CHAPTER 1
ANGRY HOT GUY
RIAN
I flip through my stack of flyers,
checking for a sale on the jumbo box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal so I can
price match it. I’m a conscientious price matcher. I mark the sale with a big
circle before tucking the red Sharpie into the front of my shirt. If I’m going
to wheel and deal at the cash register, I want to make it as easy as possible
for the cashier and the people in line behind me. Nothing is worse than getting
stuck behind an unorganized price matcher.
I shimmy a little to the song playing over
the store intercom as I toss boxes of my most favorite, unhealthy cereal in my
cart. A prickly feeling climbs the back of my neck, and I shiver, glancing over
my shoulder. A mom rushes past me down the aisle, her toddler leaning
precariously out of the cart in an attempt to grab a box of Fruit Roll-Ups. I
can’t blame him. They are artificially delicious.
But the mom-toddler combo isn’t the
reason for the prickly feeling. Halfway down the aisle is a suit. A big suit.
Well over six feet of man wrapped in expensive charcoal-gray fabric. He doesn’t
have a cart or a basket. And he’s staring at me. Weird. I can’t look at him
long enough to decide if he’s familiar or not without making it obvious that
I’m staring back.
I have the urge to check my appearance,
worried I have his attention because my hair is a mess, or there’s a sweat
stain down the center of my back. I’m not particularly appealing at the moment.
I’ve just come from a boot camp class at this new gym my twin sister forced me
to try out.
Marley bought an online two-for-one
coupon for forty bucks, so now I have to attend six of these stupid classes
with her. I managed to get out of last week’s class, but she wouldn’t let me
escape two weeks in a row. My tank is still dewy, post-exertion, I have terrible
under-boob sweat, and my thong is all wonky. If I were alone in this aisle, I’d
for sure fix the last issue, but suit guy is here so I must leave the thong
where it is for now, wedged uncomfortably between my vagina lips.
The suit quickly shifts his attention to
the shelves and picks up the jar directly in front of him, which happens to
contain prunes. He inspects it, then maybe realizes what it is, because he
rushes to return it, exchanging it for another item. I bite back a smile,
pleased that even in my disgusting state I’m being checked out.
As suit man gives the shelf in front of
him his full attention, I return the checkout favor. His attire and his posture
scream money and a twinge of something like longing combined with jealousy
makes my throat momentarily tight. At one time, price matching was a practice I
would’ve laughed at—like an entitled jerk—now it’s a necessity.
Suit man must be warm, considering it’s
late April and we’re experiencing temperatures far above average for this time
of year. Based on the tapered fit of his suit, I’m guessing it’s a high-end
brand. He’s complemented it with black patent leather shoes. Very impractical
for this weather and location. Does he realize he’s in the Hamptons?
He’s wearing a watch, and from his
profile, he can’t be much beyond his early thirties. I have to assume the only
reason for the watch is because it’s expensive and he wants to show it off. In
my head, I’ve already profiled him as a pretentious, rich prick who probably
commutes to NYC a few times a week where he bones his secretary and has a
penthouse with the barest of furniture. The rest of the time he works from
home.
I return to shopping and continue down
the aisle, in the opposite direction of the suit—it’s my way of finding out if
he’s actually creeping on me or not. I keep tabs on him in my peripheral vision
as I scope out more sales and more delicious, unhealthy food items. My job is
to balance out all the fruit and vegetables my sister, Marley, is currently
picking out in the produce section.
I grab a jar of the no-name peanut butter
since we’re out and the good stuff isn’t on sale, dropping it in the cart. My
phone keeps buzzing in my purse. It’s distracting, so I give up ignoring it and
check my messages.
It’s my sister.
We’re in the same store. It’s not
particularly huge, so I don’t know what could be so pressing that she needs to
text four thousand times instead of finding me.
ABORT
SHOPPING
LEAVE
NOW
Meet
me in parking lot
RIAN??????
Jeez. What the heck is going on? Maybe
the grocery store is being robbed. Holy Hot Pockets. What if there is a grocery
store heist going down? I’m about to abandon my cart in a bid to find Marley
and escape the mayhem I’ve created in my head. It’s all very dramatic. As I
turn, I come face-to-face with the suit.
I suck in a breath and slap my hand over
my chest. The tank is still damp, and my skin’s a little gritty with
salt-sweat, so I drop it quickly, because ew.
“Hi.” His expression is hard to read. He
seems … smug.
“Hi, hey. Uh…” I wave a hand around in
the air, a little flustered, and conflicted, because it’s not often I get
approached by a guy this hot—and in a grocery store of all places. Maybe he’ll
be here again next week. “I’m sorry, I’d like to stare at your pretty face, I
mean…” Crap, why are words so hard? “I have to go.”
