I Flipping Love You (Shacking Up #3)(19)
“Oh, right, it totally slipped my mind, to be honest.” Angelica, better known as Gel, and Lauren used to live down the street from us. They’ve been roommates forever and moved to New York City a few years ago, so we don’t get to see them very often anymore. They’re obviously doing well if they can afford to rent a Hamptons beach house for a weekend getaway.
“It’s on the calendar in the kitchen. Have you packed a bag yet?”
“What?” I think I’m slipping into an ice cream coma.
“They invited us to stay the weekend, or did you forget about that too?”
“Why would we stay with them when we live near the beach?”
“We don’t live that close, and because it’s fun and convenient. It’s supposed to be ridiculously warm this weekend, bikini weather even. If we stay with them, we can get our drink on and have some fun with friends we rarely get to see.”
“But we have the open house on Saturday afternoon, and then the bungalow on Sunday,” I remind her. We’re holding back on listing the second house until Sunday morning on the request of the sellers. They want the other property on the beach to sell first, hoping to entice buyers their way. Nothing stays on the market long in the Hamptons, so we anticipate it will sell during the open house. On the up side, we’ll have a gauge with which to price the bungalow. The better the price point, the better our commission and the happier the sellers are.
“They’re not scheduled until the afternoon, and we’ll be close since Gel and Lauren rented a place in Hampton Bays. We can have fun tomorrow night, and then when the open house is over on Saturday, we can get our party on again.”
“I don’t know, Mar.” My sister loves to get her drink on, especially when she’s with Gel and Lauren.
“Oh, come on. We can have a girl’s night out. We’ll go to a fun bar on the beach. You can wear one of my dresses and hook up with some hot guy named Trent, who buys you drinks instead of making you pay for your own like Terry.”
I don’t actually like it when guys buy my drinks. It’s as if they think because they spent ten dollars on me, it auto matically means they can get handsy. “You know how I feel about the bar scene.”
“You need to let loose, and we haven’t seen Gel and Lauren in forever. Plus, we can troll the beach for potential properties. I was talking to another agent yesterday and there might be a couple of places coming up for sale, something about people being concerned about zoning laws or whatever. Consider it a multipurpose work-vacation.”
She has a point. Staying on the beach has some definite advantages. Not the least of which is the opportunity to canvas desirable properties and their owners.
“It’s supposed to be a gorgeous weekend. We can work on our tans. Check out hot guys playing beach volleyball.”
Always with the volleyball players. “Okay. Fine. But no getting superhammered tomorrow night. We need to be functional for the open house on Saturday. Based on the market, this property should go for over asking and that check I cut for the Tesla paint job won’t hurt so much.”
Marley’s tongue peeks out and her eyes light up. “Has he texted you again?”
“No. And I can’t imagine he will after tonight.” I should be thankful, not disappointed. I grab my empty ice cream container and head for the kitchen. “What time will Gel and Lauren get to the beach?”
“Gel said noon and we can meet them there any time after that. I already have the address and everything.”
We’ve been working our butts off lately, and it would be nice to enjoy the beach and not just show the view to other people.
*
The following day, Marley’s ready to hit the beach at 12:01, having already packed my bag for me first thing this morning. I check the contents and toss in some jeans, a T-shirt, and extra underwear.
We take the Acura—I’m driving because I don’t trust Marley for obvious reasons. She keeps changing the radio station, blasting music, and singing off-key; she also doesn’t know any of the lyrics.
I turn it down so I can speak without yelling. “Have you heard from Gel and Lauren? Are they at the beach house already?”
“Gel texted while you were in the shower and said they were leaving soon.”
“Should you check in with them? It would be kind of weird for us to show up before them.”
“Sure. I can do that.” Marley shimmies to the music as we make the short trip from our duplex off the beach to the rental.
“Hey! How’s it going? We’re on our way and superexcited to see you,” Marley says into the phone. There’s a pause, and then she turns the music all the way down. “Oh no. That’s not good. Is Noodles going to be okay?”
“What’s going on?” I turn right onto the street that leads not only to some of the oldest beachfront properties, but also the Mission Mansion. It’s farther down the beach, and in one of the more exclusive areas, but the sprawling eight-thousand-square-foot mansion is hard to miss since it’s the biggest home in the immediate area.
Marley holds up a finger, uh-huhing and mmming a bunch of times before she says, “Okay, keep in touch.” She ends the call as I pull into the driveway of a gorgeous beach house, a big, bold, black 69 fixed to the front door. I shift the car into park and wait for her to explain what’s going on.