The man who came before—came first—left a hell of an impression. Her right-man-wrong-time forever love. Not even Wyatt, The Hamptons’ best carpenter and most eligible bachelor, held a candle.
Hate was powerful, yes. All consuming. Strong. But love was stronger. And everlasting. Even when denied.
Detested.
Ironic, considering she was in the business of endless love.
Her cell phone rang, delaying her well-deserved soak. The beautiful notes of “Canon in D”—the wedding march, strummed via acoustic guitar—sounded from the kitchenette, a short distance from the carriage house’s bathroom where she stood beside the rapidly filling tub.
Grabbing it off the chipped Formica countertop and heading back into the tiny bathroom before the bubbles topped the lip of the tub, she simultaneously answered the ring and shut off the water.
“I’m surrounded by dicks, Wendy. And no, I’m not at a male strip club in the city. I’m in my bathroom with hundred-year-old peeling linoleum that’s probably tainted with asbestos, all by my lonesome.”
“You poor thing,” her best friend and only employee replied, genuinely concerned. “You could really use one, based on your skyrocketing stress level. I have one nearby, and while he’s incapable of putting the cap back on the toothpaste, his dick really relaxes me.”
“But is it purple?”
“Not the last time I checked, no.”
Before Wendy could overshare, detailing the last time she and Doug had, uh . . . relations, Chloe changed the subject.
“I tried to tell her, Wen. Nobody thinks a plum-colored penis is appealing, even when gifted to horny bridesmaids doing shots of Fireball in the back of a stretch Hummer. Even when it’s lavender-scented and anatomically correct, balls included.”
Because yeah, each penis-shaped bath bomb included a set of lopsided testicles.
Chloe tapped the speaker button and set the phone on the tub’s wide rim, shedding her paint-splattered T-shirt and shorts while listening to Wendy chatter about balls.
The carriage house now had a fresh coat of oyster white paint, but her muscles were screaming, and she felt far older than her twenty-seven years.
The sun had set an hour ago on a Monday filled with manual labor, and Chloe wanted a cold bottle of chardonnay, cold leftover pizza, and her cold bed. In that order. Pathetic.
But first, a hot soak in her new old clawfoot tub.
Dipping one foot then the other into her scalding bubble bath, she slowly lowered her aching body into the water. Turned out, painting was a better workout than a Peloton session.
“The day she picked the bachelorette party favors, I suggested other colors,” Chloe continued, sucking in a breath as the hot, heavenly-scented water enveloped her. “A beautiful blush. Peach even, since she likes colors named after fruit. But plum is just too . . . venereal disease-ish. You got a dark purple dick coming at you, you got a dude with an infection.”
Wendy tsked. “I’ve had a purple-hued one before and it wasn’t that bad. It didn’t give me herpes anyway.”
“Back before you were stone cold in love with Doug?”
Best friends since kindergarten, she and Chloe had enrolled in the same college, sharing a dorm room at St. Lawrence University in upstate New York. Wendy made it through the first three years but never returned for their senior year. Instead, she came home to East Hampton for the summer, eloped with Doug Donovan that fall, and had her first child, a girl named Miranda, a year later.
That sweet baby girl sparked only joy inside Chloe.
The sweet baby boy named Micah who followed a few years later sparked joy, too. But also pain.
“I had a sex life before Doug,” Wendy mused, her voice echoing through the bathroom. “You gotta try out a few dicks to find the one that fits just right.”
Chloe didn’t.
The first one fit like a suede glove. The few since fit like a polyester suit. Visually, they looked fine, but felt scratchy and unpleasant against her skin.
Cheap knockoffs.
“Jesus, I need to find a man. Not for his dick, mind you, just one that’s good at screwing. And hammering,” Chloe said, thinking of the renovations necessary to bring the big house up to par. “Handy with a paintbrush, too.”
Sinking deeper into the water, the heat soothed her sore muscles. And, as if to mock her, a bobbing purple dick skimmed past her chin.
No matter. She was too exhausted for the real thing anyway.
“I’m crazy to take on Maine Lane when I can’t even handle the maintenance on this tiny carriage house in the back yard.” Chloe’s fatigue seeped through her words.
“It’ll be worth it once it’s done. And that’s why I’m calling.” Wendy’s carefree tone turned cautious. “Doug’s still at the firm. A client showed up without an appointment. Apparently, he’s unhappy with the way his father’s will was executed. Things got ugly.”
Likely some yuppie was pissed his old man up and died, leaving him a paltry twenty million instead of the thirty he expected.
“Yikes. You wouldn’t think an estate attorney needs security.” She wiggled her toes, the skin already wrinkling. “Does he want a side gig stripping seventies plaid wallpaper from a kitchenette?”
Maine Lane was majestic. Five bedrooms, three baths, and two stories. But her glory days were behind her. The carriage house was minuscule in comparison at only three-hundred square feet, and in far greater disrepair.
And it was Chloe’s new home. She’d sold her modern townhouse, using the profit as her down payment.
“This involves Maine Lane,” Wendy replied. “Doug texted me. It’s already breaking news going around the rumor mill downtown.”
“I hope it’s a rumor we’re overbooked for summer weddings, therefore increasing demand, because my bank balance is dropping at an alarming rate. The utility bill for Maine Lane is outrageous and it’s only September. I have to get it weatherproofed before winter comes.”
“I still don’t understand why you bought it, Chloe. It’ll take months of renovation before we can host events. It’s not venue-worthy as it is.”
“The grounds will be ready next spring. The interior may take longer, but the potential is there.” The potential for a little revenge.
“And with cosmetic repairs,” she continued, the call still on speaker, “And updated wiring so it doesn’t burn to the ground when I flip a light switch, Maine Lane will be the hot spot for weddings and receptions in The Hamptons. The unobstructed ocean views sell themselves.”
“Your vision sounds lovely. But the reality isn’t, sweetie. Which is the reason for my call—”
Sudden, thundering bangs came from the front door, and Chloe jackknifed up in the tub. Water splashed over the rim, a wave just missing taking out her phone.
“Holy shit,” she whispered, her heart thumping. “Somebody’s trying to break in!”
More echoing booms sounded, harder this time, causing the house to shake with the force. Looking around the bathroom in a panic, she searched for a weapon. Naked and afraid, she found precious few to choose from. A tube of drugstore mascara, a can of extra-hold hairspray, and a toilet plunger. Her best options.
But before she could move, the front door was kicked open with such force, she heard it hit the wall and ricochet. Whoever wanted in . . . wanted in.