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

by Tara Leigh

  I just don’t know what to do about it. About Vivienne.

  I’ve only just returned when Vivienne herself walks through the door. She skirts by me and goes straight to the living room, picking up the pillows that fell to the floor and setting them back on the couch. Rearranging every other pillow until she finally stands back and surveys the rest of the house, looking for anything out of place. It’s a habit of hers, a cute quirk.

  Spotting the glass on the bar cart and the opened bottle, she heads toward it. “Want me to refill your drink?”

  “Ah—”

  She stills when she picks up the glass with Missy’s lipstick clearly imprinted on the edge.

  “It’s Missy’s,” I begin, but Vivienne cuts me off.

  She carries it to the kitchen and places it in the sink. “You don’t owe me an explanation, Lance.” Spinning around, she leans back against the countertop. “I’m just your girlfriend for hire, remember?”

  I rub at my chest, hating the wounded look on her face.

  Joining Vivienne in the kitchen, I take hold of her shoulders. “How about we take the night off—from everything. Let’s go back to the beginning.” My palms slide down her upper arms, and I take a step back, then extend my right hand. “Hey, I’m Lance Welles. I’ll be living here for the rest of the summer.”

  Her eyes drop, my heartbeat thundering as I wait for her to decide whether to give me another chance. Finally, her chin lifts. She meets my gaze again, slowly shaking her head. “I don’t think—”

  “Please,” I urge, knowing I sound desperate and not caring. Hell, I am desperate. “Humor me.”

  She blinks. She sighs. And then, finally, she slides her palm against mine. “I’m Vivienne Radcliffe. And I’m taking care of the house for the summer.”

  “Nice to meet you, Vivienne.” I steel my nerves. “I bought this place a while back and expected it to be vacant. Finding you here is a bit of a surprise.”

  Disappointment flattens her lips as she snatches her hand from my grip. “I thought we were taking the night off from lying.”

  “We are,” I say solemnly. “I own this house.”

  Her jaw loosens, brows knitting together in consternation. “So, you lied to me from the very beginning?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you yet. And at first, I thought you might be in on the scam Seth was running. ”

  “A scam that had me cleaning toilets and mopping floors?”

  “Well, you were pretty content to share your workload.” My attempt at humor falls flat, and I run a hand through my hair, pinching the tightness at the back of my neck. “Once I figured out it was just Seth, I also knew that telling you the truth would essentially mean kicking you out.”

  “That was my choice to make, not yours.”

  “If I told you the truth right away, what would have happened?”

  “I would have packed my things and left.”

  “To go where—the dump in Quogue? Back to your parents?”

  “What did you care? You didn’t know me.”

  “No. I only knew that this gorgeous, sarcastic, irreverent girl was in my house, and I wanted her to stay.” I turn my head, looking through the window at the backyard. The lounge chairs, fire pit, and gazebo that Vivienne chose with such care. The garden that’s thriving because of her efforts. “That’s the extent of my diabolical plan. I just wanted you to stay.”

  Her affronted veneer cracks slightly. “You had Seth lie to me.”

  “I told him to say that I’d leased the house, to return the money he took, and to find somewhere else for everyone he conned.” I bite my lip, hazarding a small grin. “I did not, however, suggest that place to be in Quogue.”

  The lightest of laughs slips through Vivienne’s mouth. “He’s such a douche.”

  “No argument here.”

  She looks over my shoulder. “Well, at least now I know none of this will be destroyed by renters next summer.” Frowning, she looks back at me. “Or are you planning to lease it out?”

  I shake my head. “No. I like keeping what’s mine.”

  Her gaze darkens to the shade of wet moss. “Just because you’re paying me, doesn’t mean I’m yours. You bought my time, but nothing more. I’m not for sale, Lance.”

  I regard her silently for a moment. Nothing that truly matters can be bought. “So, how about it? Can we take the night off? No pretending, no lies. Pick up tomorrow and see where we’re at.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Are you saying that because you want to get in my pants?” Skepticism is woven through every syllable.

