Love at First Fight

by Carrie Aarons

  With her gorgeous hair and baby pink slip dress, she looks like she belongs in some London nightclub VIP booth, rather than a beachside bar in the Hamptons. But no matter where she goes, or dresses, Heather typically seems to fit in. She’s a social butterfly, one whose job at a fashion magazine gives her access to the best trends and newest products. She can charm a venomous snake, and I get the feeling she might try to do just that with Smith this summer.

  The only thing stopping her is my bitter annoyance toward his hatred of me.

  “Come on, it’s time for shots!” She claps her hands, and I cringe.

  “Do we have to?”

  “Just one for courage, bottoms up!” The glass she hands me smells suspiciously like tequila.

  I don’t protest again, because honestly, I need it if I’m going out in this dress. The liquid burns, but gives me the dose of courage I think I need.

  When we make it down the stairs, Jacinda, Peter, and Smith are all waiting by the front door.

  “Marta and Ray aren’t coming, so it looks like the five of us.” Jacinda smiles at me. “I’m glad we’ll get some more time together this summer.”

  Is she? It always struck me that she was more into being Justin’s friend than wanting to include me in their circle, but I’ll have to take her word on it.

  “Me too.”

  “I called us a cab, I think it just pulled up.” Peter rallies us, leading the charge out the front door.

  I follow behind everyone, content to just feel the night air on my skin. There is something magical about the breeze being carried off the ocean, and since this will probably be the only summer I get to vacation like this, I don’t want to forget it.

  “We call bucket seats!” Jacinda cries.

  “I’m the tallest, I get the front seat.” Smith calls shotgun.

  Except when we get to the cab, which is actually an Escalade, the driver has a bunch of stuff on the front seat, which means the only options are the bucket seats and the back row bench of three. Smith argues with Peter for a second, but in the end loses, and climbs his long body all the way into the back. Heather disappears into the car, and when it’s my turn, I see they’ve left the middle seat in the back row to me.

  Which means I’ll have to sit directly next to Smith. Great, I can just feel the animosity pouring off him in waves.

  I try my hardest to squeeze as close to Heather as I can and don’t even bother putting on the seatbelt because that would require him to shift and me to root around just below his butt to find the holder. No, I’d rather risk death than have my hand connect with one of those glorious cheeks of his.

  But no matter how far I scoot, it’s no use. Smith is just too big and eclipses most of the space. My bare thigh keeps rubbing against the material of his soft cotton summer pants, and I curse Heather for suggesting I wear this. I can feel the heat seeping through the material of his pants on my bare skin, and it takes everything in me to stifle the urge to rub my thighs together.

  My cheeks burn in the darkness of the car, because my underwear is slick with desire. Is this simply because it’s been so long without Justin? Even before he dumped me a month ago, we hadn’t had sex in almost six weeks. I should have known then that something was up, but I was so naive.

  The driver turns up the music, some Selena Gomez song that makes any conversation impossible, and I’m happy for that. Sneaking a glance up at Smith, I see he’s bent over to the window, trying to escape me, with his nose practically shoved against it.

  Of course, he wants no part of sitting next to me.

  The fifteen-minute drive is over pretty quickly, and I thank that shot of tequila for giving me the slightest buzz and making it bearable.

  It’s our first night in the Hamptons, and obviously Heather said we had to join the rest of the housemates in coming out to the bars. I had no objection, because sitting in my room thinking about how I was supposed to share it with Justin is exactly where I don’t want to be right now.

  We all start at one of the beachside bars, where Peter buys us a round of margaritas and I down mine pretty quickly. With the smell of the ocean, the laughter, small talk, and courage the alcohol gives me, I’m feeling pretty good. Jacinda even falls into a conversation with Heather and me about how work is going, and though job talk is not what I’d love to focus on, it’s a start.

  Next, we head to a louder bar, one with live music and a crowd that feels halfway to wasted. Another margarita and then a vodka on the rocks has me feeling no pain. Heather and I dance, sing at the top of our lungs, and Peter even makes a cameo on guitar with the band, something I never knew he was so good at.

