Page 4 of Hotter in the Hamptons

Instead of going right home after the interview, Lola had her car drop her off at the Bloomingdale’s on Broadway. There, she looked for Molecule 01—just to see what it smelled like in the bottle, she told herself, to find out if it really did smell different on skin.

“Texas Hold ’Em” was playing through the speakers, and she began singing along with Beyoncé under her breath. She had the odd feeling that at any moment, everyone around her might break out into song and dance, though she also thought flash mobs were very 2014.

Tell me the deal with ARC, she texted Ryan while she scanned the cosmetics counters.

He replied immediately.

Okay the tea is she tends to pull straight girls. And then kind of discards them when she’s done. She leaves a trail of bodies. A TRAIL OF BODIES. OMG tell me how the interview went!!!!!!!!

The text made Lola freeze in the middle of the floor. A shopper bumped into her and gave her a dirty look.

She could see how easily it might happen, straight girls falling for Aly. You did not have to be gay to see her appeal.

She couldn’t find the perfume, and an interaction with a sales associate would just be awkward. She knew she’d come on too strong in her current supercharged state. She left Bloomingdale’s empty-handed, mulling over Ryan’s text.

It was a short walk from the department store to her apartment, the perfect amount of time to call her manager and then get off the phone, but she just wasn’t in the mood to talk about business. She wanted to talk about whether it was possible for a perfume to mix with someone’s natural scent.

She shook off the daydream and tried to bring herself back to earth.

She dialed Todd’s number and looked at the clouds while it rang and rang.

Todd had swooped in when Lola was twenty-two and just starting to get real attention. Because he had found her , Lola had never been able to shake the feeling that she owed him her career, though for the past few years, he’d admittedly just been riding her coattails, collecting his 10 percent. Ryan—who moonlit unofficially as her career coach—sometimes urged Lola to find new representation. After a few years in fashion PR, he knew his way around influencers and their various teams of managers, agents, and lawyers. He thought Lola should have the best of each, and while Lola appreciated this sentiment, she was also a creature of habit. Todd already knew her, and she knew him, and that familiarity counted.

“Lola,” Todd answered finally. “Tell me how it went.”

“Good, I think,” she said. “She doesn’t seem to think the lesbian-chic thing was a big deal at all. She seemed much more interested in me , actually. She asked a lot of personal questions, wanted to know my backstory.”

“Great to hear,” Todd said. “And she just emailed the team to say The Cut accepted the pitch, which is perfect. Hopefully we’ll get a nice juicy profile out of her.”

The Cut made Lola a little sweaty—those girls could be so, well, cutting. But she trusted Todd. This affected everyone’s livelihood after all.

“When do you think it’ll come out?”

“She’s fast,” Todd said. “And this has a news hook, for better or worse. By the end of this week would be my guess.”

Lola thanked him for setting it up. He promised to let her know if he heard anything else.

After she hung up, she walked by a large, gold-framed mirror that had been brought to the curb and paused, looking at her reflection. Her dress was billowing in the hot breeze, and her hair floated dreamily around her head. Her fingers itched to take a selfie. This outfit was too good not to go on her grid, especially if she could get the angle right in this mirror with the city in the background.

Instead, reluctantly, she kept moving. Her team had told her not to post until everything blew over. She was especially not supposed to post anything that seemed superficial—which, she realized as she tried to think of what might work, was basically everything she ever put on her feed these days, save for the occasional inspirational quote.

She imagined Aly looking at her Instagram and cringed. She didn’t know why she was so desperate for ARC’s approval. She’d been doing just fine without it. But also, she did know why she wanted it. The problem was she didn’t know what to do with it. So she put it in a little box in the back of her mind and closed the lid. There were a few such boxes collecting dust back there, and it had never really been a problem before.

When she got home, it was just after 2:00 p.m. She heard the sounds of Justin in the shower—the running water and his adorable belting. Like always, he’d left the bathroom door ajar. That was how Justin was, all open doors. Nothing to hide. No little boxes tucked away for him. Always—even without words—inviting her in.