  “No,” I say firmly, then add, “Not that I don’t want to. But I’m a grown-ass man, I can keep my hands to myself if that’s what you want.”

  A few beats go by. Enough time for me to wish, yet again, that I could get inside her mind as easily as hacking a top-secret military mainframe. I’d give just about anything to know what she’s thinking. To my surprise, Vivienne hooks her pinky through mine. “I like your hands.” Her chin lifts, her gaze steady as the corners of her mouth twitch upward, just barely, in a cautious half smile. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  Relief hits hard. “I should have told you sooner.”

  “True. But you have now. And I think you’re right. We deserve a night off. Two people, one house, no lies.”

  I want to sweep her into my arms and kiss her until she melts against me, but I settle for shaking her pinky. “Deal.”

  Chapter 38

  Vivienne

  I don’t know what this deal makes us right now, but the thought of a temporary truce—setting aside our lies and my frustration for a night—is irresistible.

  I’m not completely without misgivings. The more time we spend together means more chances to succumb to Lance’s charm. I might capitulate in the face of it, give in to the tempting pulse of energy between us.

  Consequences be damned.

  It’s worth the risk.

  And I’m emotionally exhausted. A night off is exactly what I need. Exactly what we both need.

  I know just how we should spend it, too. “I drove past a carnival yesterday.”

  “A carnival? Like those rickety rides that come into town for a few days and have next to no safety regulations or oversight?” Lance’s face mirrors the distinctly unenthusiastic tone of his voice.

  “Yep. Plus, funnel cake and games with enormous stuffed animals hanging overhead.” As an only child, my parents never took me to carnivals or fairs, their reluctance stemming from the same concerns Lance just mentioned. And maybe because I’d never gone, I still romanticize them.

  “You want me to win you one of those stuffed animals, don’t you?”

  I’m practically bouncing on the toes of my feet. “A unicorn, if they have it.”

  He extends an arm toward the garage door. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  I float into Lance’s convertible and give him directions to the fair. The whole way there, I worry that it’ll be gone. That they’ve already disassembled the rides and booths, picking up for another town, maybe another state.

  But the carnival is right where I remembered, in all its tawdry glory. I clap my hands together as I exit the car, a wide grin splitting my face in two. Lance throws his arm around my waist as we walk up to the window of the rusty trailer where we both get fitted with laminated neon bracelets, allowing us unlimited rides until closing.

  These aren’t the kind of rides you find at Disney or Six Flags, or even much smaller amusement parks. But Lance doesn’t complain as I drag him from the Tilt-A-Whirl to the The Scrambler and The Orbiter. There isn’t a Ferris wheel, but we walk through the Fun House holding hands and making faces at each other in the distorted mirrors. When something jumps out at me before we exit, I scream and vault into Lance’s arms. He carries me out the exit and leans against the exterior wall, holding me against his chest until my heart is racing for a reason that has nothing to do with the Fun House. “Lance,” I whisper, looking up at his face.

  Hi
s smile is slow and intimate, meant just for me. “Worth the price of admission right there,” he mumbles, touching his forehead to mine, the tips of our noses brushing against each other. Our mouths are less than an inch apart, his breath a warm caress across my lips.

  Seconds pass as I wait for Lance to kiss me. Yearning for the press of his mouth, the slide of his tongue, the heated urgency of his touch.

  As if he can read my thoughts, he says, “Tonight is all about you, Red. You’re gonna have to kiss me if that’s what you want.”

  “Is it what you want?”

  His gruff chuckle is more of a groan. “More than my next breath.”

  My heart shimmies inside the cage of my ribs, feeling too full, too heavy, to be contained by mere bones.

  “But don’t do it unless you’re ready to leave. Once you let me kiss you again, I won’t want to stop. And if I do it right, neither will you.”

