Hot Boss

by Anne Marsh

  Instead, I strip down and slip into bed.

  And wait.

  The night may not have gone as planned, but I’ve realized something important. Something I should have figured out days and weeks ago.

  The woman I want sleeping by my side tonight isn’t Molly at all. It’s Hazel. I feel like there should be some way to share this revelation with her, but I’m better at business than I am at poetry, so I’m still planning my explanation when she finally emerges from the bathroom.

  She’s wearing a UC Santa Cruz T-shirt, the silky skin of her bare legs lit up by the glow from the Strip. A moment later, she slides into bed, punching a button on the panel in the wall on her side and plunging the room into stygian darkness. The technology’s amazing, but I’d rather see her face.

  “Did tonight go as planned?” she asks. “Your conversation with Molly?”

  I want to cup her shoulder with my hand. Want to pull her back against me, bury my face in her hair, her scent, her presence here with me. I suspect any one of those things would only make her angrier. So instead I give her the truth.

  “Not at all.”

  I feel her nod. “Where did it go wrong?”

  There are so many possible answers. For ten years, Molly was my center, my home, my heart. I thought we were going to be together forever, and then, when we weren’t, I thought it was my fault. And maybe it was. And maybe it wasn’t. What I realized tonight, however, is that it doesn’t matter anymore. Molly is my past and I’m okay with that.

  What I crave now is an entirely different future with Hazel. What I want with her is so much more than just the no-strings sex we promised each other. She’s insanely smart and far too bossy, impossibly sexy and way too good for me. I’m just slow to realize it. And to realize that maybe I could have had a chance with her, but that after tonight she might not believe me.

  “Everywhere,” I whisper into the silence between us.

  The sheets rustle and I wonder if Hazel’s about to get up, to leave. I should reach out, but I don’t know what more to say, so instead I say nothing as her breathing evens out and she falls asleep.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  MORNINGS AFTER SUCK. There’s the moment when you can no longer kid yourself that you’re asleep or that the events of the previous night are some kind of nightmare. The mad flight to Vegas, the rodeo, the after-party and my stupid chasing after Molly march through my head in an endless loop. I was so stupid. At some point today—although I’m not certain what time it is right now—we have to head back to California. I also have to figure out how to apologize and fix what I screwed up last night. I don’t really feel like getting up, though, so when my phone buzzes, I try unsuccessfully to telepathically silence it.

  The second time it buzzes, Hazel fishes it out from beneath a pillow and silently hands it over. I can’t tell if she reads the message preview or not, but I don’t have secrets from Hazel, not anymore. She’s seen me at my rawest, my most open, and it was okay. She didn’t run screaming, and I count that as a win.

  Molly’s been angry-texting me for the last two hours. I get it. I drive her nuts and as soon as I walked away from her, she thought of all the things she should have said but didn’t.

  The latest text? Stay out of my business, Jack.

  I ignore it.

  I also have a voice mail from Evan that is far more profane than Molly’s message. In his own words, I’m not to look at her, talk to her, talk to his manager, talk to his employer or otherwise stick my “goddamn nose” into their business. Executive summary? He’s not happy about the background check I initiated. I’m guessing my PI was more of an eager beaver than I anticipated, because it sounds like he’s already checked out an impressive amount of Evan. I just hope that doesn’t include taking naked pictures of the man. I can live without ever seeing his dick.

  Hazel sits up, tucking the sheet under her arms. “What did you do, Jack?”

  I wish she hadn’t heard that. “Nothing.”

  Hazel is staring at my phone. “You did something.”

  “A background check.” I pulled the trigger on it at the after-party.

  “On Evan?”

  Well, duh. I already know all of Molly’s secrets. Hazel’s face, however, isn’t happy. It’s not her grumpy face, the one that can be fixed with cake or an apology. It’s her let’s-eviscerate-our-opponent face that I’ve only seen her wear when we lost a deal due to someone else’s underhanded dealings. Usually I just help her take down whoever’s earned The Look, so I’m not sure what to say next because I don’t feel like falling on my sword when I’m not wrong.

  “I liked Evan,” she says.

  I blame the cowboy boots.

  “Not you, too.”

  “Coming here was a mistake.” Hazel drops the sheet. She’s usually direct when she’s mad, but she doesn’t give me more words, just balls her fists by her sides, her eyebrows drawing together as she gets up. I might be misreading her since she’s mostly naked and that doesn’t help my concentration any. God, she’s gorgeous.

  She glares down at me from the side of the bed. “Are we done here? I think we are.”

  “Yeah.” Shit. She’s definitely mad. I should be better at not fighting after being married, but apparently I have a lot to learn.

  Hazel marches across the room and bends over, rummaging in her suitcase. My dick definitely appreciates the view, but unfortunately, she promptly pulls on pants. More clothes follow, and not the kind you wear to bed or to lounge around your hotel room. Shoes, another shirt, a blazer. It seems too early in the morning—or late at night—for business casual.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I sit up and look for my clothes. Chasing her naked will only get me arrested. Plus, it’s creepy.

  Hazel swipes her boots from the floor. “Jack—”

  “Because I think we should go back to bed.”

  She yanks on a boot. “Do you remember the conversation we had when we first got together?”

  “I’m sure you’ll remind me.” I’m feeling decidedly naked here. Her right boot and my jeans are tangled up together at the foot of the bed and she lobs the jeans at me. I force myself to pull them on. Why are we getting dressed when we could be naked? Together? Is she pranking me?

  “We agreed that either of us could walk away at any time.” She shrugs. “I’ve decided now is a good time for me to go.”