I try to step around him, but he mirrors
the movement, taking a linebacker stance, as if he’s considering tackling me.
Which is an odd way to stage an introduction.
“Recognize me?” he asks, one perfect
eyebrow arched.
As I take him in, I wrack my brain for a
time or place I might’ve run into him before. I don’t think so, though. His
light brown hair is neatly styled, and the cut of his suit highlights all of
his assets. Well, the visible PG ones, anyway.
He widens his stance and crosses his arms
over his chest. His very broad chest. The sleeves of his suit jacket pull
tight, biceps bulging and flexing. He’s a bit intimidating based on his size
alone, but we’re in a public grocery store, so I feel relatively safe. And he’s
just so gorgeous. Which is a silly reason not to be concerned, some of the most
notorious serial killers are attractive men. Also, I need to find my sister, in
case the grocery store is really under attack—although maybe this suit could
save us.
I adopt his crossed arm pose, but I don’t
think I look intimidating. All I succeed in doing is awkwardly squeezing my
boobs together inside my damp sports bra and jabbing the right one with the
Sharpie. “Should I?”
He looks me over, a slight smirk tipping his
mouth. His gaze gets stuck on the Sharpie for a few seconds before they come
back up to my eyes.
It’s possible I met him in a bar, but I
swear I’d remember his face if I did. The bar scene is also more my sister’s
speed than it is mine. Oh God. It’s also possible he’s mistaking me for her.
It’s happened before.
While we look nearly identical at first
to most people, we’re actually fraternal twins. After a few interactions, most
people can tell us apart. I have a distinctive Marilyn Monroe mole on the right
side above my lip, and my eyes are amber, where Marley’s are closer to green.
My mouth is too big for my face, my lips a little too full and my nose too
small. At least that’s my perception. Marley’s also the more outgoing of the
two of us and an inch taller. And about ten pounds lighter.
Marley is a little less cautious than I
am with men, so there have been a few uncomfortable occasions where her
previous hookups have approached me, asking why I haven’t returned their calls.
It’s too bad if this is the case, because this guy is inordinately attractive
and it would be nice if he wasn’t one of my sister’s castoffs.
His face is a masterpiece of masculine
perfection; straight nose, high cheekbones, an angular jawline that could cut
glass, full lips. Especially the bottom one. The kind of full that makes me
think of kissing, with tongue, of course. He’s all-American handsome with a
shot of alpha hotness. It’s a lethal combination for the state of my already
damp panties.
“I recognize you.” He has a low, rough
voice, like the delicious scrape of fine grit sandpaper.
He breaks me out of my ogle daze. He must
think I’m Marley. I’m actually rather disappointed. “I think maybe you’ve
mistaken me for someone else.”
“Oh no, sweetheart.” His gaze rakes over
me again. I feel very naked all of a sudden. And hot. It’s really hot in here.
“You drive a powder-blue Buick.”
“How the heck—”
“I knew it!” he shouts, eyes alight with
some kind of weird, victorious satisfaction as he points a long finger with a
blue-black nail at me. Maybe he slammed it in a door or something. Or based on
the way he’s rudely pointing, maybe someone slammed it for him. “I fucking knew
it! You hit my car.”
I definitely would’ve remembered hitting
someone’s car, especially if a guy this good looking was driving it. He should
probably come with a warning, like: Panties may combust if you get too close,
or something. I take a step back since he’s all up in my grill and clearly he’s
not looking to flirt like I originally thought. “I have absolutely no idea what
you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb with me! You think you
can flip your ponytail”—he reaches out and flicks the end, which is rather
startling—“flash a smile and some cleavage, and it’s going to get you out of
this. Well, think again, sweetheart. I guarantee my paint is still all over
your bumper.” He’s leaning over me, face way too close to mine. So close I can
see tiny gold flecks in his deep green eyes. They’re an unusual shade. Dark
like pine tree needles.
And he’s chewing gum. Juicy Fruit. I can
smell it when he breathes in my face. I would’ve expected a man like him to
chew something more along the lines of Polar Ice, or Arctic Ice—strong mint.
I put a hand on his chest and take one
deliberate step backward as he opens his mouth to resume his tangent. It’s a
solid chest. Extremely hard. His gaze darts down, brows furrowed. I use his
distracted state to my advantage. “First of all…” I point my finger in his
face, like he did to me. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. That’s condescending.
