He gestures toward a nearby seating area. “I’d like to hear about it.”
“Not so fast.” A beautiful blonde squeezes Ken’s shoulder, a diamond the size of a golf ball nearly blinding me. “You promised no business talk today. Remember what the doctor said—less stress, more relaxation.”
“We’re talking philanthropy, not business.”
“Even worse. You’ll give yourself another heart attack competing with Gates and Buffet for ‘Most Charitable Billionaire.’”
He makes a grating chuckle. “I’m not that bad.”
“You are and you know it.” The blonde turns to me and introduces herself as Ken’s wife—not that I had any doubt. She’s clearly the 2.0 version and is at least half his age. “Did I hear you say you’re new to the Hamptons?”
I decide not to share that I spent the first sixteen years of my life a few miles and a world away from here. “My very first weekend, actually.”
Her expression brightens. “Babe, I need to steal him from you. I have to introduce him to all my girlfriends.”
Ken frowns. “So, you get to play matchmaker, but I can’t talk business?”
“I thought you were talking philanthropy,” she says with a toss of her head as she slips her arm through the crook of my elbow.
I let her drag me a few feet before schooling my face into a rueful expression. “Actually, I’m seeing someone.”
But it doesn’t have the intended effect. Undaunted, Kitty barely blinks. “Is she here?”
“No. She couldn’t—”
“Her loss then.” She tugs at me, breasts that could double as flotation devices rubbing my biceps.
Two hours later, I’m back in the Rover with Tripp and Jolie. “That fucking sucked,” I mutter as he shifts into drive. Kitty Kendrick made me her personal pet project, introducing me to every single female, and several very interested wives, at the party. I barely had the chance to speak with Ken, or any of the other Wall Street legends he’d invited, for longer than a few minutes at a time, and never without a woman hanging off my arm.
Tripp chuckles. “I probably should have warned you. It’s never a good idea to come alone to these things.”
“I didn’t. I came with you two.” Like a third wheel.
Jolie yawns. “And next time you’ll bring Vivienne.”
I’m swallowing my frustration with a beer when I hear the front door open, the slap of flip-flops on tile. Vivienne rounds the corner, coming into the kitchen wearing a tiny tank top and white shorts, the hair escaping from one of her messy buns held back by a pair of sunglasses perched on her head.
“Welcome home,” I say, realizing it’s the truth. She’s made this house feel like a home to me already.
But Vivienne clearly isn’t expecting me. She jumps half a foot, dropping one of the grocery bags she’s carrying as her hand flies to her chest. “Jesus, you scared me.”
Tomatoes scatter across the kitchen floor like balls across a pool table.
“Sorry,” I offer, collecting the fruit back into the bag, though I know the grin on my face doesn’t match the apology. Vivienne looks damn good, scared or not. Definitely better than any of the women I met today. All fake tans and fake smiles.
She sets the other bag on the countertop and eyes my distinctly Hamptons attire. “Did you just get back?”
“A few hours ago. I was at a barbecue.” There hadn’t been a burger or bowl of potato salad in sight, although a Michelin-rated chef had grilled racks of lamp and Kobe beef sliders.
“Look at you, diving right into the Hampton’s social scene.” Vivienne turns her back on me and begins unloading groceries.
“And you? Any more pop-up shops?”
She laughs. “No. Just a couple of staging jobs.”
“Staging?” I try to imagine Vivienne as some kind of roadie.
She stacks a few plastic containers and puts them in the refrigerator. “You know, making a house look pretty.”
“Oh. Like you’ve done here.”
“Kind of. Staging is mostly moving around furniture, decluttering, and accessorizing. But don’t worry,” she shakes a baguette at me, “I’ve been working on this house, too.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She stows the bread on the counter and starts rinsing peaches, arranging them inside a bowl she slides in front of me. “Have one. I picked them up from my favorite farmer’s market. They’re amazing.”
I fight a smile as I take one and bite into it. It’s nice to be looked after. Completely foreign, but nice. Vivienne hands me a napkin with a smile on her face.
“What?”
“Just . . .” She takes the napkin back and dabs at the nectar dribbling down my chin. “You’re making a mess.”
I plant my feet wide and pull her closer, holding the peach to her mouth. “Bite.”
The fire within her bright-green eyes kindles to life. “Sweet.”
Her kiss is sweeter. “Miss me?” I whisper against Vivienne’s lips.
“You were only gone for two nights. I managed.” She takes a breath, pushing lightly against my chest. I let her go, watching her putter around the kitchen from beneath heavy lids as I finish the rest of the peach.
“I met up with a friend yesterday. Savannah, the one who got me this job, actually.” She opens the refrigerator door and puts away the last of the groceries. “Apparently, Seth found everyone who had been staying here a new place. Savannah said the house is a shack in comparison, and there’s no pool. And it’s in Quogue.”
Quogue. I cough. What an asshole. “They got their money back though, right?”
“Yes. But they’re all furious anyway. I almost feel bad for Seth.”
I scoff, looking away from Vivienne to wipe at the ring of condensation my beer left on the countertop. “Don’t.”
I feel her gaze on me for another moment, then she folds up the paper bags and stows them in a cabinet. “I also went to an outdoor furniture showroom. We haven’t talked much about the exterior space, but I have a few ideas if you’d like—”
“Yes.”
“Yes, to what?”
“Yes, I’d like to make use of the exterior space. And yes, I’d like to hear your ideas.”
A smile curves her lips. “Really?”
“Of course.” I gesture at the rooms behind me. “Look at what you’ve done.”
Vivienne digs into her purse and pulls out several brochures and a notebook, but before she shows them to me, she hugs them to her chest. “Do you want to check with your friend first, see if it’s okay?”
Confusion pulls at my brows. “What friend?”
“The owner. I hope he wasn’t too upset by how much everything’s cost him already.”
Oh, right. My friend, the fake owner of my house. “He has more money than he knows what to do with,” I say. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Vivienne’s concern evaporates as she pushes the barstool out of her way and stands by my side, fanning the brochures across the stone surface and flipping her notebook open. On a piece of graph paper, she’s drawn a scaled plan of the patio and yard. “So, I was thinking five angled lounges here,” she unfolds one of the pamphlets and taps on a chair circled in red pen. “And then over there . . .”