It wasn’t a surprise that Justin was home on a Monday afternoon. He had probably just woken up, since he worked night shifts at Mount Sinai, a rite of passage for young doctors going through residency. Lola was a different kind of night owl. After he left to go save lives, kissing her through her LED light therapy mask, she liked to go out, bouncing from party to party in glamorous, gifted couture, making appearances at trendy events around the city. She didn’t mind being out late and sleeping in the next morning; she didn’t have a schedule, and she didn’t really need one. Schedules were for people still trying to make it. She didn’t need alarms anymore.

Justin was only home one or two nights a week, during which she was usually glued to him while they cooked dinner, watched TV, and went to bed.

It was a sweet ritual, but one or two nights a week was the most she could stand to hide away. Any more than that, and she’d go stir-crazy.

She kicked her flats off—Justin hated when she wore her shoes inside—and went into the chaotic cave that served as her office, which felt smaller every day. There were clothing racks loaded with ruffled gowns and long coats, Louis Vuitton Takashi Murakami bags in Perspex display boxes, bedazzled water bottles, Chanel-branded skis, a box of Venus et Fleur forever flowers that spelled out LOLA , and a stack of terribly uncomfortable gifted shoes from Net-A-Porter still in their boxes, unworn. In all likelihood, she’d probably just end up giving them to Ryan for his lucrative side hustle reselling freebies on The RealReal.

Unless of course no one ever sent her anything again after she’d ruined her career.

No , she thought, shaking it away. That’s what the Aly interview is for. Everything will be back to normal in no time.

She stepped farther into the office, wading through the mess.

She had painted three of the walls pink and covered the fourth in floral wallpaper. The space was lit with a vintage crystal chandelier she’d found at a flea market in Paris, a treasure that had cost her more to ship than to buy. She thought the piece deserved to be in the living room, but it was too gaudy for Justin’s taste.

Against one of the walls, a bookcase spilled over with self-help books, like The 5 AM Club and Outliers . She often got very into whatever kinds of ideas were being offered in each new book she tried but, because she could also never manage to finish any, would abandon the dogma after a few weeks and move on to the next.

There was some order to the space. One corner was devoted to the prototypes of her various brand collaborations—the Lola for Rêver robes and the branded razors with her name on them and, more importantly, a series of gorgeous, gauzy maxi dresses she helped design for Shopbop. The Lola Likes Dresses line was the partnership she was most excited about, and she wished she could have mentioned them to Aly Ray Carter. It was the only thing she’d actually designed, the only work that spoke to her passion. But she was still under an NDA while they ironed out the deals. It would be announced at the end of summer, just in time for New York Fashion Week.

In the center of the room was the pile of barely there D?EN beach dresses, straw hats, Monday Swimwear bikinis, and strappy sandals she was saving for Capri. She was going for a kind of White Lotus season two vibe, inspired by the wardrobes of the girls who played the sex workers more than the show’s resort guests.

Someday, she thought, looking around at all her things, she’d turn this room into a well-organized Carrie Bradshaw fantasy closet. But that day was not today. Nor was tomorrow, for that matter. And maybe not the day after that either.

The mess in her office was the exception; the rest of their apartment was immaculate. Justin was a clean freak, something Lola loved about him, and she did her best to abide by his many rules. After all, mess stressed him out more than cleanliness stressed her out, so it only seemed fair. She was fine to compromise, to keep her things hidden away in her own space where they wouldn’t bother him.

Justin’s own spotless office, on the other side of the apartment, was filled with top-of-the-line workout equipment, though he preferred going to Barry’s or playing pickleball. He was, in fact, down to try just about any workout—he’d once gone to Pilates with Lola as a joke and fell in love with it (she, on the other hand, never went back).

The effort showed. His body was a work of art, and at six foot four, he basically looked like the statue of an ideal man—broad shoulders, washboard abs, biceps larger than Lola’s head, and hardly any body hair. If he wanted to, he could have had a lucrative career as a menswear model, but he wasn’t vain enough to have considered it. He dressed well too; he had a closet full of pressed and tailored Armani suits, plus a healthy collection of pieces from Bode and Ralph Lauren. Everything about him was refined and cool, including his attitude—he was easy. If he was ever in a bad mood, he’d simply go to the gym and take it out on the bench press. Lola was the moody one, something she hated about herself—she could never predict when her dark and stormy emotions would hit. Justin didn’t seem to mind, though, and in turn she appreciated how simple it was to please him. There was no mystery to Justin, and that was comforting.