Secondly, I’m sure I would’ve noticed if I’d hit another car. Thirdly, there
are literally hundreds of powder-blue Buicks in this stupid city. It’s not an
uncommon car. And I’d like to point out, that the cleavage comment was
completely unnecessary and unwarranted and actually, pretty damn sexist.”
He blinks a couple of times, possibly
taken aback. That expression doesn’t last long. His lip curls in a sneer and
that pretty all-American handsomeness morphs into downright malevolent hotness.
“Nice try, sweetheart. But there’s no way I’d forget you.” His gaze sweeps over
me—it’s not in an unappreciative way either.
I poke his hard chest. “Stop leering at
me, you pervert. I don’t know what kind of drugs you’ve been snorting, but I
assure you, you’ve got the wrong person.”
“Oh shit!” my sister’s voice comes from
behind me.
I turn to find Marley doing an
about-face, and then she breaks into a little grapevine step as she moves back
toward me. Her eyes are wide, mouth contorted into some kind of grimace as she
grabs my wrist.
“What the fuck? There are two of you?”
hot-crazy guy asks, eyes bouncing between us.
“We gotta go.” Marley latches onto my
hand and drags me down the aisle, away from crazy-hot suit.
“Whoa! Wait a damn second!”
Hot suit makes a grab for me, but Marley
yanks me out of the way and shoves my shopping cart at him—hard. He’s not quite
quick enough to get out of the way, and the corner of the cart slams right into
his crotch. He doubles over with a groan and aggressively pushes the cart
aside. It ricochets into a display of canned peaches, which spill into the
aisle with a deafening crash.
“What the heck, Mar?”
“Come the fuck on!” She sprints down the
aisle, dragging me behind her. I’d protest, but I don’t think I have much
choice in the matter, considering the death grip she has on my hand, or the
fact that she’s assaulted the sexy-crazy suit with my shopping cart.
Marley fast-walks to the exit, glancing
over her shoulder. “Act natural.”
“Will you tell me what’s going on? Who is
that guy?”
She flips her hair over her shoulder and
smiles as we pass the cashiers and the automatic doors open. Marley fast-walks
down the sidewalk toward our car. “I may have tapped that guy’s car last
Saturday when I was shopping.”
I stop walking, which brings her to a
jarring halt. She yanks on my arm. “Seriously, come on. I’ll explain when we’re
in the car.”
“Nope. No way. You explain now.”
Her eyes are bouncing all over the place.
“It’s not a big deal. I just grazed his bumper.” Marley spin and tries to push
me forward from behind. “Now let’s get out of here before he finds us again. We
should probably shop somewhere else for a while.”
I stumble forward a step and then spin
away from her. “You hit that guy’s car?”
“It was more of a graze. At least I think
it was.” She wrings her hands and makes her oh crap face.
Now crazy-hot suit guy seems a lot less
crazy and much more justified in his reaction. Except for the cleavage comment.
That was still unnecessary. “It sure didn’t seem like nothing with the way he
freaked out in there.”
“He’s probably overreacting. Where are
your keys?” She’s still wringing her hands.
I pat my hip with the intention of
keeping my purse safe and away from my sister. Except all I end up patting is
my actual hip. I look down, running my hands over my stomach, searching for the
cheap, faux-leather knockoff. “Oh fudge.”
“What?”
“My purse. It’s in the cart. I have to go
back and get it.”
Marley grabs the back of my tank. “You
can’t! What if he’s still in there?”
“It has my identification in it, Marley.
And my bankcards, and my money, and keys to the car and the apartment. I can’t
leave it in there!”
Marley flails and paces around in a
circle. “What if he’s waiting for us to come back and get it?”
“You can stay here if you want, but I’m
going back for it. I’m not leaving my purse behind because you hit some guy’s
car in a parking lot. I can’t believe you just drove away!”
“I thought I tapped it, and then I
panicked.” Her fingers are at her mouth now. “I didn’t want to drive up our
insurance premiums over some guy and his Tesla.”
“You hit a Tesla?” This keeps getting
worse.
“Anyone who has the money to buy a Tesla
has the money to fix it, right?” Marley says.
“So you drove off! Jeez, Marley. What
were you thinking?” I shake my head. I’d like to say I’m surprised by this, but
sadly I’m not. Marley doesn’t always use common sense in day-to-day life.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. That’s
the problem, I guess.”
I’m about to go back into the store, but
stop short at the sight of the suit leaning against the side of my car, one
ankle crossed over the other, all calm like. Dangling from a single finger is
my knockoff, hot-pink Coach purse. “Forget something?”
Copyright © 2018 by Helena Hunting in I
Flipping Love You and reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
