do you feel about lobster?”

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  We drive in silence for a while, and when we pull up to the dilapidated one-room restaurant with outdoor, self-serve seating that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive, Vivienne looks at me in confusion. “You’re taking me here?”

  “You can thank me later. Best lobster in the Hamptons.”

  “Are we still in the Hamptons?”

  Locking the car, I put my key fob in my pocket and extend my hand toward Vivienne. “Barely.”

  She hesitates for a moment before taking it reluctantly. “It’s a little lowbrow for you, isn’t it?”

  “As a kid, this was fine dining.” Not that I could afford it. I would linger near the trash bins, snatching up leftovers before they got tossed. At least, until the cook chased me away.

  “You didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth and Hermès loafers on your feet?”

  I bark out a laugh. “Hardly.”

  Once we have our lobster rolls—the way they’re supposed to be—warm and dripping in garlic and butter—we find an empty picnic table to sit at. The wood is peeling and rough, the legs uneven. With every shift in balance, the table seesaws from one direction to another, sending our beers sliding up and then down.

  But the view is perfect.

  Undulating waves ruffle the turquoise surface of the Atlantic Ocean, the setting sun playing peekaboo through the clouds and painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.

  But it’s the sparkle in Vivienne’s eyes that captivates me, it’s her face I want to engrave into my retinas.

  For a split second, I wish I never suggested this arrangement. That we were still just two people sharing the same house. Because this—butter dripping down my fingers, the taste of warm lobster and cold beer lingering on my tongue, and the smart, sarcastic, sexy-as-fuck girl sitting across from me—is everything I’ve ever wanted.

  Or, at least, it would be. If she wanted me, too.

  “Tell me about Lance Welles,” she says, plucking a piece of lobster from inside her roll and popping it into her mouth, “the one before he had the cash to fund ridiculous shopping sprees and rent houses in the Hamptons.”

  I manage not to wince at the lie I could easily correct. Should correct. What’s the difference if I rent the house or own it?

  I don’t care about the agreement I made with Seth not to tell anyone about his deceit.

  It’s my own that I want to hide. Setting the record straight now would mean admitting that I’ve been lying to Vivienne since the minute I met her. That I used a lie to get her to live with me. That I’ve been sleazy.

  Our alliance is tenuous right now, and I can’t afford to ruin it.

  “I grew up out here. Well, not here. But close enough.” I don’t like telling people about my humble roots, preferring to focus attention on the image I’ve created: a young, successful entrepreneur with the Midas touch. But I can’t bear to feed Vivienne another untruth. “The closest I ever got to a Maserati was looking at a Hot Wheels display in a drug store. I went barefoot more often than not because the only shoes I had were from the dollar bin at the Salvation Army, which was a step up from the donation bins at the library.”

  Vivienne puts down her lobster roll, wiping her mouth with a napkin.

  A pang hits south of my belt buckle. What I wouldn’t give to lick her lips right now.

  “I never would have guessed.”

  “That’s the idea,” I say, taking a swig from my bottle.

  “Is your family still here?”

  “My dad died a few years ago. My mother is who-the-fuck-knows with her latest husband, who I’ve never met.”

  “And your stepsister?” Vivienne asks, the tone of her voice suddenly tentative. She isn’t certain of Krista’s death, but she obviously senses it.

  “I couldn’t rescue her from everything, unfortunately.” I clear my throat. “The coordinates you asked me about, they’re for her gravesite. She’s buried upstate, in a private cemetery on land that’s been in her family for generations. Her family, not mine. I knew I wouldn’t be able to visit much, so . . .”

  Vivienne’s forehead crumples. “Oh, Lance. I’m so sorry. You must really miss her.”

  “Yeah. We didn’t even meet until I was sixteen. She was a few years younger, but we hit it off right away.” I pull my hand away, crumpling the remains of my roll in the paper plate. I’m not hungry anymore. But I don’t stand up.

  “I see her sometimes. I’ll be in a hotel and think I see her across the lobby. Or I’ll pick up the phone to call her.” My head drops, heavy on my shoulders. “Stupid, I know.”

  “That’s not stupid at all. What kind of things do you wish you could talk to her about—did she speak in alphabet soup, too?”

  I look back up, wondering if I’ve misheard. �
��Alphabet soup?”

  “You know, all those acronyms you throw around like actual words. PDQ, XYZ, KLJ.”

  A laugh breaks up some of the tightness in my chest. “I’m pretty sure I never used any of those. And no, she and I were polar opposites. Krista was artistic, creative. Like you, actually. Always drawing or painting.”

  “She sounds great.”

  That tightness comes rushing back, and I lift a hand to my sternum, trying to rub it away. “Yeah. She really was.”

  “The tattoo on your back . . . ?”

  “I was trying to convince her to go to art school and she kept saying she wasn’t any good. So I took one of her sketchbooks and brought it to a tattoo parlor. Thought it would prove that I believed in her.”

  “Did it work?”

  I nod. “She was in her last year at UCLA when—”

  Vivienne looks at me as if she understands. “Well, I bet she’d be proud of you, of all you’ve accomplished. You’ve come a long way.”

  I glance around us. “And yet, I’m right back where I started.”

  Chapter 26

  Vivienne

  It’s unsettling to think of the blond brute in front of me as anything other than a man who has made me his co-conspirator in, if not fraud, at least a lie. But my Viking was once just a little boy.

  A boy who couldn’t afford new shoes.

  A boy who was abandoned by his mother, who lost his father and a stepsister he loved like a sister.

  Knowing his history makes it impossible to look at Lance the same way. And yet . . . nothing has changed. Lance isn’t a little boy anymore. He’s a successful man, one intent on making a liar out of me.

  Standing up, I throw the rest of my lobster roll and beer into a garbage pail a few yards away.

  Lance does the same, and when I turn around, I practically plow into his chest. I swear he has no concept of personal space. “Want to walk along the beach before heading back?”

  No. Any more intimate revelations and the last of my defenses will be in ruins at my feet. I’ll beg Lance to kiss me. Hold me. Fuck me.