Wednesday and Thursday pass much the same. Coleman and Reed has the bandwidth to take on one or two more projects, so we’re actively shopping for candidates. Thursday, we bring in one of those candidates to pitch. The company founders look like their average age is fourteen. They’re suited up, nervous and awash in cologne. If their pitch doesn’t overwhelm me, the fumes will.
Since I’m first into the room, I do the meet and greet. Hazel bursts in five minutes later. In the office, she wears her hair slicked back in this bun thing. There’s no good way to describe it. A bun is something you buy at the bakery—a squashy, delicious treat—and it doesn’t begin to describe Hazel’s neat knot of hair. I compared it once to the black racer snake that Hazel found sun-basking on her doorstep. She didn’t like that comparison, so I quit before she either killed me or sicced a snake on me. Plus, when she lets her hair down, that’s really when you need to watch out. Hazel has crazy hair. It waves and curls and tries to be straight—all at the same time.
Despite the balmy California weather, she’s wearing her favorite Theory suit, the one with slim blue velvet pants and a matching fitted jacket. I know from her previous complaints about the gymnastics required to pee that the shirt thing underneath her jacket is actually a bodysuit, that there are three snaps on the crotch, and that she’ll be commando because she thinks it’s silly to wear an extra layer underneath...
Danger.
Do not think about Hazel’s panties.
She introduces herself to our visitors, reaching over the table to shake their hands. I try to reconcile put-together Hazel with the woman I kissed on Saturday night. I kissed Hazel. My partner. As kisses go, that one is definitely in my top ten. The way she ran her hand down my chest. Her teeth scraping gently at my upper lip. Her breath catching on my mouth. The greedy pull of her mouth as if I was her favorite flavor and I made her feel just a little savage.
Hazel drops into the seat next to where I’m sprawled, still imagining her naked. She reaches beneath the table under the guise of adjusting her chair and smacks my thigh where it brushes hers.
She smirks at me. “Personal space, Reed.”
Hazel is a relentless campaigner against man-spreading, but do her fingers linger and brush over my dress pants? She smells good and I fight the urge to turn toward her body and pull her closer, because the handful of inches between us is too much. I definitely want to kiss her again, press my lips against the vulnerable base of her throat. But maybe it’s just me. Maybe Hazel’s already forgotten our kiss even though she has the memory of an elephant.
I don’t remember much about the meeting. I nod and pretend to take notes on my laptop, but the young, anxious baby executives could be pitching me luxury condos on Mars for all I know. It’s irresponsible of me to be so distracted, because there is a lot of money on the line, not to mention the future of their company. I asked them here and I should be listening.
It doesn’t surprise me that Hazel busts me as soon as we’ve walked our guests out and are headed back to our offices.
“Earth to Jack.”
“Sorry.” I scrub a hand over my head. I’m totally off my game, and we both know it.
“Do you even know what those guys pitched?”
I have the slide deck. I’ll review later this afternoon. “Did you like it?”
Hazel shrugs and pauses in front of her office door. “What’s not to like about a monthly sex-toy-box subscription service?”
Wait. What...?
“Gotcha.” Hazel bounces into her office.
Later that afternoon the mailroom guy deposits a polka-dot cardboard box on my desk. When I unfold layers of tissue that stink like exotic flowers, I discover a small white cardboard card: Merry Thursday. Love, Hazel. She’s sent me a dozen different kinds of sheet masks that smooth and plump. Lavender to hydrate, cherry blossom to brighten, tomatoes for turbo-charged radiance. There’s also a bright pink pot for scrubbing my lips that makes me wonder about our kiss. Is that a hint?
I impulsively fire off a text: Was I too rough?
Shit.
This is why I don’t do impulsive. Hazel’s phone gives off a deafeningly loud ding in the office next to me. She claims she doesn’t hear it unless the volume is set to stun.
Should I go over there and delete my text before she can read it? Plead temporary insanity? Fuck if I know, but I’ll have to kick my own ass if I’ve offended her.
I clear my throat and pitch my voice loud enough to be heard through the wall. “Ignore that, ’kay?”
Hazel’s response is a snort-laugh. That’s a good sign, right? I’ll fix this. I did kiss her, so I’ll take the consequences. I haven’t got to the next step in my baby plan, however, before a sharp rat-a-tat sounds on our shared wall. Right. Hazel claims she’s a Morse code master, but I’ve yet to figure out what she’s trying to convey.
Think. Figure this out.
My phone dings discreetly. Fuck it I’m coming over.
“Don’t get your boxers in a wad, Reed,” she bellows.
That’s good advice, even if it does come from Hazel and I don’t wear boxers. Which she doesn’t know, although apparently I was willing to let her learn that fact for herself the other night. Play it cool. I can totally do that. I lean back in my chair and stretch my legs out beneath my
