I Flipping Love You
Helena Hunting
Release Date: May 29, 2018
SHE’S GOT CURB APPEAL. HE’S A FIXER UPPER...
From New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting comes I
Flipping Love You, a love story about flipping houses, taking risks, and
landing that special someone who’s move-in ready.
Rian Sutter grew up with the finer things in life. Spending summers in the
Hamptons was a normal occurrence for her until her parents lost everything
years ago. Now Rian and her sister are getting their life, and finances, back
on track through real estate. Not only do they buy and sell houses to the rich
and famous but they finally have the capital to flip their very own beachfront
property. But when she catches the attention of a sexy stranger who snaps up
every house from under her, all bets are off…
Pierce Whitfield doesn’t normally demo kitchens, install dry wall, or tear
apart a beautiful woman’s dreams. He’s just a down-on-his-luck lawyer who
needed a break from the city and agreed to help his brother work on a few homes
in the Hamptons. When he first meets Rian, the attraction is undeniable. But
when they start competing for the same pieces of prime real estate, the early
sparks turn into full-blown fireworks. Can these passionate rivals turn up the
heat on their budding romance—without burning down the house?
“Fun, sexy, and full of heart…Helena Hunting has done it again!”—USA Today
bestselling author Melanie Harlow (on Shacking Up)
BUY LINKS:
EXCERPT:
CHAPTER 1
ANGRY HOT GUY
RIAN
I flip through my stack of flyers, checking for a sale on
the jumbo box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal so I can price match it. I’m a
conscientious price matcher. I mark the sale with a big circle before tucking
the red Sharpie into the front of my shirt. If I’m going to wheel and deal at
the cash register, I want to make it as easy as possible for the cashier and
the people in line behind me. Nothing is worse than getting stuck behind an
unorganized price matcher.
I shimmy a little to the song playing over the store
intercom as I toss boxes of my most favorite, unhealthy cereal in my cart. A
prickly feeling climbs the back of my neck, and I shiver, glancing over my
shoulder. A mom rushes past me down the aisle, her toddler leaning precariously
out of the cart in an attempt to grab a box of Fruit Roll-Ups. I can’t blame
him. They are artificially delicious.
But the mom-toddler combo isn’t the reason for the prickly
feeling. Halfway down the aisle is a suit. A big suit. Well over six feet of
man wrapped in expensive charcoal-gray fabric. He doesn’t have a cart or a
basket. And he’s staring at me. Weird. I can’t look at him long enough to
decide if he’s familiar or not without making it obvious that I’m staring back.
I have the urge to check my appearance, worried I have his
attention because my hair is a mess, or there’s a sweat stain down the center
of my back. I’m not particularly appealing at the moment. I’ve just come from a
boot camp class at this new gym my twin sister forced me to try out.
Marley bought an online two-for-one coupon for forty bucks,
so now I have to attend six of these stupid classes with her. I managed to get
out of last week’s class, but she wouldn’t let me escape two weeks in a row. My
tank is still dewy, post-exertion, I have terrible under-boob sweat, and my
thong is all wonky. If I were alone in this aisle, I’d for sure fix the last
issue, but suit guy is here so I must leave the thong where it is for now,
wedged uncomfortably between my vagina lips.
The suit quickly shifts his attention to the shelves and
picks up the jar directly in front of him, which happens to contain prunes. He
inspects it, then maybe realizes what it is, because he rushes to return it,
exchanging it for another item. I bite back a smile, pleased that even in my
disgusting state I’m being checked out.
As suit man gives the shelf in front of him his full
attention, I return the checkout favor. His attire and his posture scream money
and a twinge of something like longing combined with jealousy makes my throat
momentarily tight. At one time, price matching was a practice I would’ve
laughed at—like an entitled jerk—now it’s a necessity.
Suit man must be warm, considering it’s late April and we’re
experiencing temperatures far above average for this time of year. Based on the
tapered fit of his suit, I’m guessing it’s a high-end brand. He’s complemented
it with black patent leather shoes. Very impractical for this weather and
location. Does he realize he’s in the Hamptons?