She smiled to herself, thinking of Justin’s chiseled body in the shower. Come to think of it, she could use a shower too. Aly Ray Carter had really made her sweat. Or maybe it was just the New York City heat. She stepped out of her dress, tossing it into her dry-cleaning pile, and slid out of her thong. She made a small noise of relief as she unhooked her bra and threw it onto the back of her desk chair.

She was totally naked as she walked down the hall toward the bathroom, her feet hardly making a sound on the original hardwood floor. She floated past the framed photos of Justin’s annual family vacations to Mauna Kea for Christmas. He had taken it upon himself to hang the photos on the wall, and as a result, Lola didn’t have as many of her family on display, but that was okay with her. Jeanette and Roger were creatives through and through, happier behind the camera than in front of it.

The bathroom was filled with dense, fragrant steam.

“Hi,” she said, getting into the white marble shower. Justin’s soap smelled like amber and sea salt.

“Well, hi, yourself.” He grinned, that warm, easy smile she loved so much. He dropped his loofah to the ground and wrapped his arms around her. “How’d the interview go?”

“Like, so good,” she said, trying to sound convincing while smiling as his hands grazed her back. “I think we really hit it off. Hopefully the piece will come out this week, and then I can start posting again without everyone yelling at me.”

“I’m so happy to hear it,” he said, and she knew he meant it; Justin was as invested in her success as she was.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Better now. I was worried I wouldn’t get to see you before I leave.”

“Oh, fuck, your LA trip,” she said. She’d completely forgotten. “I can’t believe that’s already this week.”

Justin was taking a red-eye to LA to attend USC’s graduation. He was being honored with an award for all the scholarship money he’d raised. She would have gone with him, but there’d been so much chaos surrounding her social media drama that he’d told her it was okay to skip it.

He laughed, but she could tell he was a little annoyed. “How do you forget something like that?”

“You know me,” she sighed. “Just in my own little world.”

“You do have a lot going on,” he conceded, his tone nicer, always so quick to forgive. “It’s fine. Just don’t forget about the other trip this summer.”

She gasped, feigning shocked. “I could never forget Capri.”

“Oh yeah? When do we leave?”

“July…second?” she guessed, emphasizing her upspeak to sound cute. The truth was she had no idea.

He laughed. “My gorgeous little space cadet. I’ll put it in your calendar.”

“Thank you,” she said.

She stood on her tiptoes as they kissed under the rainfall showerhead, the hot water mixing in their mouths. Not for the first time that day, she wondered what it would be like to kiss someone shorter than her. To have the other person lift on their tiptoes. Her tiptoes even. The thought turned her on, and with Justin naked in front of her, it was easy to imagine that he was the one responsible for her arousal. She bit his lower lip, ran her hands along his biceps, touched the well-defined six-pack that she knew would be there regardless of his lifelong commitment to sit-ups.

“Oh really?” he said.

She felt him grow hard against her. “Mm-hmm,” she said.

His big, strong hand slid between her legs. “Fuck, you’re so wet,” he said.

She laughed into his mouth. “I’ve wanted you all day.”

This was, perhaps, not exactly true, but she wanted him at that moment, and that was what mattered.

She always thought that people in long-term relationships would, at a certain point, stop wanting to fuck all the time. But that point had never really happened for Lola and Justin. They were both, it seemed, perpetually horny for each other. She couldn’t blame herself: Justin was, for all intents and purposes, the most attractive man she’d ever seen. Most days, she couldn’t believe she was his.

He lifted her arm up and smelled her armpit. “Lola stinks,” he teased. “Let’s get you clean first.”

Justin’s eternal, obsessive cleanliness was only mildly annoying because it meant that he wanted to be the one to wash her.

When they got out of the shower, after he’d lovingly scrubbed every inch of her, Justin picked Lola up and carried her to the bedroom.

She squealed as he threw her onto the California king bed.

He crawled up her body, pausing to worship her ankles and her hip bones, her belly button, and her nipples, until his mouth met hers and she pulled him inside her, letting out a gasp. That first moment of penetration was always intense, especially since her decade-long commitment to birth control meant they hadn’t used a condom since their first few encounters. She’d never had unprotected sex before him, and it still felt like a forbidden pleasure.

