“My share?”
“Seth handles the money. I just take care of the house.”
The fuck. “Since when?”
“Since Memorial Day weekend.”
Everything finally comes together. “This is a share house?”
“Yes.” She puts her glass down on the table and rests a hand on her hip. “And Seth hasn’t mentioned anyone new, especially not someone planning to stay during the week.”
An unexpected burst of laughter escapes my mouth. “Change of plans, sweetheart. You’re fired. This is my house—and I don’t intend to share it. With anyone.”
“I’m not your sweetheart.” The redhead isn’t backing down an inch. “And thanks, but I’ll wait to hear from Seth.”
I’ve never been faced with this particular dilemma: kicking a gorgeous woman out of my house. “Do I need to call the police?”
She doesn’t blink. “Do I?”
We’re engaged in a standoff when a chiming sound comes from further inside the house. “You know what—do whatever you want. But I have work to do.”
She walks away from me, and it’s impossible not to admire, again, the ass that fills out her bikini. An ass with the perfect amount of jiggle, just enough that I can imagine exactly how it would look when I—
Fuck. Get it together, Lance.
Again, I find myself chasing after her. “We’re not through.” The wood floor feels sticky beneath my feet, making a squelching noise with each step. “And what the fuck is wrong with the floor?”
I find her in the laundry room, moving a load of sheets from washer to dryer. “Beer, probably. She blows hair out of her face and spins the dial on the machine, turning it on. “There was a Beer-Pong tournament that lasted most of Sunday.”
“A Beer-Pong tournament?”
“Look. It’s the day after a three-day weekend, okay. I’ve spent all morning cleaning the pool, picking up whatever didn’t make it into the garbage and recycling bins, stripping the beds, and washing the sheets. If you showed up later, I would have already mopped the floors, but I haven’t gotten to them yet.”
“So, let me get this straight. Every weekend, this house gets destroyed by whoever bought shares from Seth. Then, they leave, and you spend all day getting the house back in order for them to destroy it again the following weekend?”
“Well, things are a little worse today than after a typical weekend. But there are seven bedrooms and six bathrooms. Sometimes, it takes more than just one day to get everything back in order.”
“And what exactly does Seth do?”
“He collects the share fees and checks in with me once or twice a week. If there are problems I can’t handle—”
“What kind of problems?”
“Electrical issues. Plumbing problems beyond a clogged toilet.”
“He doesn’t pay you?”
“No. I take care of the house in exchange for free rent.”
“Until when?”
“Labor Day.”
“What happens after that?”
She shrugs. “I guess I’ll be homeless again.”
“Homeless?” Somehow, I can’t imagine this curvy redhead sleeping on park benches.
“It’s a long story.” She picks up the laundry bin and edges around me. “If you want to hear it, you’ll have to help me make the beds.”
I’m halfway up the stairs when my phone vibrates inside my pocket. “You soaking up the Hamptons’ sunshine yet?” Tripp chirps. He bought a place less than a mile away after his second child was born.
“Yeah, just got here,” I reply, heading back down the stairs and returning to the patio. I sit down in one of the chairs flanking the pool, noting that the duck’s tail is dragging in the water rather than pointing toward the sky. It won’t be long before it’s just a piece of plastic to be fished out and thrown away before it obstructs the gutters.
“How’s the house? Do you need someone to help make it livable? I can—”
I bite back an exasperated groan. During the trial, even from three thousand miles away, Tristan had hovered over me. Now that I’m practically in his backyard, he’s going to drive me nuts. “No worries. It’s all taken care of.”
“Good. Hey, why don’t you come over? Jolie’s friend Eva is out for the week. You should really meet her—”
“For fuck’s sake, Tripp. Enough.”
“What?” he asks innocently. “That monster is in jail, where he belongs, never to tastes freedom or hurt anyone else ever again. It’s time you started living again.”
“I’m alive. And I don’t need you playing matchmaker. I do just fine on my own, I assure you.”
“Come on. There’s no need to spend your first night in the Hamptons alone.”
Christ. He’s not going to let it go.
In the past few years, most of my friends have coupled up. It feels like an infectious disease the way they’re all dropping like goddamn flies. But the worst part of it is that they’re always trying to set me up, especially lately. It’s been a while since I’ve had a serious girlfriend—okay, a long while—but I’m hardly a monk. And while I appreciate their concern, it’s unnecessary. I’m fine.
“Who said I’m alone?”
Tripp pauses, then gives a low whistle. “Shit, my bad. When can we meet her?”
I run a hand through my hair, tugging at it in frustration. I should have known my little ploy would barely slow him down. I peer around the side of the house, at the blackened branches. “She’s kind of a firecracker. Probably won’t last long.”
“At least I know it’s not Missy. I ran into her the other day, actually.”
“Here, in the Hamptons?”
“Yeah. But don’t worry, she’s already sunk her claws into someone else.”
“Give him my condolences.” My ex is a real piece of work, though at least she taught me an important lesson. Beware of money-hungry women—I’ll never be more than a walking, talking, fucking dollar sign.
Chapter 3
Vivienne
By the time I get to the top of the stairs, he’s back at the bottom.
Good. I have a job to do, and I don’t need the distraction. And this one is definitely a distraction. A Viking god dressed in dark jeans and a crisp cotton button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscular forearms. He’d towered over me, and at nearly five-eight, I’m no shrinking violet. His shoulders alone had nearly blocked out the sun, turning the thick, dirty blond hair on his head into a burnished crown.
And his face isn’t any less arresting, unfortunately. Broad, high forehead. Elegant eyebrows curving over warm brown eyes the color of unhusked almonds. The blunt lines of his nose and cheekbones tapering to a full, unsmiling mouth.
Too attractive for his own good.
Or mine.
Not that I’m interested.
And the Viking certainly isn’t interested in me—not with the air of annoyance he’d worn like an iron breastplate. Maybe that’s why I’m not nervous to be alone with this stranger. His physical appearance is intimidating, but he’s not using his size to bully me. He’s too busy acting offended by my mere presence.