He’s wearing a watch, and from his profile, he can’t be much
beyond his early thirties. I have to assume the only reason for the watch is
because it’s expensive and he wants to show it off. In my head, I’ve already
profiled him as a pretentious, rich prick who probably commutes to NYC a few
times a week where he bones his secretary and has a penthouse with the barest
of furniture. The rest of the time he works from home.
I return to shopping and continue down the aisle, in the
opposite direction of the suit—it’s my way of finding out if he’s actually
creeping on me or not. I keep tabs on him in my peripheral vision as I scope
out more sales and more delicious, unhealthy food items. My job is to balance
out all the fruit and vegetables my sister, Marley, is currently picking out in
the produce section.
I grab a jar of the no-name peanut butter since we’re out
and the good stuff isn’t on sale, dropping it in the cart. My phone keeps
buzzing in my purse. It’s distracting, so I give up ignoring it and check my
messages.
It’s my sister.
We’re in the same store. It’s not particularly huge, so I
don’t know what could be so pressing that she needs to text four thousand times
instead of finding me.
ABORT SHOPPING
LEAVE NOW
Meet me in parking lot
RIAN??????
Jeez. What the heck is going on? Maybe the grocery store is
being robbed. Holy Hot Pockets. What if there is a grocery store heist going
down? I’m about to abandon my cart in a bid to find Marley and escape the
mayhem I’ve created in my head. It’s all very dramatic. As I turn, I come
face-to-face with the suit.
I suck in a breath and slap my hand over my chest. The tank
is still damp, and my skin’s a little gritty with salt-sweat, so I drop it
quickly, because ew.
“Hi.” His expression is hard to read. He seems … smug.
“Hi, hey. Uh…” I wave a hand around in the air, a little
flustered, and conflicted, because it’s not often I get approached by a guy
this hot—and in a grocery store of all places. Maybe he’ll be here again next
week. “I’m sorry, I’d like to stare at your pretty face, I mean…” Crap, why are
words so hard? “I have to go.”
I try to step around him, but he mirrors the movement,
taking a linebacker stance, as if he’s considering tackling me. Which is an odd
way to stage an introduction.
“Recognize me?” he asks, one perfect eyebrow arched.
As I take him in, I wrack my brain for a time or place I
might’ve run into him before. I don’t think so, though. His light brown hair is
neatly styled, and the cut of his suit highlights all of his assets. Well, the
visible PG ones, anyway.
He widens his stance and crosses his arms over his chest.
His very broad chest. The sleeves of his suit jacket pull tight, biceps bulging
and flexing. He’s a bit intimidating based on his size alone, but we’re in a
public grocery store, so I feel relatively safe. And he’s just so gorgeous.
Which is a silly reason not to be concerned, some of the most notorious serial
killers are attractive men. Also, I need to find my sister, in case the grocery
store is really under attack—although maybe this suit could save us.
I adopt his crossed arm pose, but I don’t think I look
intimidating. All I succeed in doing is awkwardly squeezing my boobs together
inside my damp sports bra and jabbing the right one with the Sharpie. “Should
I?”
He looks me over, a slight smirk tipping his mouth. His gaze
gets stuck on the Sharpie for a few seconds before they come back up to my
eyes.
It’s possible I met him in a bar, but I swear I’d remember
his face if I did. The bar scene is also more my sister’s speed than it is
mine. Oh God. It’s also possible he’s mistaking me for her. It’s happened
before.
While we look nearly identical at first to most people,
we’re actually fraternal twins. After a few interactions, most people can tell
us apart. I have a distinctive Marilyn Monroe mole on the right side above my
lip, and my eyes are amber, where Marley’s are closer to green. My mouth is too
big for my face, my lips a little too full and my nose too small. At least
that’s my perception. Marley’s also the more outgoing of the two of us and an
inch taller. And about ten pounds lighter.
Marley is a little less cautious than I am with men, so
there have been a few uncomfortable occasions where her previous hookups have
approached me, asking why I haven’t returned their calls. It’s too bad if this
is the case, because this guy is inordinately attractive and it would be nice
if he wasn’t one of my sister’s castoffs.