  When it comes to kissing, Lance does everything right. I close my eyes for a moment, tempted to go back to the house, or even just the car, kissing more than Lance’s mouth. But I resist, pulling my forehead away from his and looking into his eyes.

  I’m not ready to leave yet, to go back to the way things were. As badly as I want to kiss Lance right now, I want this time together, feeling like a real couple, even more. “Let’s not leave just yet.”

  There’s a flicker of disappointment inside those intense whiskey-colored orbs just before Lance loosens his hold, and I slide down the hard plane of his chest, my knees wobbling slightly as I find my footing. His sooty black lashes blink, and when he opens them again, he’s wearing a genuine smile. “Then we’ll stay.”

  It’s not quite night yet, the sky a deep, radiant indigo that still holds on to some of the sun’s warmth. But the carnival lights—bright yellows and reds and whites and blues—lend a festive vibe to the air. We go on a ride shaped like a pirate ship, sitting in the very back row together. Just as it’s about to start, a slew of teenagers run up the platform, three sliding into our row. Lance wraps his arm around my waist as we make room for them. “You okay?” he asks, concern for me stamped across his chiseled features.

  I don’t trust myself to answer. My throat is too tight. I nod instead. Because I am very okay. And this man by my side, riding creaky, rusty rides just because I want to, whose hungry stares make me feel like what’s between us will never expire, is very real.

  A buzzer sounds, the lap bar descends, and with a mechanical groan, the ship begins to move, my Viking by my side. Back and forth we go, rising gradually higher with each pass of the platform until I feel myself lifting off the seat as we hit the highest point of each side, just as far as the bar will allow. It’s a brief reprieve from gravity.

  And for a few moments, I’m as light as air. Weightless.

  My stomach cartwheels at the unfamiliar sensation, my hair lifting off my shoulders, a giggle vaulting through my curved lips.

  Lance and I turn to look at each other, his smile broad and beaming.

  When was the last time I had this much fun with anyone?

  I don’t have to think about it. The answer is precisely the twenty-third of Never.

  And I don’t want the ride to end.

  But, like all things, it does. Just like our temporary truce will end. Like the summer will end. And we’ll end, too.

  The labored noises of the ship sound as disappointed as I feel. Lance takes my hand as the lap bar rises, helping me onto the platform, his palm cinched at the jut of my hip as we follow the crowd to the exit. “What next?”

  My eyes sweep the carnival for our next ride, snagging on one game that stands out from the rest. Or, more accurately, the prizes arranged around it.

  Following the trajectory of my stare, Lance chuckles. “Come on, let’s go win you a unicorn.”

  Chapter 39

  Lance

  Just because I find these traveling carnivals to be tacky and unsafe doesn’t mean I haven’t been to my fair share of them. Growing up, it was practically a rite of passage to take your girl to whatever shit-ass fair pulled into town and win her a prize. And since I didn’t have endless amounts of cash to spend on trial and error, I approached it like I did everything else. Meticulous research.

  Most games are rigged, making it difficult, but not impossible, to win.

  In the milk can toss, the opening is made smaller by welding a concave piece of steel to the rim, reducing it to just one-sixteenth of an inch larger than the softball. Archery games are played using rifles with misaligned sights. Basketball hoops are oval rather than round, but the configuration of the booth prevents players from viewing their altered shape from the side.

  Almost all games can be won if you know how to correct for the con. And it just so happens that the game Vivienne is staring at, the high striker, is one of the easiest to win . . . unless it’s rigged so that no one wins. “Think you’re strong enough to get your girl a prize?” The carnie standing beside a tower brandishes a heavy mallet.

  I pull a bill out of my pocket. “If you prove to me it can be done.” If the carnie can’t ring the bell, the game is rigged so that no one can. But if he does, I know I can.

  The mechanism itself is simple. Hit the metal pad at the bottom of the tower with enough force to send a puck up the track of the tower and ring a bell. But the trick is that the pad must be hit dead center with the flattest side of the mallet. Hit at an angle or only make contact with a corner of the pad, and the puck won’t get high enough to ring the bell.

