Vivienne storms back inside. “Your car is a Maserati.”
“And?”
“And I know how much they cost. I’m not driving it.”
“Why not?”
She glares at me as if she’s trying to decide whether I’m on the special end of the IQ scale or I’m pulling a prank. “Because it’s a Maserati.”
“That’s a brand, not a reason.”
“What if I get into an accident? Or clip the curb? Or someone keys your door in the parking lot?”
“It’s a car, Vivienne. Not an heirloom or a priceless work of art.”
Though, I wouldn’t care if it were. When you see the world through my eyes, you realize how little money actually means. It can’t buy parents that actually give a shit. It can’t turn back time or bring back the dead.
People matter. Things don’t.
The expression on Vivienne’s face eases into one of astonishment. “You really trust me with your car?”
Apparently, I’ve been trusting her with my house for the past month without knowing it. My car is worth a fraction as much. If she wrecks it tonight, I’ll buy a new one tomorrow. But there’s no store to go to for a new human being. “Just drive safe. Come back in one piece.”
Chapter 7
Vivienne
Come back.
There was something about the way Lance said those two words in particular that was different than all the others. An undercurrent I can’t quite put my finger on. Worry. Concern. Protectiveness.
Don’t be ridiculous, V. He barely knows you. Stop seeing what isn’t there, projecting emotions onto people that don’t exist.
I start the engine, the soft purr vibrating through me. God, this car is nice. After adjusting the mirrors, I clear my mind. I’m overthinking things.
Lance is loaded. That’s all.
Hunching forward, I wrap my fingers around the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Not that I notice until after I carefully navigate into the parking lot, into the most well-lit section, making sure to park perfectly centered in the narrow spot.
Tim looks up from the bar when I walk inside, flexing my aching hands. “Hey, Vivienne.”
I manage a quick smile and stash my purse behind the bar. “Quiet night so far?”
“So far. But you never know, it could pick up any minute.”
Tim’s optimism feels like a wake-up call. What the hell is wrong with me? Lance is offering me a job, an incredible opportunity, and I’m looking for hidden motivations.
Do good things ever happen for no reason at all? Of course they do. So, why am I so suspicious when they happen to me?
And if Lance is really serious about letting me transform the beach house into a more sophisticated retreat . . . My mind is blazing with ideas for every room. So many possibilities.
It would also be a chance to add to my portfolio, a virtual lookbook shared with potential design clients. So far, my portfolio contains the work I’ve done for Anne Abbott. Lately, I’ve also documented my house staging for several local interior designers and the merchandising I’ve done for a few small shop owners—revamping window displays and store layouts to better showcase their products. But an entire house—a waterfront Southampton beach house with high ceilings, huge windows, and limitless potential—could be huge for me. It would prove that I have both the creative vision and the organization skills to take on large-scale projects.
I busy myself by wiping down the tops of all the tables, checking the silverware, napkins, and salt and pepper shakers. But in my mind, I’m drawing floor plans, sketching out ideas, writing lists.
After a while, I feel Tim’s hand close gently over my shoulder in a quick squeeze before pulling back. “The way you’ve been floating around here tonight, I’m starting to wonder if I need to hang on to you in case you just drift up to the sky.”
I blink, reminding myself not to get my hopes up too high. It wouldn’t be the first time a man has made promises he didn’t intend to keep just to get in my pants. “Today’s been a bit of an odd day. Must have breathed in too much Windex, or maybe it’s my allergies acting up . . .” I let my voice trail off, not knowing how to explain my mood.
Tim’s kind eyes meet mine. “It’s good to see you smile, kiddo. Whatever you’ve been doing, keep it up.”
It turns out to be a quiet night, after all. Not surprising after the three-day Fourth of July weekend. Bad for my bank account, good for jotting down ideas for the beach house in my notebook.
Tim shoos me out to the parking lot before midnight, and I’m relieved to see Lance’s car made it through the night unscathed. And even more relieved when I finally ease into the driveway and kill the engine.
I’m back, safe and sound.
Setting Lance’s keys on the kitchen counter, I stack the takeout boxes Tim sent me home with in the refrigerator. It’s one of the perks of the job. I usually don’t have to buy any of my meals until at least Wednesday, sometimes even Thursday.
I’m debating whether to have a midnight snack when I hear low voices coming from the living room.
Did Lance invite people over?
Not that it would be any of my business if he did. It’s his house—for the next two months, anyway.
I slip my shoes off and tiptoe out of the kitchen. If he has friends over, I’ll just head back to my room and leave him to it. I rarely mix with the shares, except for Savannah, of course.
But curiosity draws me toward the living room rather than away from it, an uncomfortable churning in my stomach growing stronger with each step. I really don’t want to walk in on Lance making out with some girl.
My breath stills in my throat as I peek slowly around a wall.
It’s the TV.
An embarrassingly strong surge of relief turns the cartilage in my knees to jelly.
Lance is alone.
And . . . naked. Again.
He’s lying on the couch, flat on his back, an open pizza box on the floor containing half the pie. The white towel that was wrapped around his hips earlier is now undone, one corner hanging off the cushion.
Without intending to, I find myself moving closer. And closer. All the while telling myself I’m just going to check his foot. That’s all.
And I do, peering first at the bandage I affixed to his heel earlier. There is a dark splotch in the center of it, blood, but not enough that I feel compelled to change it immediately.
Okay, Vivienne. That’s enough. Go.
But my eyes are two kids in a candy store. And my legs are glued to the floor.
Fine. Just a quick look.
Exhaling a sigh, I follow the curve of Lance’s ankles to his defined calves and wide, muscular thighs. His legs are covered in short, wiry hairs that blend in with the color of his skin. My hands itch with the need to feel their texture against my palm.
But it’s what’s between his thighs that makes the saliva in my mouth turn to dust. I’ve never been on the receiving end of a dick pic, and I’ve never really taken the time to look too closely at a guy’s junk. But the thick organ resting quietly on Lance’s inner thigh, curved around his balls, is definitely not junk. I swallow heavily, wondering what it would feel like inside me. Very, very good, I imagine.