Page 29 of Hotter in the Hamptons

Main Street was bustling, and Lola peered out the window at all the summer people doing their little errands. East Coast beach living was WASPier than Malibu; there were more polo shirts and boat shoes than she was comfortable with. With a pang, she realized how homesick she was for the down-to-earth surf vibes of the summers she’d spent with her family at the Campbells’ beach house.

But she was here, decidedly not on the West Coast, and she was determined to enjoy it.

They drove past familiar shops with storefronts rebranded to be more beach friendly: Intermix, Brandy Melville, Nili Lotan. In between the retail spaces, summery ice cream parlors and wine shops and restaurants dotted the walk, their chalk signs and quaint awnings beckoning people in from the heat. Then the car turned off the Main Street and onto a narrow road toward the beach.

“We’re almost there.” Ryan nudged her. “The house is walking distance from all that stuff.”

“Good thing I made you cancel your car,” Lola said.

Ryan rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Good thing one of us can afford to travel by helicopter, you mean.”

“You’re welcome.”

The car came to a stop with a view of the water before them and, centered in the expanse of open sky, a house that took Lola’s breath away.

“Ryan, are you kidding me?” she gasped, flinging open her door.

The cottage had weathered brown shingles, with white trim skirting a classic cross-gable roof. A stone chimney rose from its center, evoking images of cozy summer storms and rain-soaked beaches, and the large windows dotting the sides seemed to beg to be thrown open.Overall, the place was big but not huge, the perfect size for two friends who were charmed by a homey aesthetic but would also perish without their own separate bathrooms over a long summer. It felt steeped in the promise of quaint romance.

The front yard was lush with blue and purple hydrangeas and pristine, freshly cut grass. She stepped away from the car and was hit with the smell of salt air. She could hear the ocean. Two bicycles leaned against the house as if waiting for them, and a white Jeep was parked in the driveway.

“Oh, Ryan,” she gushed. “It’s perfect.”

“I told you!” He laughed. “No one has better taste than Giancarlo.”

“I can’t believehedidn’t want to be here for the summer.”

“I can.” Ryan winked. “His other beach house is in Santorini.”

The driver took their suitcases out of the trunk and wheeled them to the curb, tipping his hat in goodbye.

“I’m literally so excited,” Lola said. “This really feels like we’re doing the right thing.”

They dragged their luggage up the cobblestone path.

Ryan unlocked the front door, and Lola gasped. The door opened into an elegant parlor lit by a crystal chandelier. She could see straight through to the sliding glass door on the other side and, through that, the yard, which had a pool, and beyond it, a private beach.

“Giancarlo!” she cried.

They abandoned their luggage in the entryway and wandered around the first floor of the house. She trailed her fingers along the soft, oversized, cream sofas. The decor was more classic than trendy, designed to withstand the test of time, not go viral on Instagram. Lola reveled in the solidity of it, taking in the sparkling clean surfaces, as though the housekeeper had just finished polishing. For a moment,Lola let herself feel sad. Justin would have loved this place.

Just then, she heard the sound of a distant door creaking open and closed. Out the window, she could see the neighboring cottage. It was all white—white shutters, white trim, white roof. It was possibly even lovelier than Giancarlo’s house, with a yard full of red rose bushes and low hedges.

A thin, pale woman in a black one-piece was standing turned from Lola in the doorway. Lola took a moment at the window, inspecting the suit, a classic cut across the woman’s trim frame. She couldn’t help but admire the composition before her—black fabric against pale skin against white siding and roses. Lola wondered if that ease in posture was what summering in the Hamptons promised a person as the woman swept back her long, brown hair with a pair of sunglasses.

No, not just sunglasses.

Tom Ford sunglasses.

Lola’s stomach plummeted as she dropped to the ground.

No no no. There’s no fucking way.

She army-crawled behind their suitcases, her heart pounding in her ears.

It couldn’t be. She peeked back up and got a glimpse of a slender silhouette, hands now working a tortoiseshell clip firmly in place. The woman turned, and Lola felt like vomiting again.

What the fuck was Aly Ray Carter doing in the house next door?

---