Page 39 of Hotter in the Hamptons

“Sorry,” she groaned, snapping out of her daze. “I’m so spacey today!”

It was almost 11:00 a.m., and the line already snaked out the door, guests queuing for the chef-curated seasonal menu and Italian seaside vibes. Girls in vintage silk slip dresses and Chanel sunglasses held hands with their boyfriends in polo shirts, everyone looking well rested and tan and—she noted with some annoyance—in love. Men and women nuzzled into each other. The Hamptons were romantic. Just not for her.

It was a weekday, but no one was rushing off to work—this was not the place for working nor rushing. It was a place for enjoying yourself, having a glass of wine before noon, indulging in the frivolity of summer without schedules and meetings and sinking follower counts. Lola hoped the atmosphere would rub off on her soon. Despite her refreshed start, something about the Hamptons suddenly felt like an ill-fitting skin.

As they walked up, Ryan shot her a sidelong glance. “Girl, are youtrying to have a nip slip before lunch?”

She looked down. Her boobs seemed to be ignoring the boundaries of the neckline, desperate to break free. They looked great, though, and she didn’t want to put them away. “You mad about it?”

“No, I love your gorgeous tits,” he said. “But you look like you’re going to the club.”

“Life’s a club,” she said. “We don’t need a reservation, do we?”

“We obviously have one.”

“God, I love publicists.” She paused, thinking of her own former team, then added, “Sometimes.”

As it turned out, Ryan had booked them not just a table but the best one, in the corner, where they could see the whole restaurant.

As soon as they sat down, though, Ryan’s phone rang. “Frozen cappuccino,” he muttered to her before picking it up. “Katherine, hi,” he said, automatically switching into his professional work voice, standing up, and mouthingsorrybefore walking back outside.

Alone in the restaurant, without her phone to scroll through, Lola surveyed the scene.

Conservatively dressed women as small as birds were picking at avocado toast while their children stared at screens and their gray-haired husbands talked to one another about golf. The waitstaff exchanged knowing glances across the room. The restaurant smelled of coffee and maple syrup and sunscreen. She scanned the room for familiar faces—with a sharp eye for one in particular—but came up empty.

That was when she noticed people were staring back at her. She was suddenly struck by the realization that she was not invisible. On the contrary, she was a canceled, Instagram-famous blond. Queen of the bland. Her heart sank in her chest. She wondered who around her had read Aly’s article. If they’d sent it to their friends and laughed at her. If,later today, they’d go back to their rental homes and say, “You’ll never guess who I saw at Sant Ambroeus.”

Or maybe everyone was staring at her because of what she was wearing. She felt, all at once, too large for the café. She’d wanted to look sexy and important and instead only succeeded in looking like she was trying too hard. She glanced down at her dress, how it clung to her, showed too much body. The humidity was making her hair twice its normal size, and her skin glistened with sweat.What were you thinking?she asked herself. She’d dressed for revenge—a small part of her had hoped Aly might see her and feel bad all over again—but this was no revenge outfit. She had only succeeded in humiliating herself. Again.

Had she humiliated herself last night at Aly’s too? Should she have been less of a bitch while Aly tried to patch up her foot? She wasn’t sure how she should have behaved, given the circumstances. She did feel guilty for the crack about Aly’s career. But Aly hadruined her life.Surely Lola’s one comment didn’t compare to that sort of damage. Still, she found herself wishing she’d been kinder. Maybe if she had, they could have parted as friends. Or at least as not enemies.

But why did she care if they were enemies? Aly had started all this, not her.

The waiter came. Thank god. She didn’t need to slip further into her oncoming spiral.

She ordered their drinks and added eggs, toast, and pancakes, suddenly realizing she was starving.

Ryan reappeared and not a moment too soon. “Am I dressed like an escort?” she said as he slid into the booth.

“Yes,” he said. “But sex work is work.”

She flushed with embarrassment but quickly tried to shake it off. It was not like she could change clothes at the restaurant. “How wasyour phone call?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said. “But Ididget a text from Emmett. God, he’s so dreamy.” Lola registered this information, but it wasn’t enough to distract her from the train of her own thoughts currently careening off their tracks. As though sensing that she wasn’t paying attention, Ryan sighed. “What did I misshere?”

“Just thinking my thoughts.”

He studied her face. “You were thinking about ARC.”

“I hate that you think that.”

Their coffees came.

Lola definitely did not need more caffeine, but she downed it anyway, feeling her internal organs start to jitter. “I bet she doesn’t even come to places like this. I bet she goes to Golden Pear just to seem like a local even though their coffee tastes burnt.”

Ryan sipped his cappuccino. “You’re really putting a lot of thought into this.”

“Well, you asked!”

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