He wants me to spend the next two months lying my ass off. And worse—I’m going to do it.
How did this go from The Summer of Me to The Summer of Lies?
The answer isn’t rhetorical. It’s obvious.
Lance Welles. That’s how.
He arrived in my life like a seismic event. A deep underground earthquake that shook the ground beneath my feet, leaving cracks and craters in his wake. Although—that’s not quite true. Yet, anyway. There is no wake. Because Lance isn’t gone. And now I’m forced to navigate this awful arrangement beneath his watchful eyes. One misstep and . . .
I have no idea. I really don’t.
I can only cling to what I know is true.
Whether I am screwing Lance or working for him, I’m disposable.
But at least our lies will expire, too. By Labor Day, I’ll have one hell of a nest egg. Enough for rent. Enough to tide me over as I build my client list. I won’t have to live with my parents. I won’t have to work for another interior designer.
When someone says, “Wow. Who designed this? I need to hire them,” the answer will be, “Vivienne Radcliffe.”
In two months, I’ll be free.
But for now, I’m a fraud.
I can pretend to be Lance’s adoring girlfriend. Easily.
Which is precisely why it will be so damn hard.
I won’t have to pretend that I love the sound of his laugh. I won’t have to pretend I want to rip his clothes off every chance I get. I won’t have to pretend that the sight of him sends a carbonated cocktail of happiness surging through my veins.
Because all of those things are true. They have been since practically the moment we met. Well, maybe not the very first moment. I did think he was a cocky ass for a while.
I don’t know if I can do this.
When I get downstairs, Lance is waiting for me at the kitchen table. There is a legal pad, a pen, and a bottle of water in front of him, and an identical setup directly across the table for me. I take a seat, uncap the pen, and wait for him to begin.
“I have a schedule of events for the rest of the summer I expect to attend. I’ll add you to my calendar once we exchange contact information, but in the meantime,” he pushes a piece of paper across the table at me, “you should review this.”
A humorless smile flickers at the corners of my lips. Lance and I have exchanged bodily fluids, but we never bothered to exchange phone numbers.
He frowns at me. “Is that a problem?”
“No.” I write my phone and email address out for him, then rip off the sheet and push it across the table. “There you go.”
He slides a check back. “Half today and the rest on Labor Day.”
My bank account isn’t going to know what to do with one hundred thousand dollars. At the very least, it will certainly raise some red flags. I’ll probably get put on a terrorist watch list.
“How do I know you’ll pay me the other half once the summer is over?”
He doesn’t blink. “How do I know you won’t take off with fifty thousand dollars today?”
“Because I keep my promises.”
“As do I.”
“Well, okay then. What else do we need to discuss?”
“If we’re going to pull this off, I expect some degree of intimacy.”
I uncap the water bottle and take a long sip. “When we’re in public.”
Lance’s eyebrow lifts, as if reminding me of the irony of this conversation. We’ve been intimate all over this house. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
“Any restrictions?”
I feel my cheeks heat. “I didn’t realize you were so concerned with PDA.”
“I don’t anticipate bending you over a table in the middle of Le Bilboquet.” I cross my legs and squirm in the chair, trying to alleviate the throbbing in my core. “But if we’re sitting together, and I curve my hand around your neck or stroke my thumb against your inner thigh, maybe lean in to kiss you—”
His words land like a whip across my back, each lash a white-hot slice of pain. From now on, when Lance touches me, it will be performance rather than passion. And I hate him for it. So. Damn. Much.
To distract myself, I start reading through the calendar. Beachside barbecues in Sagaponack, Southampton, Sag Harbor, and Water Mill. Dinner parties in East Hampton and Bridgehampton. Cocktails at the Meadow Club. Brunch at the Maidstone Club. Wine tasting at Société du Vin. A clambake. A fundraiser. Two yacht cruises. A polo match. “You need me at all of these?”
I’ve spent enough time around the rich clients of Abbott Interiors to know the dress code. The wardrobe I have here with me isn’t going to cut it. And I’m not entirely sure what I left behind at my parent’s house will either.
“Yes. Do you have a conflict?”
“No. No conflict. Just thinking about what I’ll need to buy.”
“Buy?”
“Clothes. What I have here—”
He eyes my casual outfit. “Right, of course. If you’re going to be my girlfriend, you have to look the part.” He pulls a credit card out of his wallet and tosses it my way. “Go shopping. Buy whatever you need.”
“You are not buying me clothes,” I protest. And stop acting like a rich, entitled asshole.
“You’d rather spend your own money on things you might never wear again?”
I bristle at the suggestion that I’ll never mingle with Hamptons socialites once I’m through with this charade. Screw it, and screw him.
I pocket the card. If money is all Lance understands, I’ll give him one hell of a lesson.
Chapter 25
Lance
52 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
Vivienne tucks an errant lock of hair behind her ear, glaring at the mountain of shopping bags I’m trying to shove in the minuscule trunk of my car. “I’d offer to help but since it wasn’t expressly outlined in my expectations, it’s your responsibility.”
I came with her to make sure she didn’t shop at the sale rack, worrying over every purchase. But I needn’t have worried. Vivienne had absolutely no problem spending my money. I’m not even sure that Missy ever did as much damage in a single afternoon.
I eventually manage to Tetris them all in and slam the trunk shut with a grunt of satisfaction. “Duly noted.”
“Where to next, boss?” Sarcasm continues to drip from her lips as she slides into the front seat. “Though I’m going to go cross-eyed if I have to look at another price tag.”
I start the ignition. “You know what they say, if you have to look, you can’t afford it.”
“Well, they would be right. There wasn’t a single thing I could afford in that store. I mean, what kind of idiot pays four hundred dollars for a T-shirt?”
“That would be me. And if I remember right, I bought you half a dozen of them.”
“Congratulations. You’re an idiot six times over then.”
“I’ve been called worse.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
The banter between us has had an edge to it ever since I asked Vivienne to be my girlfriend. My fake girlfriend, anyway. Which is really too bad. I miss the casual, lighthearted dynamic we used to have. A lot.