She usually loved the feel of his substantial body weight on her while they had sex, but it wasn’t what she wanted at that moment. She wanted more control, more freedom. She felt a little smothered, couldn’t move as freely as she wanted with him looming over her. She pushed him to the side and got on top, straddling him and arching backward.

His eyes rolled back in his head as he let out a series of curses. She loved making him groan. He put his hands on her hips, trying to control her speed, but she moved them up to her breasts. She wanted to set the pace.

She started rubbing her clit.

“Let me do that,” Justin said, his voice husky, pupils flooded. But she stopped him.

“No,” she said. “I want to.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, laughing. Despite his offer, she knew he loved watching her, especially while he was inside her. And Lola loved being watched—loved the feel of his admiration across her skin, his focus locking on her fingers as they moved, faster, tighter around her clit. It was one of the many ways they were perfect for each other.

“Fuck,” Justin said again, his breathing getting louder. “You’re so fucking hot.”

He didn’t necessarily speak poetry while fucking her, but that was okay. She cared more about the way he touched her than what he said to her, how his body felt against hers. And it felt good. It always did.

There was a chest under the bed filled to the brim with restraints, vibrators, even a cute little flogger. They’d tried it all. They’d licked chocolate off each other, role-played as gruff handyman and bored housewife, taken turns being blindfolded, masturbated while staring deeply into each other’s eyes. And while it was always fun to try new things together—they made each other laugh as often as they made each other orgasm—they both agreed that there was nothing better than the simplicity of skin on skin, no accessories required.

“Lola, please,” Justin said, moving his hands down her body and finding her hips.

“Fine,” she said, as though she didn’t love when he took control.

He smirked as he pushed himself deeper into her, faster now, more urgent.

Her eyes were glazed now, appreciating the way his muscles rippled below her, but she was also thinking of someone else: smug smile, Tom Ford sunglasses.

None other than Aly Ray Carter.

Maybe not the sunglasses , she thought. The Aly in her head—Fantasy Aly—wasn’t wearing more than the T-shirt she’d had on this morning. Even her shiny, brown hair was free of its claw clip.

Fantasy Aly was looking at Lola with a kind of unbridled desperation. Please let me go down on you , she could hear Aly begging. Please. Lola, I’ll die if I don’t taste you.

She imagined resisting. We can’t , she said to Fantasy Aly. I have a boyfriend. I love him.

I don’t care , Fantasy Aly said. I’ve never wanted anyone so badly in my life.

Fine. She pictured giving in. If you really need to. But be quick.

I do need to. I need you.

She imagined feigning modesty as she opened her legs and allowed Fantasy Aly’s pink tongue to push gently into her clit.

She imagined…nothing else after that. She started to come, and her thoughts turned blank. She couldn’t even hear how loudly she was chanting “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

Her orgasm felt like being launched into zero gravity. The most intense heat followed by nothingness. Infinity. Floating. She collapsed on top of Justin and then rolled to the side, trying to catch her breath.

“Wait,” Justin said, laughing. “I’m not done yet.”

It was true; he was still hard. She shot him a wicked grin. “Oh, I am so sorry ,” she said. “How can I make it up to you, babe? Do you want to come on my tits?”

That was, in fact, exactly what he wanted to do.

When at last they were both finished, Justin fell asleep with his face pressed into her neck. He’d always been an easy sleeper. She knew he’d pop out of bed in exactly thirty minutes, pull on clean Moncler sweats, and make a protein smoothie while he packed for LA. She loved his rituals, his predictability.

Meanwhile, Lola stared at the ceiling, her Aly fantasy idly continuing. While she knew exactly what Justin would do next, she had no idea what Fantasy Aly would.

Lola had never told anyone how often she thought of women during sex. She was not ashamed of this habit—she just didn’t think it mattered because it didn’t mean she wanted to fuck men any less. And she loved fucking men. She always had, ever since she lost her virginity to Benson Campbell at his family’s Malibu beach house when she was seventeen.

She and Benson didn’t go to the same high school, but their parents had been industry friends, so for as long as Lola could remember, her family had an open invitation to the Campbell “cottage,” the cute way they referred to the ten-million-dollar summer mansion. During those long, hot, adolescent days in Malibu, things between them were platonic and innocent; they would play beach volleyball and tan and go to Malibu Yogurt. But the summer before their senior year, something unnameable changed between Benson and Lola, a sudden spark that hadn’t been there before. She couldn’t ignore how cute he’d become. They spent August exchanging lingering glances. Finally, in September, Benson invited her out to the beach house when no one else would be there, and she eagerly agreed. They were in the hot tub discussing what movie to watch when he kissed her.