  The whole night has a carefree attitude floating through it—until it doesn’t.

  “Hey.” A guy appears next to me, and my fuzzy brain doesn’t comprehend anything but to smile.

  I turn back to where Heather is standing to rejoin the conversation, but Random Guy comes into my line of vision again. He’s short, not as short as me but just above my eye level, and so not my type. He’s blond—also not my type. I don’t mean to sound vain, but I’ve just never been into blond guys, they don’t do it for me. Something about a smoldering, brooding dark-haired guy is the thing that gets my heart, and everything south of my waist, galloping.

  “I’d like to buy you a drink,” he says, whispering in my ear.

  Something inside my chest tightens, and it’s akin to an internal alarm. Even though this is a crowded bar and it’s loud, he’s too close. I back up a step.

  “Thank you, but I’m okay.” I try to give him a reassuring smile and then turn to go again.

  That’s when I feel a hand on my arm. “Hey, I just want to talk to you.”

  There is a callous on his palm, and when I go to wrench my arm free like he’s scalding me, it roughly scratches against my skin. “No, I’m going to find my friends—”

  I’m about to turn and scamper off, even though I can’t see any one of the people I came here with, when a towering figure appears in front of me.

  “She said no.” Smith’s voice is directed at Random Guy, but he positions his body almost in front of me.

  “Chill, buddy, I didn’t realize she had a boyfriend.” The guy is drunk, too drunk to notice that he’s sorely outmatched when it comes to Smith.

  “He’s not—” I go to speak up, because the only thing that will make Smith hate me more is if someone assumes he’s dating me.

  “She’s off the market, so move along.” Smith is menacing, and his hand hovers just under my elbow, like he might actually touch me.

  A shiver of awareness, the kind that his protective approach elicit, runs down my spine. I’ve forgotten entirely about Random Guy, and I’m openly gaping at Smith. He looks … hot. Like he’s about to rip this guy’s throat out and then throw me over his shoulder to bring me back to his cave. His chiseled jaw, dotted with dark stubble, tics with fury, and in the neon stage lights I can see his denim blue pupils dilate territorially.

  The creep lopes off, probably in search of a girl who will take him up on the offer of a drink, and Smith glares down at me.

  Without another word, he turns on his heel and stalks off.

  “Hey!” I demand, following him.

  But his strides are longer than mine, and in the wedges Heather insisted I wear, it’s hard to keep up. I’m pushing past people just as I see him hit the door to exit the bar into the dark, summer night. I follow without hesitation.

  “Hey, wait!” I huff out a breath, winded from chasing him.

  Smith finally stops, his posture going rigid as he waits for me to catch up with him.

  Now that we’re out here, alone except for a few smokers and people waiting for rides, I feel so self-conscious.

  “Thank you for that back there.” I chance looking up at him.

  He’s scowling into the night, and I wonder if that is his default expression. Maybe just with me, because I saw him laughing and joking tonight with Jacinda and Peter.

  “Don’t mak
e it a habit. I’m not spending my summer warding off your creeps because you’re too nice.” His voice cuts me in half.

  “Then why did you?” It pops out of my mouth before I can stop it.

  Because from the way my tipsy brain is looking at it, he didn’t have to come over and help me. In fact, I would have pegged him as laughing at me from the corner, watching this guy try to creepily hit on me.

  Smith’s indigo eyes smolder as he takes me in. “I didn’t need you whining, or gloating, for an entire week that you’d been fawned over by some poor chump. It’s bad enough I have to share the same house as you.”

  Something in me snaps. Not only was I dumped recently, with both my heart and ego taking a significant beating, but I had questioned even coming to the Hamptons in the first place. I’d never done anything to this guy other than try to be freaking nice, and well …

  Tequila apparently turns my nerves into steel.

