But I also need this tension between us. This distance.
Because, until yesterday, I believed that Vivienne actually wanted to be with me. That she was nothing like my ex.
But I was wrong. Vivienne needed a paycheck to make room for me in her life.
At least now I know exactly where I stand. At the front of the line, thanks to my money.
Even if it meant giving up my place in her bed. Saying goodbye not just to Vivienne’s incredible body but also to her spontaneous laughs, her teasing retorts.
“And, for the record, I was only looking at the tags to ensure I was spending obscene amounts of your money. They did have shirts for three fifty, but I knew you’d want the best for your sweetheart, right, Mr. Moneybags?”
I bite back a sigh. “Are you hungry? Do you want to grab a bite?”
“I guess you want to take me out for a test drive, huh? Where were you thinking—Nick & Toni’s? Or maybe Topping Rose?”
I grimace at the Hamptons hotspots she mentions. Truthfully, I’d been thinking of the glorified shack out near where I grew up that has the best lobster rolls I’ve ever eaten. “How about something a little more casual?”
“Right. I’m not in my uniform yet.”
Vivienne Radcliffe could wear a paper bag, and she’d still look better than anyone else. Although I hate the pinched expression I’ve put on her face.
“Right,” I force myself to agree. “So . . . how do you feel about lobster?”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
We drive in silence for a while, and when we pull up to the dilapidated one-room restaurant with outdoor, self-serve seating that’s been here longer than I’ve been alive, Vivienne looks at me in confusion. “You’re taking me here?”
“You can thank me later. Best lobster in the Hamptons.”
“Are we still in the Hamptons?”
Locking the car, I put my key fob in my pocket and extend my hand toward Vivienne. “Barely.”
She hesitates for a moment before taking it reluctantly. “It’s a little lowbrow for you, isn’t it?”
“As a kid, this was fine dining.” Not that I could afford it. I would linger near the trash bins, snatching up leftovers before they got tossed. At least, until the cook chased me away.
“You didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth and Hermès loafers on your feet?”
I bark out a laugh. “Hardly.”
Once we have our lobster rolls—the way they’re supposed to be—warm and dripping in garlic and butter—we find an empty picnic table to sit at. The wood is peeling and rough, the legs uneven. With every shift in balance, the table seesaws from one direction to another, sending our beers sliding up and then down.
But the view is perfect.
Undulating waves ruffle the turquoise surface of the Atlantic Ocean, the setting sun playing peekaboo through the clouds and painting the sky in shades of pink and orange.
But it’s the sparkle in Vivienne’s eyes that captivates me, it’s her face I want to engrave into my retinas.
For a split second, I wish I never suggested this arrangement. That we were still just two people sharing the same house. Because this—butter dripping down my fingers, the taste of warm lobster and cold beer lingering on my tongue, and the smart, sarcastic, sexy-as-fuck girl sitting across from me—is everything I’ve ever wanted.
Or, at least, it would be. If she wanted me, too.
“Tell me about Lance Welles,” she says, plucking a piece of lobster from inside her roll and popping it into her mouth, “the one before he had the cash to fund ridiculous shopping sprees and rent houses in the Hamptons.”
I manage not to wince at the lie I could easily correct. Should correct. What’s the difference if I rent the house or own it?
I don’t care about the agreement I made with Seth not to tell anyone about his deceit.
It’s my own that I want to hide. Setting the record straight now would mean admitting that I’ve been lying to Vivienne since the minute I met her. That I used a lie to get her to live with me. That I’ve been sleazy.
Our alliance is tenuous right now, and I can’t afford to ruin it.
“I grew up out here. Well, not here. But close enough.” I don’t like telling people about my humble roots, preferring to focus attention on the image I’ve created: a young, successful entrepreneur with the Midas touch. But I can’t bear to feed Vivienne another untruth. “The closest I ever got to a Maserati was looking at a Hot Wheels display in a drug store. I went barefoot more often than not because the only shoes I had were from the dollar bin at the Salvation Army, which was a step up from the donation bins at the library.”
Vivienne puts down her lobster roll, wiping her mouth with a napkin.
A pang hits south of my belt buckle. What I wouldn’t give to lick her lips right now.
“I never would have guessed.”
“That’s the idea,” I say, taking a swig from my bottle.
“Is your family still here?”
“My dad died a few years ago. My mother is who-the-fuck-knows with her latest husband, who I’ve never met.”
“And your stepsister?” Vivienne asks, the tone of her voice suddenly tentative. She isn’t certain of Krista’s death, but she obviously senses it.
“I couldn’t rescue her from everything, unfortunately.” I clear my throat. “The coordinates you asked me about, they’re for her gravesite. She’s buried upstate, in a private cemetery on land that’s been in her family for generations. Her family, not mine. I knew I wouldn’t be able to visit much, so . . .”
Vivienne’s forehead crumples. “Oh, Lance. I’m so sorry. You must really miss her.”
“Yeah. We didn’t even meet until I was sixteen. She was a few years younger, but we hit it off right away.” I pull my hand away, crumpling the remains of my roll in the paper plate. I’m not hungry anymore. But I don’t stand up.
“I see her sometimes. I’ll be in a hotel and think I see her across the lobby. Or I’ll pick up the phone to call her.” My head drops, heavy on my shoulders. “Stupid, I know.”
“That’s not stupid at all. What kind of things do you wish you could talk to her about—did she speak in alphabet soup, too?”
I look back up, wondering if I’ve misheard. “Alphabet soup?”
“You know, all those acronyms you throw around like actual words. PDQ, XYZ, KLJ.”
A laugh breaks up some of the tightness in my chest. “I’m pretty sure I never used any of those. And no, she and I were polar opposites. Krista was artistic, creative. Like you, actually. Always drawing or painting.”
“She sounds great.”
That tightness comes rushing back, and I lift a hand to my sternum, trying to rub it away. “Yeah. She really was.”
“The tattoo on your back . . . ?”
“I was trying to convince her to go to art school and she kept saying she wasn’t any good. So I took one of her sketchbooks and brought it to a tattoo parlor. Thought it would prove that I believed in her.”
“Did it work?”
I nod. “She was in her last year at UCLA when—”
Vivienne looks at me as if she understands. “Well, I bet she’d be proud of you, of all you’ve accomplished. You’ve come a long way.”