His face is a masterpiece of masculine perfection; straight
nose, high cheekbones, an angular jawline that could cut glass, full lips.
Especially the bottom one. The kind of full that makes me think of kissing,
with tongue, of course. He’s all-American handsome with a shot of alpha
hotness. It’s a lethal combination for the state of my already damp panties.
“I recognize you.” He has a low, rough voice, like the
delicious scrape of fine grit sandpaper.
He breaks me out of my ogle daze. He must think I’m Marley.
I’m actually rather disappointed. “I think maybe you’ve mistaken me for someone
else.”
“Oh no, sweetheart.” His gaze rakes over me again. I feel
very naked all of a sudden. And hot. It’s really hot in here. “You drive a
powder-blue Buick.”
“How the heck—”
“I knew it!” he shouts, eyes alight with some kind of weird,
victorious satisfaction as he points a long finger with a blue-black nail at
me. Maybe he slammed it in a door or something. Or based on the way he’s rudely
pointing, maybe someone slammed it for him. “I fucking knew it! You hit my
car.”
I definitely would’ve remembered hitting someone’s car,
especially if a guy this good looking was driving it. He should probably come
with a warning, like: Panties may combust if you get too close, or something. I
take a step back since he’s all up in my grill and clearly he’s not looking to
flirt like I originally thought. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking
about.”
“Don’t play dumb with me! You think you can flip your
ponytail”—he reaches out and flicks the end, which is rather startling—“flash a
smile and some cleavage, and it’s going to get you out of this. Well, think
again, sweetheart. I guarantee my paint is still all over your bumper.” He’s
leaning over me, face way too close to mine. So close I can see tiny gold
flecks in his deep green eyes. They’re an unusual shade. Dark like pine tree
needles.
And he’s chewing gum. Juicy Fruit. I can smell it when he
breathes in my face. I would’ve expected a man like him to chew something more
along the lines of Polar Ice, or Arctic Ice—strong mint.
I put a hand on his chest and take one deliberate step
backward as he opens his mouth to resume his tangent. It’s a solid chest.
Extremely hard. His gaze darts down, brows furrowed. I use his distracted state
to my advantage. “First of all…” I point my finger in his face, like he did to
me. “Don’t ‘sweetheart’ me. That’s condescending. Secondly, I’m sure I would’ve
noticed if I’d hit another car. Thirdly, there are literally hundreds of
powder-blue Buicks in this stupid city. It’s not an uncommon car. And I’d like
to point out, that the cleavage comment was completely unnecessary and
unwarranted and actually, pretty damn sexist.”
He blinks a couple of times, possibly taken aback. That
expression doesn’t last long. His lip curls in a sneer and that pretty
all-American handsomeness morphs into downright malevolent hotness. “Nice try,
sweetheart. But there’s no way I’d forget you.” His gaze sweeps over me—it’s
not in an unappreciative way either.
I poke his hard chest. “Stop leering at me, you pervert. I
don’t know what kind of drugs you’ve been snorting, but I assure you, you’ve
got the wrong person.”
“Oh shit!” my sister’s voice comes from behind me.
I turn to find Marley doing an about-face, and then she
breaks into a little grapevine step as she moves back toward me. Her eyes are
wide, mouth contorted into some kind of grimace as she grabs my wrist.
“What the fuck? There are two of you?” hot-crazy guy asks,
eyes bouncing between us.
“We gotta go.” Marley latches onto my hand and drags me down
the aisle, away from crazy-hot suit.
“Whoa! Wait a damn second!”
Hot suit makes a grab for me, but Marley yanks me out of the
way and shoves my shopping cart at him—hard. He’s not quite quick enough to get
out of the way, and the corner of the cart slams right into his crotch. He
doubles over with a groan and aggressively pushes the cart aside. It ricochets
into a display of canned peaches, which spill into the aisle with a deafening
crash.
“What the heck, Mar?”
