And then Hazel pitched me the perfect sex project and all my beautiful plans went right out the window. In a matter of weeks I not only learned what she looked like naked—awesome—but what she was thinking about behind that beautiful, well-manicured, supersmart exterior she showed to the world. Hazel was more than just my best friend. Somehow, over the course of those weeks, she was everything.
I miss her. I miss the way she snorts when she laughs, her fanatical insistence on hair-styling products and flat irons, her opinion that she’s always, always right. She’s smart and funny and loyal...and she’s amazing in bed.
I miss the sex, too. Not gonna lie about that.
Stupid memories.
We had sex in this room and in that one. On that counter and that floor, up against that wall and on those stairs. That practically makes the house a piece of performance art. Perhaps I could donate it to a museum? It’s something to think about.
It’s not like the only sex shop in town is Hazel. I could find a partner using Max’s Billionaire Bachelors app. If I want to get my kink on, I could pick someone from Kinkster. May’s poked me, too. But while the idea of getting laid appeals, I don’t want to fuck May or anyone else. It won’t be enough because whoever she is, she won’t be Hazel.
I miss loving her.
I love her.
And I drove her away. I told her that relationships and true love were like Everest—you only climb that mountain once and most people never get close to the summit. They don’t visit the Himalayas. They don’t even step foot on the right continent. I’m a lucky bastard. I’ve done it twice.
So, no, I don’t want meaningless sex.
I want it to mean everything. I want to chase after Hazel and beg until she takes me back. And then I want to have angry makeup sex with her. Awkward first-time-we’ve-tried-this sex, completely wild sex, sex that breaks the bed, morning sex that makes us both late for work. It would be amazing. There would be crazy hang-from-the-chandelier monkey sex and then those nights when we’re too damn tired and I’ll rub her back or her feet and then we’ll both fall asleep without having sex. We could do a victory lap of all the places we’ve done it and rechristen them. Cabo, Vegas, my house, her house. The back seat of my car, her garden, the beach and that other beach just up the road from my house because we were in too much of a rush to wait.
All I need now is a plan.
Five weeks after I blew up my life, I put my new plan into action. I call it Operation Rescue Me. Monday nights are quiet. Everyone’s recovering from the weekend and the week hasn’t had a chance to pick up steam and roll over us all yet. Step one? Get Hazel alone, soften her up with food and prepare to grovel.
By Wednesday, there will be at least one person staying late to take care of something, but right now everyone has gone home. I’m pretty sure Hazel thinks I have, too, but I just ducked out to pick up Chinese from our favorite hole-in-the-wall place. They deliver, but I suspect she won’t stick around if I do.
The distance between us has grown exponentially. Our team members are starting to give us uncomfortable looks—they realize Mom and Dad are fighting, even if they haven’t decided which parent they’d choose in a divorce. And sure, I see Hazel daily. I sit next to her, and her desk is only one freaking office over...but it’s like the Grand Canyon and the Mariana Trench had a ginormous baby. That kind of gap isn’t something you can just step over.
Because I fucked up.
I stick my head into her office and wave the bag of Chinese at her. I’m counting on the kung pao bribe to get me in the door. “Can I talk to you? I have a pitch.”
“Sure.” She’s head-down in her laptop—I barely merit a second glance.
I come in, set down the bag and shut the door just in case. Okay. I’m feeling a little vulnerable.
Hazel looks up at me and gives me a polite smile. That neat little grimace shows no teeth and no emotion. She doesn’t give a shit that I’m here. It’s a challenge. But I’ve won under more challenging conditions. She points to a chair across from her desk, but my usual spot is parked on the edge of her desk. We don’t have a whole lot of personal boundaries, which helps explain—even if it doesn’t excuse—my misunderstanding what I felt for Hazel.
I bypass the chair and park my ass on the edge of her desk. “I have a proposal for you.”
It feels like the first—and last—time Hazel pitched me. She feels it, too.
“I’ve heard that before.” The polite smile peels back for a moment—Hazel’s furious. That’s also an emotion I can work with.
“I’d like to revisit the Jack and Hazel project.”
“Done. Dead. Buried.” Her eyes narrow. “Next topic.”
“Not done.” I give her an easy smile because apparently I really want to pour oil on the Hazel fire. “We’re revisiting.”
“Pass.” She turns up her pretty nose and dives right back into whatever it is she’s doing on her laptop.
Two can play that game. I snag the laptop, unplug it and close the lid in one smooth move. Then I turn and toss it onto the chair she told me to sit in.
“What the hell, Jack?” Hazel
