He looks me over. “You know, if you were wearing a sexy nurse costume this would be much more enjoyable.”
I roll my eyes even as a kaleidoscope of butterflies take flight inside my stomach, swooping and whirling, making me tingle from the inside out. Is the Viking flirting with me? “Sorry. It’s at the dry cleaners, along with my sexy maid costume. You know, those services are extremely popular.”
His deep, throaty chuckle reverberates inside my ears, a seductive thrum that sends ripples of desire through my body.
I catch his ankle with my left hand, holding the tweezers with my right. A thick piece of glass protrudes from the center of his heel. Bending over his foot, I’m not immune to the awkwardness and intimacy of this moment. I don’t even know his name yet.
“Hold still,” I warn.
He doesn’t move or even grunt. The jagged shard is longer than I expect it to be, and blood spills from the cut as soon as I remove it. “I think you might need stitches.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I swipe at the paper towels. “Put pressure on this for a second.” When he does, I take out the first aid kit I stashed in a cabinet after Memorial Day weekend. The Viking isn’t the first guy to bleed in this kitchen from stepping on a broken beer bottle, although he is the first to do it sober.
At least, I think he’s sober.
I rip open a square gauze bandage and dab ointment in the middle of it. “Have you been drinking?” I ask, moving his hand aside to apply the bandage to his foot.
“Excuse me?”
I take the bloody towel from him and toss it in the garbage, then kneel down to do another sweep with the dustpan. “Or just high?” Either would explain why he’s in the kitchen wearing just a towel. If I’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that even the most conservative men have a strange inclination to take off their clothes when they’re hammered. It’s why I spend most of my weekends cooped up in my little room off the kitchen.
Not that Savannah hasn’t tried to get me to go along with her and everyone else to bars and clubs. She’s said, “The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else” so many times I want to scream.
But Savannah doesn’t understand—I don’t need to get over Richard. I already am.
It’s just that I finally feel like myself again, and I don’t want to mess it up by falling for some guy.
The Hamptons is hookup central, filled with good-looking men looking for a good time. Wall Streeters blowing off steam from their stressful city jobs. Townies interested in a fling. Tourists from all over the world wanting a story to take home.
I’ve turned down offers from all of the above, plus some. My sole focus this summer is to save enough money to afford a security deposit and a few months’ rent on an apartment in Manhattan. In another month or so, I’ll start sending out my résumé. Lining up interviews for after Labor Day.
Although lately, I’ve been seriously considering starting my own business. I’m good at what I do, and maybe it’s time for me to work directly with my own clients instead of signing on with another big-name firm.
But it’s risky. Most jobs are won based on reputation or word of mouth. Walking in to a gorgeous space and saying, “Wow. Who designed this? I need to hire them.”
Despite the hours I’ve spent drawing up floor plans and imagining all the different ways I could furnish this house—beach chic, mid-century modern, luxurious bachelor pad, cozy family getaway, artsy bohemian—it will be years before I build up a portfolio to attract a client with a house like this.
But when I look up into the Viking’s open, almost offended gaze, I feel something that makes me forget about being broke and at a confusing crossroads in my career.
Lust. The hot, hard-charging current sweeps me into its grip from the place I’ve been clinging to—my comfort zone.
The flat lines of his mouth pull outward, smoothing away the grooved frown creasing his forehead. “Sober as a judge.”
Maybe it’s me. I’m not drunk or high, but I’m definitely intoxicated. From my body’s potent reaction, from the surge of desire that’s coming on too hard, too fast. I don’t know what to do with it all.
“I—I have to go to work.” Through the fuzziness in my brain, I realize that I can’t exactly kick him out. Not now. If he won’t get his foot looked at by a doctor, then he should definitely keep off it for at least the next few hours. “I’ll text Seth. If he’s okay with you staying here while I’m gone, it’s fine with me.”
Now his mouth fully extends into a smile, his lips parting to show a line of perfectly even, almost offensively white teeth. “Check your phone.”
Chapter 6
Lance
“You’re renting the house for the rest of the summer?” The redhead’s eyes are wide, her voice several octaves higher than it was before.
Earlier, when she asked if I paid Seth, I answered honestly. He earned a six-figure commission on my purchase of this house.
“Yes.” Now the same answer is a lie, but it comes out just as smoothly. There’s no reason it shouldn’t. After all, I lie for a living. Just as I’ve lied all my life.
To the teachers who looked at my greasy hair, dirty nails, and emaciated frame and asked if anyone was taking care of me when I wasn’t in school. To the rich kids who asked why I built computers from the discarded parts of their castoffs rather than buying the latest model at a store. To my clients, who ask if I can protect them from whatever cyberthreat comes their way.
So far, I’ve done just that. Not alone, of course. Tripp is the best partner I could ask for. And we’ve built an incredible team to support us.
My entire life has been a high-stakes confidence game, more or less.
“And you want me to stay here . . . with you?”
“Yes,” I repeat the same word a third time. It could easily be another lie. But it’s not, I realize. I’m not exactly sure why, but some instinct makes me want to keep Vivienne here, with me.
She might turn out to be just another gold-digger, like my ex-girlfriend Missy. But there’s something about her—a haughty kind of scrappiness, maybe—that I find undeniably appealing. Not many women can look regal holding a toilet brush in one hand and a can of Scrubbing Bubbles in the other.
Plus, maybe she’ll be useful. Either as a housekeeper or . . . something else. Maybe keeping her around will get Tripp off my back.
“I can’t—I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t even know your name!”
I extend my right hand. “Lance Welles.”
She looks from my face to my hand, a long moment passing before she reluctantly takes it. “Vivienne Radcliffe.”
“There, it’s settled.”
“Ah, no. I still can’t stay here with you.”
Something occurs to me that I should have thought of before. I lean to the side, glancing at her left hand. “I don’t see a ring . . . ?”
“Being single has nothing to do with it,” she huffs.
My grin returns. Single. Good. “I thought taking care of the house was your job? That you live here, free of charge, in exchange for looking after things for whoever rents the place.”