They soon fell into bed, and while it wasn’t very romantic, it still felt safe and special, which was what she’d wanted out of a first time. Better still was the discovery that Lola loved having sex—how it made her feel so feminine yet animalistic, like she could really be herself, wanting what she wanted without apologizing for it.

She couldn’t wait to do it again with all the guys she’d meet in college.

That was part of the reason she and Ryan had become so close at Parsons: they were both boy crazy. One of their favorite things to do was exchange phones and take turns on each other’s apps; Lola would swipe through his Grindr, and he’d swipe through her Raya, which she’d finally gotten off the wait list for once her blog took off. There was nothing they wouldn’t do for each other, no boundaries between them. Once, sophomore year, he’d helped her bleach her asshole. They were still sending each other their nudes for approval.

And then came Justin.

Justin was the only boyfriend who’d ever met Lola’s parents, who’d come over Christmas Eve and seen the bungalow she grew up in, with its built-in bookshelves overflowing with hardcover classics, everything cozy with warm light and cooking smells and cashmere throw blankets. He’d stayed with her in her childhood bedroom, the walls still covered in pages ripped from fashion magazines. They’d had sex in that little bed, pretending they were in high school, trying hard to be quiet while her parents watched a movie downstairs. The memory made Lola blush.

No , she thought—her body still pulsing from the orgasm she’d had while Justin was inside her— thinking about women is completely beside the point.

Still pressed against her, Justin started to snore. She untangled herself from him and threw on a pink Lola for Rêver robe, then tiptoed to the kitchen to retrieve a coconut LaCroix from the fridge.

She flopped onto their cream boucle Rove Concepts sofa, cold seltzer in hand, and stretched her legs onto their new cement coffee table. The living room furniture was not necessarily comfortable, but it definitely photographed well, especially since it was styled with a copy of Chanel: The Impossible Collection and a hand-blown glass vase that she always made sure was full of fresh flowers from the overflowing buckets in the flower district.

She loved their space, with its floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over Soho, though if it were up to Lola, it would all be drowned in patterns and colors and textures, tapestries on the wall and Moroccan rugs on the floor and fuzzy throw pillows on everything , more bohemian kaleidoscope than minimalist restraint.

But partnership was about compromise. The walls remained white, crisp, and clean. In exchange for giving up her ideal interior design, Lola got to live with someone who cared deeply about her. It seemed like a fine trade-off.

The afternoon sunlight was casting a golden glow on Lola’s already tan skin. Soon, after enough days in the summer sun, all the hair on her body (well, the hair on her body that she permitted to stay) would turn white blond, making her feel like a beach goddess.

She checked her phone and realized she hadn’t texted Ryan back yet.

She ignored what he’d said about a trail of bodies. She didn’t want to think about the many straight women who had fallen under Aly’s spell.

The interview was amazing , she texted him. I, like, love her? She was kind of mean to me but in like a refreshing way. I don’t know. Like she was really seeing me. I just have a really good feeling about it.

He sent back a series of hearts and then: Babes are you coming to the Violet Grey event tonight? Would make me look good to get a photo of you there.

She paused, considering it. Ryan had rented out Cervo’s, a dimly lit Portuguese-Spanish restaurant in Dimes Square, which meant the party would be incredibly fashionable and have great food. She’d been looking forward to it—she’d even asked to borrow an outfit from Collina Strada for the evening, which sat in a garment bag in her office. But despite all that, she was still scared to be seen in public, what with her scandal still trending.

I really want to, but I think I need to lie low until ARC saves my reputation.

Understood , he wrote with another series of hearts. Ok can’t talk, getting face frozen in time.

Everything would go back to normal soon, she knew. All she had to do was hang out and wait until Aly’s piece came out. In the meantime, she was content to think back on their conversation, on the energy that had buzzed between them, and on the way Aly’s hand felt in hers when they shook goodbye.

***

Lola was still lying on the couch when Justin emerged from the bedroom.

“Do you have to pack?” she called to him.

