Page 1 of Hotter in the Hamptons

Chapter 1

It was a minor decision before a major meeting, but Lola Fine felt paralyzed by it: her trusty pink Miu Miu flats—scuffed and worn from years of city sidewalks, bought at full price after her first major brand deal—or her black Prada slingbacks, a recent, lavish gift from a publicist that hurt like hell but looked insanely chic.

The flats were definitely less sexy, but they were practical. Plus, they reminded her of a Lola from long past: that starry-eyed, aspiring fashion darling who worshipped at the altar of Sienna Miller and dreamed in dress patterns, who’d moved to the city by herself to see if she could also be part of that glittering, exclusive scene she’d read about in magazines.

But which version of her would be more likeable today—and more importantly, which would be moreforgivable? The aspirational content creator with seven-figure savings and in-season style, or the earnest fashion girl who doesn’t try too hard? She wasn’t sure.

The one thing shewascertain of: the Pradas gave her blisters.Did she really want to limp her way from Soho to Brooklyn? No. She did not.

Ten minutes later, the trusty flats squeaked on the concrete floor as she breezed through the airy lobby of her apartment building. It was the right choice. She felt like herself. (Though she’d also stashed the Pradas in her bag, just in case she decided on the way that shedidn’twant to feel like herself. It was best to be prepared.)

She waved to the graying doorman, Hector, who greeted her with a warm nod.

“No packages for you this morning, Miss Lola,” Hector said.

“It happens,” she replied breezily, trying to hide her frown.

Last year, the building’s management had bought a new cart just so the doormen could take Lola’s mail up to her. Otherwise, her daily onslaught of packages—PR gifts of varying designer clothes, shoes, high-end beauty products, luxury home decor, up-and-coming books, the occasional athletic gear—was unmanageable.

But this week, there had been no packages at all. Not that she really cared about the gifts themselves; the thrill of brands sending her free stuff was long over. Designer bag blended into designer bag, something that would have been unthinkable just a few years ago. Though she’d become famous for her personal style, these days, she felt as if her entire aesthetic was decided by various marketing teams that selected pieces for her to promote on their behalf to her five million followers.

No, it wasn’t the lack of packages that bothered her—it was the implication of their absence. It had been a hard few days.

The cream ruffles of her new Chloé maxi dress swished against her waxed, self-tanned legs as she made her way to the exit, her gold bracelets jangling on her wrists. She’d put her favorite pink Guerlain lipstick on, expertly obscuring the tiny scar on the top of her lip. Ifnothing else, she thought, she looked great today. She smelled great too; she’d sprayed Daisy Wild on her pulse points, relishing the fresh scent. On regular days, the fragrance made her feel like she was prancing whimsically through a field of jasmine, her head floating through the clouds. Today, though, the scent seemed to poke cheekily at the low thrum of anxiety in her chest, urging, almost aggressively,perk up, babe!She was forcing herself to listen.

Ever the Virgo, she supposed she was controlling what she could. And if she couldn’t make strangers be nice to her online, she could at least make herself look perfect for the task at hand. She was determined to fix her mess.

Hector held the door open for her, and she stepped out onto Mercer Street.

New York summer always felt like a hot bath. Across the street, a horde of young men in tailored three-piece suits—Goldman Sachs interns, she guessed—looked ready to drop dead of heatstroke. The air smelled like steaming garbage. Her feet immediately started sweating in her flats, and though she’d gotten her hair blown out at Jenna Perry the day before, she couldn’t resist throwing it into a quick topknot, her neck already damp beneath her blond mane. She’d take it down before the meeting, but for now, there was literally no way she’d survive her hair plastered around her throat. The thought alone made her shudder.

And yet there was something that felt like magic about Manhattan in June, when the chilly, unpredictable spring days finally unfolded into the blazing heat. Lola was born and raised in Los Angeles, so the East Coast’s shifting seasons were still novel, those tiny changes that built on each other until suddenly, one day, everything felt new. She hoped she never got used to the romance of it. It made her feel invincible.

She’d wanted to take a Citi Bike to Fort Greene, a quiet, hip neighborhood in Brooklyn with historic brownstones, a leafy park, and a smattering of exquisite little restaurants and bars. She’d always preferred a bicycle to taking taxis or Ubers or, in more recent years, brand-sponsored Uber Blacks. In fact, riding a bike was one of her favorite parts of living in Manhattan. She loved whizzing past all the people, feeling like she was flying through the veins of the city itself, the wind in her hair. When she first moved here, her old bike was how she learned the streets, memorized the grid and the neighborhoods, falling more and more in love with the pulse of this place by the day. It washercity, she felt. And she was New York’s.

But even she knew she shouldn’t attempt to bike over the bridge in couture. She needed to make a good impression, which meant she couldn’t risk getting bike grease all over herself, as she was prone to do.

Not to mention the heat. She didn’t want to arrive to her interview with the famous Aly Ray Carter looking sweaty. No, it would be an Uber for her today. She needed air-conditioning like she needed Aly to write a redeeming profile of her.

At least that was what her team had been telling her. A flattering profile would turn things around. And Aly specifically needed to be the one to write it. No one else had that kind of cultural cachet with the fashion-obsessed women who followed @LolaLikes on Instagram, TikTok, and X (which Lola had never stopped calling Twitter).

As though she’d been manifested from Lola’s thoughts, a teenage girl wearing a Marine Serre T-shirt and cargo pants—a living billboard for Gen Z—walked by. They made eye contact, and Lola offered her a smile. The girl smiled back, looked away, and then whipped back around, recognition flickering across her face. “Oh my god, wait, sorry, Lola Likes?”

Lola, who was waiting in the doorway for her Uber, smiled, unsurprised to be recognized on the street. She was, if anything, a little bored of all the fanfare, though there was also some relief to it in this moment; at least she still mattered. At least what she’d done was not bad enough to prevent a random Gen Z on the street from wanting to talk to her.

“Yes,” she said. “Hi!” She expected the girl to ask to take a picture with her. She always said yes when asked.

“Rough week, huh?” the girl said instead. “I wouldnotwant to be you.”

Lola’s heart sank to the sidewalk. Usually, girls in their twenties told Lola the exact opposite. They were jealous of her life. They wanted to be her. But apparently, not anymore. She felt a small flame of embarrassment lick up her stomach as she tried to keep the smile firmly in place.

The girl looked Lola’s outfit up and down. “Slay, though.”

Then she turned and kept walking.

Slay, though?She blinked back tears. How could two words—two stupid words at that—be so cutting? She’d just been read to filth in a matter of seconds, and Lola was shocked by the sting of it. She’d never had an encounter with a fan like that, and she couldn’t help but wonder how many people were now out there hating her. Every time she tried to tell herself it wasn’t a big deal—that no one other than a specific slice of the internet knew what was happening—she was proven wrong.

The black Land Rover pulled up to the curb, and she felt grateful for the privacy it would give her.

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