“Come the fuck on!” She sprints down the aisle, dragging me
behind her. I’d protest, but I don’t think I have much choice in the matter,
considering the death grip she has on my hand, or the fact that she’s assaulted
the sexy-crazy suit with my shopping cart.
Marley fast-walks to the exit, glancing over her shoulder.
“Act natural.”
“Will you tell me what’s going on? Who is that guy?”
She flips her hair over her shoulder and smiles as we pass
the cashiers and the automatic doors open. Marley fast-walks down the sidewalk
toward our car. “I may have tapped that guy’s car last Saturday when I was
shopping.”
I stop walking, which brings her to a jarring halt. She
yanks on my arm. “Seriously, come on. I’ll explain when we’re in the car.”
“Nope. No way. You explain now.”
Her eyes are bouncing all over the place. “It’s not a big
deal. I just grazed his bumper.” Marley spin and tries to push me forward from
behind. “Now let’s get out of here before he finds us again. We should probably
shop somewhere else for a while.”
I stumble forward a step and then spin away from her. “You
hit that guy’s car?”
“It was more of a graze. At least I think it was.” She
wrings her hands and makes her oh crap face.
Now crazy-hot suit guy seems a lot less crazy and much more
justified in his reaction. Except for the cleavage comment. That was still
unnecessary. “It sure didn’t seem like nothing with the way he freaked out in
there.”
“He’s probably overreacting. Where are your keys?” She’s
still wringing her hands.
I pat my hip with the intention of keeping my purse safe and
away from my sister. Except all I end up patting is my actual hip. I look down,
running my hands over my stomach, searching for the cheap, faux-leather
knockoff. “Oh fudge.”
“What?”
“My purse. It’s in the cart. I have to go back and get it.”
Marley grabs the back of my tank. “You can’t! What if he’s
still in there?”
“It has my identification in it, Marley. And my bankcards,
and my money, and keys to the car and the apartment. I can’t leave it in
there!”
Marley flails and paces around in a circle. “What if he’s
waiting for us to come back and get it?”
“You can stay here if you want, but I’m going back for it.
I’m not leaving my purse behind because you hit some guy’s car in a parking
lot. I can’t believe you just drove away!”
“I thought I tapped it, and then I panicked.” Her fingers
are at her mouth now. “I didn’t want to drive up our insurance premiums over
some guy and his Tesla.”
“You hit a Tesla?” This keeps getting worse.
“Anyone who has the money to buy a Tesla has the money to
fix it, right?” Marley says.
“So you drove off! Jeez, Marley. What were you thinking?” I
shake my head. I’d like to say I’m surprised by this, but sadly I’m not. Marley
doesn’t always use common sense in day-to-day life.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking. That’s the problem, I
guess.”
I’m about to go back into the store, but stop short at the sight
of the suit leaning against the side of my car, one ankle crossed over the
other, all calm like. Dangling from a single finger is my knockoff, hot-pink
Coach purse. “Forget something?”
Copyright © 2018 by Helena Hunting in I Flipping Love You
and reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.
REVIEW:
Oh, this book. When I
saw that it was book 3 in the Shacking Up series, so I was curious how these
were related. You don't need to read the first two books, Shacking Up and
Hooking Up, but if you want some good laughs, I'd go back and read them.
Rian and Pierce were
hilarious. I seriously loved reading their story and watching them navigate
their relationship. The way they meet has you cracking up and you don't stop
laughing throughout the book. The attraction and chemistry between these two is
insane and off the charts, what starts off as a hilarious first run in with
each out and sparks turns out to be this amazing connection that they can't
deny or stop giving into.
I seriously couldn't
get over how much I loved Rian and Pierce.
BIO:
New York Times and USA Today
bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of
Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats.
She's writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic
sports comedy.
Emma Hart is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty novels and has been translated into several different languages.
She is a mother, wife, lover of wine, Pink Goddess, and valiant rescuer of wild baby hedgehogs.
Emma prides herself on her realistic, snarky smut, with comebacks that would make a PMS-ing teenage girl proud.
Yes, really. She's that sarcastic.