  “You’re an asshole, you know that? I wouldn’t have complained, or even bragged about something positive like a nice man trying to take me out, much less a drunk guy creepily hitting on me in a bar. As if I’ve ever even confided in you. No, the only thing I’ve ever tried to do is be cordial, even when you were all but spitting in my face. Did it ever occur to you that maybe it’s me who thinks sharing a house with you is the seventh circle of hell? You sure are a miserable, selfish jerk, Smith.”

  The guy couldn’t look more shocked if I’d slapped him square across the cheek. But I don’t wait to hear his biting rebuttal.

  I just turn on my wobbly legs and stomp off in search of Heather, with as much dignity and pride as my disheveled, drunken body will allow.

  6

  Smith

  After a Friday and Saturday night out, Marta decides it would be nice to have Sunday dinner as a house before those of us who have to depart back to the city for the week got on the road.

  “Peter, can you slice those potatoes for me?” Marta barks out an order as she tends to the pot she’s been stirring for half an hour.

  “You sure you want him doing that?” Jacinda snorts.

  “He’s a doctor, doesn’t he have steady hands?” Marta sounds annoyed.

  Probably because those of us who hate cooking have been skirting in and out of the kitchen, trying to avoid being taken hostage and given a task.

  “Yes, but the man could screw up a bowl of cereal.” Jacinda hikes a thumb in the direction of her boyfriend.

  “I’ll do it,” Molly speaks up, stepping away from the chicken she was browning in a skillet.

  “You’re the best. I can’t wait to taste the potato salad. Curry mustard sounds delicious!” Marta smiles so fondly at Molly that I have to turn my back.

  She’s going overboard with her affections toward Justin’s ex this weekend, in an attempt to make her feel included. It must be working, because the two of them have been thick as thieves cooking together all afternoon, dancing to Billy Joel and laughing it up.

  Molly tips her head in appreciation. “Thanks, I think it should be good.”

  I walk out of the room before I say something stupid. There was something about her finally hitting her breaking point on Friday, serving me a piece of her mind, that turned me on more than anything Molly has ever done. I’m attracted to her by instinct, could stare at her for hours. But the way she spoke to me when I pushed her just a bit too far? That had my cock stiffening whenever my mind flitted back to the briefest thoughts of Friday night.

  If that little altercation in front of the bar was any indication, Molly won’t stand for my shit treatment of her this summer. And that’s even more dangerous than the past year, when all she’s tried to do is be cordial, in her words.

  Because I have a feeling I won’t be able to resist feisty Molly. The emotions I’ve locked away since the first time I saw her are already rattling around in my chest, trying to get free.

  “Your bags packed, sucka?” Peter punches me, rather hard, in the bicep.

  I pull him into a headlock. Under it all, we’re still just those grade school kids being idiots. “Yeah, leaving my bike here and calling a car later.”

  “You’re going to miss a great fucking week,” Peter gloats.

  “Says the guy who has to go back every Wednesday to see patients until the weekend. You’re a moron, plus I’ll be back the night you have to leave.” I flip him the bird.

  I have to be back in Manhattan by tomorrow at noon, for a meeting with the interior designer I used for each restaurant we own. She was a genius at creating a space that was both functional, chic, and inviting. The decor of both Mia, our first restaurant, and Il Sole, our second restaurant has been highlighted in almost every review and critique we get. The food at our eateries is sublime, and deserves its own award, but it’s not the only reason diners come back. People love atmosphere, especially in this city. They want to feel romantic and alive when they go out to pay for a meal. They want to feel like the room is as abuzz as they feel. It’s that electricity you get when dressing up in your favorite outfit on a Friday night, to go spend time with your favorite people after a hard week in the office. That’s what we strive for in our restaurants.

  And Stefania will be no different, if not a thousand times better. Just hearing the name Campbell and I chose makes me want to collapse with my head in my hands, but I know it’s the right thing to do. This restaurant will be a memorial to her, and I’ll raise the bar tenfold to make this a place worthy of carrying my sister’s name.

