Page 10 of Hotter in the Hamptons

“Well, talk to you soon,” Aly said and extended her hand as she stood up. “Thanks for your time.”

Lola looked at her hand, confused. The sudden formality was like getting splashed with cold water.Thanks for your time?She’d expected a hug after all that. Maybe an air kiss on the cheek, European style.

Aly’s hand, waiting for Lola’s in the space between them, was slim but strong looking. Her nails were short and bare. She wore a few plain gold rings; a mixed metal chain was fastened around her pale wrist.

“Oh, yeah,” Lola said, finding her way back to the present moment, taking Aly’s hand in hers. It felt cool. “Thanks for your time too.”

Aly squeezed her hand. A spark of electricity traveled up Lola’s arm and into her stomach. Lola did not want to let go. But she did, reluctantly.

And then Aly left.

Lola took a breath. She inhaled; she exhaled. She put her palms on the table and tried to ground herself.

But she couldn’t. She felt like she was levitating.

Long after Aly was gone, Lola could still smell her.

Chapter 2

There was only one other time in her life Lola had felt anything close to the kind of electricity she felt while talking to Aly, and it was when she and Justin reconnected five years ago.

She’d recognized him immediately across the crowded Chelsea gallery that was hosting her friend Min’s newest collection of paintings, a series of abstract portraits in soft hues of blue and purple. Min and Lola had gone to high school together, so it wasn’t surprising that there was someone else from Harvard Westlake there; what was surprising was that it was Justin in particular.

It was like seeing a local celebrity.

He’d been the star hot guy of their high school, which was a feat, given almost everyone—with the exception of a few like Lola—was the offspring of the rich and the famous. But even in that crowd, Justin stood out, with his entertainment lawyer parents and Brentwood mansion. He wasn’t just gorgeous; he was a varsity athlete, took AP everything, and was genuinely nice, beloved by everyone. Plus, healways had an equally hot girlfriend. Everyone knew he was destined for greatness.

Justin and Lola had not been friends in high school, but given their shared propensity for being on good terms with everyone, they weren’tnotfriends either. The popular crowd just wasn’t really Lola’s scene. She grew up in a bungalow in Laurel Canyon, the only child of her costume designer mother, Jeanette, and her cinematographer father, Roger. While Justin went to parties, Lola was going to set with her parents, where Jeanette taught her how to sew and mend, how to tell if something was real or fake, and what made something look expensive or cheap. Roger taught her how to make anything look beautiful, how lighting was everything.

She became obsessed with aesthetics, with people whose jobs were curating the way things looked. While her friends went on group trips to Cabo with their maids, Lola was home, honing her sense of style and studying the history of the looks she loved best. It was the one thing she and her parents fought about. They wanted her to spend more time being a real teenager; she ached to grow up and have a career. But even when they fought, she was glad she was theirs. She could see how unhappy her friends and their parents were, despite their mansions and their chef’s kitchens and their pools. She wouldn’t have traded what she had for the world. Ironic, given the fact that her life now more closely resembled that of her rich high school friends than that of her parents.

She knew it had broken their hearts when she moved to New York to study fashion, but they also supported her unconditionally, and they visited as often as they could. It was important for her to leave LA, to leave them. Otherwise, she’d never have become her own person.

It took two years after she graduated to run into Justin at Min’s opening, and she saw him before he saw her, which gave her a fewminutes to observe him unencumbered. His trousers were perfectly tailored; his white T-shirt and gold chain necklace told Lola he was trying to look hip for the art party. But he was a little too clean-cut to get away with anything resembling edginess. Lola liked that—she was sick of all the scruffy downtown guys with their ratty jeans and sneakers and stoned monologues aboutInfinite Jest.Justin was classy. He looked exactly like the person he was supposed to become.

She downed a glass of champagne before approaching him. His eyes widened as she walked up, looking her up and down so quickly she almost missed it, but it had definitely happened—Justin had checked her out. He was grinning by the time she was in front of him, which meant he liked what he saw.

“Hello, Justin Wilson,” she said, grinning back.

To her surprise, his eyes grew large as he exclaimed, “I have no idea who you are, but I’d like to.”

They both erupted into laughter, struck by the brazen way she’d assumed he would recognize her and how frank he had been about the fact that he didn’t.

“I’m Lola Fine,” she said. “We went to high school together. You’re two years older than me.”

It took him a minute, but it seemed like he remembered. “Lola.” He snapped his fingers. “Well, goddamn. You look different.”

She knew she did. She’d always been cute but had only figured out how to be gorgeous in adulthood; after years studying actors and models, she’d finally learned how to dress for her own long, curvy body, how to play up her makeup so that her cheekbones glowed and her doe eyes looked bigger. It was like having a superpower, being able to make herself look exceptional. And Justin was clearly hypnotized.

“Tell me everything you’ve done since high school,” he said.

“I studied fashion at Parsons,” she told him. “And now I’m a fashion blogger.”

“You know, that’s kind of perfect,” he replied. “You always had the best style. And isn’t your mom a costume designer?”

She nodded. She couldn’t believe he remembered that. She was touched by it, even if she didn’t agree. Her style in high school had been as bad as everyone else’s, complete with low-rise jeans and going-out tops. “Okay, your turn,” she said. “What has become of the one and only Justin Wilson?”

“Well, I’m in medical school at NYU.”

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