  He pockets my money and grins, exposing a handful of nicotine-stained teeth standing like crooked tombstones inside his mouth. “Sure thing.”

  I move to the side of the game’s base, keeping my eyes on the metal pad. The carnie swings and makes contact, sending the puck up the tower. After the bell rings, he hands the mallet to me. “There you go, win the lady a prize.”

  I examine the metal head, adjust my grip, and swing like I’m splitting wood. Vivienne’s shout of happiness is almost louder than the bell, and the look on her face when she’s handed a unicorn nearly as big as she is is fucking priceless.

  “Thank you!” she yells, bouncing on her tiptoes to kiss me. It’s meant to be one of those quick pecks, but I grab both her and the unicorn in my arms, extending our kiss until the carnie shouts, “Who wants a kiss like that from their lady? Step right up, five bucks a try!”

  I reluctantly let her down, sending a scowl toward the man and leading a laughing Vivienne away. “What’s next?” I look around at the line of stalls. “Maybe a tiger to go with your unicorn?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m good with just the one. How about funnel cake? Or cotton candy?”

  “That’s it?” I joke, feeling a wave of indigestion coming on. “No fried Oreos or blooming onions?”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m a simple girl.”

  Despite the blaring music and ringing bells and squealing children, Vivienne’s statement resounds inside my ears. She’s right. There is a refreshing pureness to Vivienne that I haven’t quite appreciated until now. She isn’t swayed by the glamorous parties I’ve brought her to, or the expensive clothes I bought for her. The only indication that she cares about money at all was when she was nervous to drive my car or concerned that I was spending too much on furniture for a house I didn’t own.

  Rather than shop at expensive art galleries in Southampton, Vivienne seeks out unknown artists just starting out in their careers, buying from them directly and highlighting their work on her social media accounts. When she buys food, it’s always from a local farmer’s market or family-owned storefront rather than a corporate grocery chain.

  And tonight, at this crappy carnival, she’s the happiest and most relaxed I’ve ever seen her.

  After I buy our snacks, we look for a place to sit, but the few picnic tables are filthy. “We’re done with rides and games, right?”

  At her nod, I begin waking toward the nearly empty parking lot. Handing Vivienne her enormous swath of
pink and blue cotton candy, I squeeze the stuffed animal into the back seat before sliding onto the hood and pulling her along with me, her ass nestled between my thighs, her back to my chest.

  “Comfy?” I murmur into her hair, which is a windblown riot of red that feels like silk against my neck.

  “Yes.” She pulls off a corner of the funnel cake and brings it up to my mouth, confectioners’ sugar blowing off the top in a white mist.

  I take the bite with my teeth, holding on to her slim wrist to lick the sugar off her fingertips. “So damn sweet,” I murmur.

  Vivienne’s only reply is a sharp intake of breath, followed by an almost inaudible moan.

  Together, we eat the funnel cake. Her feeding me, me feeding her. The taste of her fingers is better than the fried dough. And the feel of her tongue licking my fingers is . . . well, downright exquisite.

  By the time we’ve moved on to the cotton candy, I only want one thing in my mouth: Vivienne.

  But I’m sticking to my metaphorical guns. I won’t have her looking at me with tears of accusation swimming in her eyes. Tonight has been fucking amazing, and if all I get to do is suck on Vivienne’s fingers, I’m good with that.

  And my dick will just have to get over himself.

  Waving what’s left of the cotton candy, Vivienne says, “I can’t eat another bite.”

  “Me neither.”

  She looks over her shoulder at me, questioning. “No?”

  I nip playfully at the side of her neck, licking at her skin. “Not food, anyway.”

  Her eyes heat, those lips of hers coated in sugar like a candied apple, and slightly parted. I move closer, and she doesn’t back away. But I meant what I said about her having to kiss me. I merely glide my tongue along her lips, tracing the curves, tasting her amplified sweetness.

  And then I pull back, grinning. “Delicious.”