SUMMARY:
SHEāS GOT CURB APPEAL. HEāS A FIXER UPPER…
From New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting comes I Flipping Love You, a love story about flipping houses, taking risks, and landing that special someone whoās move-in ready.
Rian Sutter grew up with the finer things in life. Spending summers in the Hamptons was a normal occurrence for her until her parents lost everything years ago. Now Rian and her sister are getting their life, and finances, back on track through real estate. Not only do they buy and sell houses to the rich and famous but they finally have the capital to flip their very own beachfront property. But when she catches the attention of a sexy stranger who snaps up every house from under her, all bets are offā¦
Pierce Whitfield doesnāt normally demo kitchens, install dry wall, or tear apart a beautiful womanās dreams. Heās just a down-on-his-luck lawyer who needed a break from the city and agreed to help his brother work on a few homes in the Hamptons. When he first meets Rian, the attraction is undeniable. But when they start competing for the same pieces of prime real estate, the early sparks turn into full-blown fireworks. Can these passionate rivals turn up the heat on their budding romanceāwithout burning down the house?
āFun, sexy, and full of heartā¦Helena Hunting has done it again!āāUSA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow (on Shacking Up)
CHAPTER 1Ā 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. Iām a conscientious price matcher. I mark the sale with a big circle before tucking the red Sharpie into the front of my shirt. If Iām 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 canāt blame him. They are artificially delicious.
But the mom-toddler combo isnāt 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 doesnāt have a cart or a basket. And heās staring at me. Weird. I canāt look at him long enough to decide if heās familiar or not without making it obvious that Iām staring back.
I have the urge to check my appearance, worried I have his attention because my hair is a mess, or thereās a sweat stain down the center of my back. Iām not particularly appealing at the moment. Iāve 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 weekās class, but she wouldnāt 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, Iād 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 Iām 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 wouldāve laughed atālike an entitled jerkānow itās a necessity.
Suit man must be warm, considering itās late April and weāre experiencing temperatures far above average for this time of year. Based on the tapered fit of his suit, Iām guessing itās a high-end brand. Heās complemented it with black patent leather shoes. Very impractical for this weather and location. Does he realize heās in the Hamptons?
Heās wearing a watch, and from his profile, he canāt be much beyond his early thirties. I have to assume the only reason for the watch is because itās expensive and he wants to show it off. In my head, Iāve 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 suitāitās my way of finding out if heās 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 weāre out and the good stuff isnāt on sale, dropping it in the cart. My phone keeps buzzing in my purse. Itās distracting, so I give up ignoring it and check my messages.
Itās my sister.
Weāre in the same store. Itās not particularly huge, so I donāt 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.Ā Holy Hot Pockets. What if thereĀ isĀ a grocery store heist going down? Iām about to abandon my cart in a bid to find Marley and escape the mayhem Iāve created in my head. Itās 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 skinās a little gritty with salt-sweat, so I drop it quickly, becauseĀ ew.
āHi.ā His expression is hard to read. He seems ⦠smug.
āHi, hey. Uhā¦ā I wave a hand around in the air, a little flustered, and conflicted, because itās not often I get approached by a guy this hotāand in a grocery store of all places. Maybe heāll be here again next week. āIām sorry, Iād like to stare at your pretty face, I meanā¦ā Crap, why are words so hard? āI have to go.ā
I try to step around him, but he mirrors the movement, taking a linebacker stance, as if heās considering tackling me. Which is an odd way to stage an introduction.
āRecognize me?ā he asks, one perfect eyebrow arched.
As I take him in, I wrack my brain for a time or place I mightāve run into him before. I donāt 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. Heās a bit intimidating based on his size alone, but weāre in a public grocery store, so I feel relatively safe. And heās 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 attackāalthough maybe this suit could save us.
I adopt his crossed arm pose, but I donāt 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. āShould I?ā
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.
Itās possible I met him in a bar, but I swear Iād remember his face if I did. The bar scene is also more my sisterās speed than it is mine. Oh God. Itās also possible heās mistaking me for her. Itās happened before.
While we look nearly identical at first to most people, weāre 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 Marleyās 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 thatās my perception. Marleyās 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 havenāt returned their calls. Itās too bad if this is the case, because this guy is inordinately attractive and it would be nice if he wasnāt one of my sisterās 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. Heās all-American handsome with a shot of alpha hotness. Itās a lethal combination for the state of my already damp panties.
