Giving a silent shake of my head, I continue my perusal. It’s obvious the Viking works out, but I wouldn’t be surprised if, rather than hitting the gym, he engaged in sword fighting and hunting with his bare hands. His lower abdomen is a topographical anatomy map. Transverse muscles lead to the sharp slices of his obliques. Abs stacked neatly in two rows, four deep. An eight-pack. Impressive pectoral muscles interrupted only by the tight discs of his nipples.
The column of Lance’s neck leads to a chiseled jaw dusted with golden scruff. The kind that would give me a major case of goose bumps if he, say, dragged his chin along my inner thigh.
Stop it, Vivienne.
I don’t realize I’ve whispered the rebuke aloud until the full lips above said chin twitch, one corner pulling outward to reveal a dimple that only accents the sharp slash of his cheekbones.
Dread pools deep in my stomach, an embarrassed brew that sends a shiver down my spine. Because when I drag my gaze an inch north, where I should have seen the thick fringe of Lance’s lashes fanning out over the crest of his cheekbones, they are instead curling toward his brows.
Because the Viking is awake.
“There’s no need for you to stop, Vivienne. Not when you’re clearly enjoying your tour.”
I want the floor to open up and pull me into the fiery pits of hell. My cheeks are so enflamed, the rest of me might as well burn up, too.
“I-I thought you were—”
“—Asleep?”
I take another step back, managing a nod.
“I was. But I’m awake now.”
His husky growl sends a bolt of warmth between my thighs, prompting me to look between his. Lance’s cock is awake now, too.
Very, very good is probably a very, very vast understatement.
Chapter 8
Lance
61 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
“For the love of God, can you please find some sort of clothing?”
I jerk awake to find Vivienne glaring at me, her red hair sleep-mussed and cascading down her back in heavy waves, wearing a tank top and short shorts. And no bra. Fuck. Me.
I’m about to explain that I left my suitcase in the car I’d loaned her and didn’t feel much like retrieving it in the middle of the night after she returned.
Instead, I hear trumpets blare. Trumpets?
She heads off to the front door, and I realize it’s the doorbell.
Securing the towel around my waist, I stand up and pad toward the foyer. A college kid wearing a white T-shirt and jeans, holding a clipboard, leers at Vivienne like she’s what’s on the menu for breakfast.
I clear my throat with a distinctive rumble. Translation: Eyes on me, motherfucker.
He immediately straightens, his gaze meeting mine over her shoulder. “Uh, I’m here from Ricky’s Rentals. We’re picking up the furniture.”
She spins around, looking quizzically at me. “You messaged Seth already?”
“Last night.” I told him to get his cheap shit out of my house before I had it delivered directly to his office.
I motion the guy inside. “Take everything.”
While every mattress and piece of furniture is carted through the front door and into the waiting truck, I retrieve my suitcase and change into appropriate Hamptons attire: a polo shirt and golf shorts. Afterward, Vivienne insists on taking a look at my heel. I don’t argue. I can’t remember the last time anyone fussed over me, but it’s . . . nice.
Within an hour, the house is empty except for Vivienne and me.
And the damn bean bag chairs. Apparently, they were purchased from a Wal-Mart.
Vivienne notices me looking at them with disdain. “Garbage comes tomorrow, I’ll toss them out with the trash.”
I grin. “I can take care of it.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “If you want me to stay, you’ll let me do my job.”
“You have a job.” I turn in a slow circle, my arms outstretched. “This place is a blank slate.”
“So . . .” Her voice is hesitant. “You really meant it? You want me to furnish the entire house?”
“Of course. I told you that last night.” I notice Vivienne’s sheepish expression, her hunched shoulders. “What—you thought I was just blowing smoke?”
“Maybe. Or you could have changed your mind. I wouldn’t have held you to it.”
“Well, I have no intention of sleeping on the floor for the rest of summer.” I frown at a few scuff marks on the walls. “This place needs a fresh coat of paint, too.”
“Give me ten minutes. We’ll stop at a hardware store first. Then we’ll focus on furniture—”
“We? I figured I’d just give you my credit card.”
Vivienne’s face falls. “Oh. Sure, I guess we could do that. But, Lance—I don’t know the first thing about what you like. Normally, I create inspiration boards and spend time with my clients, getting to know their style before actually making a single purchase. We haven’t even discussed your budget.”
I knew my capitulation was imminent from the second she said my name. Lance. It was like a sigh. “Okay, okay. Fine, I’ll come with you.”
I hate shopping. Not to say I don’t like buying things. I do. Companies, cars, televisions. This house.
But buying is different than shopping. It’s pleasure that comes from ownership. Shopping, especially in stores or, God forbid, a mall, is like the third ring of hell.
I watch the bounce of Vivienne’s breasts as she pads toward her room.
Maybe it won’t be so bad. I’ve always liked the heat.
Chapter 9
Vivienne
“I appreciate that this is only going to be your home for the next two months, but I’d really like a little input from you.” After spending the past twenty minutes asking Lance whether he prefers this sofa or that one, this tone of wood or another, and receiving only the most basic feedback, I’ve finally led him toward an alcove out of the way of other shoppers.
“I gave you input. I told you I didn’t like anything at that last place.” Lance gestures at the showroom of my favorite furniture store on Long Island. “This place will do.”
That last place was a warehouse with the highest end rental furniture available. And to be honest, I share his opinion. We’re nearly six weeks into the summer season, and all the good stuff has been taken. What’s left is either garish and dated or, on the other side of the spectrum, the rejects from impersonal corporate housing developments.
“Okay, but now we have the opposite problem. The options here are practically limitless. A little feedback from you will go a long way.”
I’m not exaggerating. Located on the tony North Shore of Long Island, Classic Galleries is about an hour from the Hamptons. With over one hundred room settings spread across four floors, I’m confident we’ll find enough floor samples to adequately furnish the beach house.
Plus, it’s family-owned, and I prefer shopping at places where I don’t have to arrange deliveries and track down missing or damaged items with an international call center, where I’ll be disconnected at least twice before my issue is resolved.