“I did already.” He smiled at her, and then he went to the fridge and started tossing food on the sparkling black marble island. “You hungry, babe?”

Justin had recently gotten into gourmet cooking—or at least into coming home with $500 worth of meat and cheese from Eataly and upgrading all the appliances so that everything was professional grade, complete with Le Creuset pieces in sage. Of all the hobbies Justin had tried out, this was the one she found the sexiest. Lola hated cooking, but she loved eating.

“Starving,” she said, her mouth already watering. “Tell me it’s steak.” Steak was her favorite food, though she also felt deeply conflicted about animal cruelty. She often said she was a vegetarian in spirit, not in practice.

“It’s steak.”

“God, I love you.” She made her way to the kitchen and planted herself on one of the island’s barstools, swinging her legs as she watched him prep dinner. “Can I do anything?”

He laughed while shaking his head. “Please don’t. You’ll just mess it up.”

There was no point in pretending that this hurt her feelings. He was right. Instead, she pulled up Spotify and started playing their joint playlist through the surround sound while Justin put some potatoes in the oven.

He started chopping vegetables for a salad, pausing at one point to toss a cucumber to her. She tried to catch it in her mouth, and instead it bounced off her nose.

“Try again,” she said.

They spent a few minutes like this, Justin softly lobbing radishes, carrots, and peas at Lola’s face, none of which went into her mouth. A pile of vegetables was forming on the ground around her. She was laughing so hard that tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. The harder she laughed, the more determined Justin became.

When a tomato hit her in the eye, he said, “We need to work on your technique.”

“All right, coach,” she said.

“But you’re benched for now. There’s more salad on the floor than the cutting board.”

She crouched down and started picking up the vegetables. Thanks to Justin’s insistence that they always wear house slippers, the floor was probably clean enough to eat off of, but she took the veggies over to the trash anyway.

Keeping the floors—and everything else—clean was a major theme in their relationship. One of their only ongoing disagreements was over whether to get a cat. Lola desperately wanted one; Justin couldn’t deal with the potential cat hair and litter-box smells. She respected his wishes enough to not just come home with a kitten, and so far the floors remained pristine.

“How was your day?” she asked when everything was clean again. “I mean night?”

“It was pretty quiet,” he said as he sizzled butter in a pan before dropping the raw steak into it, dousing it in herbs. “A couple of really sick kids, but nothing too horrible.”

She appreciated that he was vague when describing the horrors he saw at work. She didn’t have the stomach to hear details, and he knew it. He was always looking out for her in little ways like this, sparing her from the information that would haunt her.

He continued, “Now that it’s nice out, I bet things will pick up. Everyone goes so hard in the summer.”

“Except me,” Lola said, stretching her arms over her head. “In the summer, I become a sloth.”

“A beautiful sloth,” he said as he checked on the potatoes in the oven. “Oh, and my mom called. She says hi and that she’s sad you’re not coming home with me this week.”

Lola bristled, annoyed at the secondhand guilt trip. “What did you tell her?”

“I told her to meet us in Capri if she wants to see you so badly.”

Lola laughed, though she also felt some trepidation. Meeting them in Italy on a whim was exactly the kind of thing Justin’s parents would do. Not that she didn’t love them, but sometimes a girl just wanted a sexy vacation with her boyfriend, even if she couldn’t remember the exact dates of their trip.

“My car to JFK comes in an hour,” he said, checking his watch. “I think I timed this perfectly.” They high-fived.

Justin carefully made their plates: a perfect piece of steak, a glistening pile of roasted potatoes, and a green salad with homemade dressing. She poured two large glasses of Bordeaux and lit a candle.

When they sat down to eat, their feet touching under the table, Justin made her taste it first. “Watching you eat my food is the best part,” he said.

She beamed at him with her mouth full, a little bit of grease trickling down her lip.

They’d started dating because of their chemistry, but they’d stayed together for half a decade because of simple, sweet little moments like these. She knew it was rare, what they had—how easy it was, how loving they were.

She wished she could freeze time, stay in this moment, not change a thing. But she couldn’t. All she could do was look forward.

But everything was going to be okay. How could it not? She had the love of her life with her. Her career was about to be saved by a splashy profile for the whole world to see. She wasn’t sure what more she could possibly want.