āI recognizeĀ you.ā 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 Iām Marley. Iām actually rather disappointed. āI think maybe youāve mistaken me for someone else.ā
āOh no, sweetheart.ā His gaze rakes over me again. I feel very naked all of a sudden. And hot. Itās really hot in here. āYou drive a powder-blue Buick.ā
āHow the heckāā
āI knew it!ā 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 heās rudely pointing, maybe someone slammed it for him. āI fucking knew it! You hit my car.ā
I definitely wouldāve remembered hitting someoneās 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 heās all up in my grill and clearly heās not looking to flirt like I originally thought. āI have absolutely no idea what youāre talking about.ā
āDonāt play dumb with me! You think you can flip your ponytailāāhe reaches out and flicks the end, which is rather startlingāāflash a smile and some cleavage, and itās going to get you out of this. Well, think again, sweetheart. I guarantee my paint is still all over your bumper.ā Heās leaning over me, face way too close to mine. So close I can see tiny gold flecks in his deep green eyes. Theyāre an unusual shade. Dark like pine tree needles.
And heās chewing gum. Juicy Fruit. I can smell it when he breathes in my face. I wouldāve expected a man like him to chew something more along the lines of Polar Ice, or Arctic Iceāstrong mint.
I put a hand on his chest and take one deliberate step backward as he opens his mouth to resume his tangent. Itās a solid chest. Extremely hard. His gaze darts down, brows furrowed. I use his distracted state to my advantage. āFirst of allā¦ā I point my finger in his face, like he did to me. āDonāt āsweetheartā me. Thatās condescending. Secondly, Iām sure I wouldāve noticed if Iād hit another car. Thirdly, there are literally hundreds of powder-blue Buicks in this stupid city. Itās not an uncommon car. And Iād like to point out, that the cleavage comment was completely unnecessary and unwarranted and actually, pretty damn sexist.ā
He blinks a couple of times, possibly taken aback. That expression doesnāt last long. His lip curls in a sneer and that pretty all-American handsomeness morphs into downright malevolent hotness. āNice try,Ā sweetheart. But thereās no way Iād forget you.ā His gaze sweeps over meāitās not in an unappreciative way either.
I poke his hard chest. āStop leering at me, you pervert. I donāt know what kind of drugs youāve been snorting, but I assure you, youāve got the wrong person.ā
āOh shit!ā my sisterās 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.
āWhat the fuck? There are two of you?ā hot-crazy guy asks, eyes bouncing between us.
āWe gotta go.ā Marley latches onto my hand and drags me down the aisle, away from crazy-hot suit.
āWhoa! Wait a damn second!ā
Hot suit makes a grab for me, but Marley yanks me out of the way and shoves my shopping cart at himāhard. Heās 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.
āWhat the heck, Mar?ā
āCome the fuck on!ā She sprints down the aisle, dragging me behind her. Iād protest, but I donāt think I have much choice in the matter, considering the death grip she has on my hand, or the fact that sheās assaulted the sexy-crazy suit with my shopping cart.
Marley fast-walks to the exit, glancing over her shoulder. āAct natural.ā
āWill you tell me whatās going on? Who is that guy?ā
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. āI may have tapped that guyās car last Saturday when I was shopping.ā
I stop walking, which brings her to a jarring halt. She yanks on my arm. āSeriously, come on. Iāll explain when weāre in the car.ā
āNope. No way. You explain now.ā
Her eyes are bouncing all over the place. āItās not a big deal. I just grazed his bumper.ā Marley spin and tries to push me forward from behind. āNow letās get out of here before he finds us again. We should probably shop somewhere else for a while.ā
I stumble forward a step and then spin away from her. āYouĀ hitĀ that guyās car?ā
āIt was more of a graze. At least I think it was.ā She wrings her hands and makes herĀ oh crapĀ 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. āIt sure didnāt seem like nothing with the way he freaked out in there.ā
āHeās probably overreacting. Where are your keys?ā Sheās 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. āOh fudge.ā
āWhat?ā
āMy purse. Itās in the cart. I have to go back and get it.ā
Marley grabs the back of my tank. āYou canāt! What if heās still in there?ā
āIt has my identification in it, Marley. And my bankcards, and my money, and keys to the car and the apartment. I canāt leave it in there!ā
Marley flails and paces around in a circle. āWhat if heās waiting for us to come back and get it?ā
āYou can stay here if you want, but Iām going back for it. Iām not leaving my purse behind because you hit some guyās car in a parking lot. I canāt believe you just drove away!ā
āI thought I tapped it, and then I panicked.ā Her fingers are at her mouth now. āI didnāt want to drive up our insurance premiums over some guy and his Tesla.ā
āYou hit a Tesla?ā This keeps getting worse.
āAnyone who has the money to buy a Tesla has the money to fix it, right?ā Marley says.
āSo you drove off! Jeez, Marley. What were you thinking?ā I shake my head. Iād like to say Iām surprised by this, but sadly Iām not. Marley doesnāt always use common sense in day-to-day life.
āI donāt know. I wasnāt thinking. Thatās the problem, I guess.ā
Iām 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. āForget something?ā
Copyright Ā© 2018 by Helena Hunting in I Flipping Love Youand reprinted with permission from St. Martinās Paperbacks.
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BIO:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She’s writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
SOCIAL LINKS:
Twitter – @HelenaHunting
Instagram – @HelenaHunting