  “Whatever. Hey, proud of you, man. She would be, too. But if you don’t put her favorite fried donuts on the dessert menu, her ghost is going to come down and haunt your ass.” He gives a sad, small laugh.

  I try to smile, but I think it comes off more like a grimace, because Peter’s eyes turn sympathetic. It’s been six months since my twin sister was tragically killed, and I still can’t talk about her memory with anything but utter grief and fury.

  “She did love those fucking donuts,” I mutter, thinking about Steph and how she always claimed the last one in the box.

  “Men! Dinner is ready!” Heather calls from the back porch.

  The women have been cooking all day, and I’m sure I’ll be suckered into cleaning up, but I’m too hungry to care at this point.

  Peter and I meet Ray, who has appeared from upstairs, at the back door and all file out with beers in our hands.

  “Wow, this looks incredible, babe.” Ray sits down next to Marta and kisses her cheek in gratitude.

  “Thank ya, baby!” She smiles in a bragging way, like she’s so proud to provide for him.

  “It really does, you guys did a great job,” Peter agrees, taking his seat next to Jacinda.

  I take the only available chair, which is at the head of the table, with Molly to my right and Heather to my left. I’m not sure if they left this seat for me as a joke, or some kind of offering, but it makes me feel like the Godfather of this table.

  “Thank you for cooking,” I tell no one in particular.

  The spread looks delicious and has my mouth watering. Some kind of spiced chicken, a pasta with some kind of cream sauce, grilled asparagus, a peach and mozzarella salad, and the infamous curried potato salad. The waves clapping on the shore are audible in the distance, and someone hung some kind of fairy lights from the trees near the pool. The ambience is beautiful, and if anything could bring this disjointed cast of characters, it’s probably a meal together. Never underestimate the power of good food.

  Everyone begins to serve themselves, passing plates around the table for a spoonful of this or a slice of that. The lot of us are quiet as we dig in, and even though I own two Zagat rated restaurants, I have to admit that the food is incredible. Especially the fucking potato salad.

  “Wow, Molly, this potato salad.” Peter groans as he shovels another forkful in.

  “I could seriously eat this all day. I make her make it for me every time she comes over.” Heather grins through a bite.

  Molly shrugs, blushing und
er the praise. “Well, thank you. It’s my mother’s recipe, so I can’t take credit.”

  “Do your parents live in New York, Molly? I don’t think I ever asked.” Jacinda wipes her mouth and politely addresses Justin’s ex-girlfriend.

  The truth is, I don’t think any of us talked to Molly much one-on-one while she was with Justin. My best friend is larger than life, the talker in a big crowd, the guy who draws an entire room to his vivacious story. She was eclipsed in his shadow, something I noticed often and secretly hated him for.

  Molly smiles, as if she’s thinking of her parents. “I grew up in New Jersey, in Linden. They’re still there, in the little ranch on East Street. It’s just the three of us, and if I have time, I try to go visit once a month.”

  I knew she was from close by, but I didn’t realize she grew up in New Jersey. I don’t know anything about it there, but I wonder suddenly what her childhood was like.

  “Isn’t it weird to go back and visit your childhood home?” Marta muses.

  “Yes,” Heather blurts out, and then starts cracking up. “About a year ago, I was dating this guy, and I brought him home to meet my parents. I remember he wanted to get busy in my childhood bedroom, but I couldn’t go through with it. There was nothing turning me on about Jesse McCartney and Chad Michael Murray posters staring at my twin bed.”

  Peter booms out a laugh. “Oh God, yes.”

  “Peter’s childhood bedroom has this permanent hockey bag smell, I can’t even sleep in there.” Jacinda chuckles.

  “When I stay at Marta’s parent’s place, they make me sleep in the basement.” Ray smiles into his plate.

  “That’s cold,” Peter says.

  “No sex before marriage, that’s what my parents think.” Marta snorts, because we all know her parents thinking she’s a virgin is straight up delusion.

  “If I went back to my parent’s place, I’d have to sleep on the lumpy pull out couch. I always beg off, even on Christmas.” I smirk.