  Hazel’s gaze dissects me and I suddenly have a very good idea how those frogs felt when we went after them with a scalpel in high-school biology. Except the frogs were dead and pickled, and I’m just confused.

  “Where are you going?”

  “It’s really none of your business.”

  “I brought you here.”

  “This isn’t a date, Jack. You don’t have to walk me to my front door.”

  “The one time I walked you to your door, it turned out great.”

  Hazel stares at me for a minute. Then she turns around and slams the lid on the suitcase. “I had no idea you were such a dick.”

  My phone buzzes again. Fuck.

  “You should answer that,” Hazel says pleasantly. Way, way too pleasantly. I can almost hear her grinding her teeth. “Clearly it’s important.”

  “I need you to tell me what’s wrong.”

  Hazel grabs her own phone, swipes angrily and holds it up so I can see the screen. I’m not sure when she took that photo, although the obvious answer is last night. Molly and I lean into each other, talking. I’m sporting a fierce look on my face and I’m half-turned, putting my upper body between Molly and the rest of the world.

  “Tell me a story. What do you imagine is happening here?”

  “We’re having a conversation, not sex.”

  “Mmm,” she says. “That’s not the story I see.”

  I turn off my phone and toss it on the nightstand. “Then explain i
t to me, Hazel. What do you see that I don’t?”

  I don’t know what I expect her to say, mostly because there seems to a thousand hyperactive butterflies roosting in my stomach. I don’t get anxious, so it makes no sense that waiting for Hazel’s answer is killing me. I shove off the bed and pace toward her.

  She looks at me and then at her suitcase. “Fuck it. I’m rich. I’ll buy new stuff.”

  “That doesn’t sound good, Hazel.”

  “I see two people in that picture, Jack. You and Molly. I don’t see us. You’re smart—you figure it out.” She taps the phone. “We said we’d be together until we both found someone for real, but I don’t think you’re looking.”

  “You think I still have a thing for Molly?”

  She swipes up her purse. “I think you have your head up your ass, yes.”

  “Molly and I are over.”

  “You chased her to Vegas. Maybe you should think about that.” Hazel exhales. “But I won’t do this anymore. No more benefits, Jack.”

  “She’s part of my past. I only came here because I wanted to make sure she was taken care of. I promise I won’t reach out to her anymore, but don’t go.”

  The butterflies in my stomach achieve liftoff and rocket into outer space.

  “Let me fix this,” I whisper.

  “I’ll always be your friend,” she says. “But I can’t do this anymore.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE DAYS TICK past and become weeks. Weeks become a month. I go to work and I close deals. I make a shit ton of money I don’t need. Sometimes Hazel and I take meetings together and sometimes we fly solo. We meet and debrief, arguing the merits, or lack thereof, of the pitches we’ve heard. We fight just as much because we’re both passionate about what we believe and that’s what makes us good partners. We come at a problem from different angles and then we argue-listen to each other because we respect each other. Things between us are friendly. Polite. There’s no extracurricular nudity or dirty talk. No kisses, no naked walks on the beach, no sex.

  We’re just friends.

  My Santa Cruz beach house is three thousand square feet of empty. It’s too big for a single guy unless he’s a hoarder. When I float the idea of selling it, however, Dev and Max revolt. Dev points out that real estate is an awesome investment in California and that he doesn’t want asshole neighbors so I have an obligation, as his best friend, to stay the fuck put. His words, not mine. Max suggests I rescue a dozen cats.

  Animal lovers talk about how pets have their person, the one human they gravitate to, curl up in bed with, wait by the front door for, and whose stuff they pee on when the human’s been away too long or otherwise misbehaving. Faithful companions. It sounds a lot like marriage, doesn’t it? Been there, done that, got my half of the T-shirt.

  Never again.

  I had the rest of my life all planned out and it didn’t involve inviting a woman to move into my house or my heart.

  After I’d moved on from my divorce, I’d planned to grow my business. Make more money. Spend time with family and friends spending that money like that hobbit who threw the big-ass party for the Bagginses. I was going to become that favorite uncle who sweeps in at Christmas with the best presents and who helps you cover up when you’ve dinged the family car you borrowed/stole or got busted for underage drinking. I’d have a string of fun Friday nights, hook up when I wanted the company and keep on doing me. Just me.

  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 hea
rd 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 surges upright—she really doesn’t like it when she’s parted forcibly from her hardware—but I’m ready for her. I pull her between my legs, my hands on her waist. I estimate I have less than thirty seconds before she realizes my balls are vulnerable.

  “Why did you pitch me Jack and Hazel? Give me the reasons.”

  Hazel glares at me. “We are at the office, Mr. Reed. It is not professional to stand like this.”

  She sucks angry air in through her nose like an enraged bull. That’s okay. I’m about to wave the red cape.

  “I don’t care about being professional. I don’t care who sees us. I’m not going to be your dirty little secret anymore because I want the whole world to know we’re together.”

  Detonation in three...two...

  “You are an ass.”

  Succinct. Pithy. Sadly true.

  “If people think we’re having sex, they’re going to think that’s how I earned my place at Coleman and Reed. They’ll assume I’m sleeping with the boss. I am the boss, Jack. I earned it and you don’t just get to jeopardize it because you don’t like something.”

  Coleman and Reed is a billion-dollar company. That would have to be some pretty phenomenal sex, but I’m smart enough not to point that out to Hazel. She’s not entirely wrong, unfortunately. There aren’t a ton of women in the VC world and some of the guys definitely are of quid pro quo mindset. Some assholes will think she screwed her way to the top. Her words hurt because this isn’t something I can fix, not easily. It sucks to be a woman playing this game, and if you’re a woman who’s winning? Yeah. The other players are gonna go after you loaded for bear.