UPTIGHT.
“Hey,” I protest. “I am not.”
Hazel points the Sharpie at me. “You have the moral conscience of Michael the Archangel.”
“That’s a plus.”
Hazel snorts. “Michael is judgy.”
“You’re just messing with me.”
Her next words prove it.
TRUST ISSUES.
This one is in all caps and underlined. Wow. Hazel’s not pulling her punches.
“You’re wrong.” I take a deep pull on the bottle. It’s almost empty.
“You trusted Molly and she hurt you. Now you’re hiding up here like the troll under the bridge so no one can trample on your feelings again. You need to find someone you can be one hundred percent you with.”
“All this because I didn’t go to a party?” I set the empty bottle on the floor.
“Why do you think your marriage to Molly ended?”
Max, Dev and me? We’re equally relentless. We don’t know how to lose because losing, quite simply, isn’t an option, whether it’s surfing, the boardroom or life. Wipeouts? Sure. Neck-breaking, skull-pounding slams into the ocean floor? Bring it on—I’ll be back on my board in no time. Life isn’t easy, but I’ve always been good at what I do. No. Scratch that. I’ve always been the best, so Molly’s leaving doesn’t compute. I went all out, I did everything by the book, I did everything I could for her.
And it wasn’t enough.
Hazel makes a buzzer sound and chucks the Sharpie at me. “Wrong. You don’t need to know whatever bullshit reason Molly had for ending things between you. That doesn’t matter.”
“Walk me through your marital credentials again, Ms. Single Gal. I’m pretty sure that caring about my wife’s feelings was part of the marriage ceremony.”
“That was then. This is now, so you need to rethink. Like, was the marriage acceptable to you?”
“Marriage is about two people.”
“And you’re one of them.” She rolls her eyes. “Did you like your relationship?”
Fuck it. I’ve spent so much time lying. Lying to myself, to Molly, to the rest of the world. Was I happy? I wasn’t unhappy, but that wasn’t really enough for a lifetime, was it? So I’ll give Hazel the truth.
“No.”
The word hangs in the air between us. Not so much a bomb as one of those stun grenades the FBI or the Marines use when they want to clear a room of hostiles. I shouldn’t have said that, but it turns out that maybe I’m an even worse liar than I thought, because Hazel doesn’t look at all surprised.
“So what do you want, Jack?”
Suddenly her face is near mine, so close that I can feel each word on my skin, my face, my mouth. Did she come closer? Did I move? I look around for answers, but the answer is standing right there in front of me. It’s not what I want—it’s who.
I think I fall on her and our mouths meet. Or she falls up. Down. The mechanics don’t matter because there’s definitely some kind of cosmic, completely-beyond-my-control accident that undoes all my plans.
I’m kissing Hazel.
Her lips are soft and plush. Her cheek brushes mine as she adjusts our fit and then glides her tongue over my lower lip. Wow. I did not see this coming. Or maybe it’s not true. Maybe I’ve had a fantasy or two, but I certainly never planned on kissing her.
She opens her mouth and I take charge. Being the boss of Hazel is a limited-time offer and we both know it—she likes to be the one in control. Her hands are running over my body, pulling me here, touching me there. I sink my hands into her hair and hold her face still. She tastes like champagne and Hazel, sparkly and effervescent, wicked and deceptively sweet.
She presses her satin-covered boobs against me as our kiss deepens. She’s an amazing kisser. Her mouth covers mine, her tongue exploring while her hands learn the shape of my jaw, my shoulders. I shouldn’t want this kiss, but I do. She hooks a leg around my waist, shifting until I can feel... Oh yes...the soft, hot heat of her pressed against my thigh. Hazel’s as hot for me as I am for her.
But.
She’s my business partner.
My best friend.
My Hazel.
I pull back, staring at her face while my brain scrambles to catch up with what my mouth just did. My fingers cup her shoulders, tracing the strap of her tank top. Someone’s slipped the silky material to the side, exposing the hollow of her collarbone. I imagine pressing my lips to that soft, secret spot of Hazel.
Kissing—
She opens her mouth and I can’t even begin to imagine what she’ll say. With Hazel, I never know. I just know that I can’t.
I can’t kiss her.
I can’t do this.
Most of all, I can’t lose her, so I shoot off the bed. She flops backward with a startled laugh as my hands turn her shoulders into a spring pad.
“I have to go,” I blurt out.
“Baby.” She gives me a face, but I’m not looking—I’m not. I’m definitely not listening to her or trying to decide if that one word is some weird kind of relationship-ish nickname or just a sweeping indictment of my social skills.
I’m out the door, flying down the stairs to the ground floor and then out the door toward the ocean. There’s no way this could work. Whatever this is. I zoom down the steps to the beach tucked away at the base of the cliff my house sits on. Halfway down I realize I’m taking stupid chances and slow to a hasty retreat. Sun-warmed wood creaks underneath my feet.
I kissed Hazel.
As soon as I hit the sand, I grab the surfboard I keep by the stairs. I keep going until I’m waist-deep in the chilly California ocean. Cold water sucks at my jeans, slapping the wet denim against my legs and dick. I deserve every second of the discomfort. I straddle my board and paddle hard for the outermost edge of the tiny cove, where the waves break. I think I know what happened back there, in my bedroom. I made a mistake.
