by Leigh, Ember
A frustrated sigh escapes me. My side hurts, and this sucks. “Yes.”
“Bring your legs up to the surface,” he instructs.
“I’m trying,” I grumble, keeping my crotch piked low. Waves from Luke’s boat reach us, and one smacks me in the side of my head. My toes poke out of the water a moment later, and he stills me by the ankles. His gaze finds mine, and I see all sorts of confusing things there. Heat, for starters. And question marks tinged with sensuality. Then he tugs the mauve stretchy bottoms of my swimsuit up my calves, over my knees.
Once I can reach them, I snag them and finish pulling them up. I swallow. My pussy is throbbing with the slightest hint of wishing those hands could keep moving upward.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he cared. But he doesn’t. Because this is Grayson Daly we’re talking about. Something snaps back into place and I find my tongue again.
“I’d be a lot better if your quest to physically outdo me didn’t result in stupid shit like this,” I snap. Luke idles close now. Bryce and Anthony are shouting out to us, asking if I’m okay.
“I think I’m fine,” I call out weakly, mustering a smile. Grayson hops on to the deck and then squats down, offering a hand. I catch his big, manly hand and he helps ease me onto the platform.
Pain shoots through my hip, and I wince.
“That doesn’t look good at all,” Callie announces.
“Damn, what did you do to her?” Bryce demands.
“Nothing,” Grayson says, squatting behind me, almost protectively. I take deep breaths, watching the water churn in the lake. To me, in a lower voice, he says, “Do you want to try to stand?”
I swipe the loose strands from my face and nod. His bicep bulges as he helps lift and steady me. My gaze falls to his swim trunks, which are plastered to his junk in a very revealing way. I snap my gaze up, guiltily. God, this man is too attractive. And he’s being one percent nice to me, which is already giving my body the all clear to start reacting. This isn’t cool.
If he treated me like this on the daily, I’d lose it. I’d fall for him without a second thought.
Just like the first time.
“I think we should call it a day,” Luke says, worry in his voice.
“No, you guys.” I wave off his suggestion. “I might be done for the day, but that doesn’t mean you have to be.”
“But you should take care of your leg,” Callie insists.
“So drop me off,” I suggest. “Then you guys can keep boating. We were just getting started. There’s no use wasting this day because some asshole tried to drown me.”
Grayson clears his throat. “This asshole didn’t try to drown you—”
Ah, so he doesn’t deny that he’s an asshole.
“I actually think I hit some driftwood,” I hurry to add. I feel my cheeks heating up, and I’m not entirely sure why. The about-face feels revealing. Like I’m calling a truce, which I’m definitely not.
Grayson helps haul me onto the back bench seat of the boat, and Luke gets the boat in motion. We navigate toward the two lost skis and haul them inside. We’re heading back toward the docks at a good clip, wind rushing through our hair and everyone quiet in the loud hum of the engine. I let my head fall back and close my eyes, the sun warming my face.
Trying to ignore the fact that Grayson is still at my side. Heat pours off him like a nuclear reactor. And if he’s not careful, he’s gonna push me into meltdown mode.
Luke pulls up to the docks, and before I can open my eyes, Callie is packing her things.
“I’ll take her back to the house, guys,” she says.
“No,” Grayson says, an authority in his tone that I haven’t ever heard before. Maybe this is his Wall Street voice. “I’ll take her back, Cal. She needs help walking.”
Callie deflates a little as her gaze falls to my propped leg. “Oh right.”
“I’ll take her back.” Bryce steps forward. “We can hang out afterward. I’ll make you tomato soup.”
I smirk. The thought is nice, but Bryce is clearly unaware of the fact that tomato soup makes me want to puke. Grayson must remember this detail because he says, “No. You’re too weak. And Hazel doesn’t like tomato soup.”
I roll my lips inward to stave off the giggles.
“And what about me?” Anthony asks, a grin on his face. I can tell he just wants to see what Grayson will shoot him down with.
“You’re the spotter,” Grayson says. “They need you to watch them all ski.”
“All right, I think Gray’s got it,” Anthony cedes a moment later.
Chapter 6
GRAYSON
If you asked me what the driving motivation of being kind to Hazel included, I’d have two answers.
Being honest? I feel like a jerk. Because she’s right—our competition led to her getting hurt.
Being a wise-ass? I want those thighs wrapped around me. Now.
Something snapped when I saw her hit the water like that. It reminded me that the rivalry is only fun if she’s part of it. And she can’t be part of it if she breaks her damn neck.
“Callie, hand me that bag,” I instruct once I’ve helped Hazel onto the dock. Callie hands over the purse. Then I offer my back to Hazel. “Get on, cowgirl.”
Hazel sighs softly. “Seriously, this is not necessary. Let me call my dad.”
“But you live in this neighborhood,” I remind her. “You’re gonna make your dad drive all the way across the city when I can get you to your front door in minutes?”
“My grandma is closer,” she says.
“Yeah, but she’s ninety. I’ll have to carry both of you on my back.”
Callie snickers as Luke idles away from the dock. The four of them wave, and Bryce is frowning, which means I’ve done my job.
“Fine,” Hazel grumbles. I hoist her onto my back. Her legs slide like hot silk around my hips. I grip her thighs, vision going spotty for a moment. Her breasts brush my back; her breath hits the shell of my ear. And with her so close to me, the scent of her fills my senses. Clementines and freesia. It’s intoxicating, like she’s captured the essence of femininity and summer in one.
“You good?”
“Yep.” Her voice sounds pinched. Maybe she’s thinking about how it would feel if I spun her around, hoisting her to face me. No, that’s probably just me thinking about that.
She starts snickering.
“What’s so funny?”
“You are such a piece of work.”
I snort. “At least you didn’t say crap.”
Another giggle, her breath coming out in short puffs at my ear as I start the piggyback ride toward our neighborhood. The warmth of her wrapped around me pushes lust and a lot more through my veins. A heavy cloud descends, the type to chase out rationale and logic in search of that one, precious prize.
And what do you know? I got her thighs wrapped around me today after all.
“Grayson,” she says huskily, or maybe that’s my imagination since her mouth is an inch from my ear. Either way, my cock pricks to attention. “You don’t even have shoes on.”
“Yeah, I sorta forgot them on the boat.” I pause, hoisting her again. She squeaks, which is too cute. I’m beginning to forget how to be around Hazel. Having her on me has erased all the careful lines we’ve drawn for the duration of our lives. I should follow with snark, but I can’t.
“Better hope Bryce doesn’t throw them in the lake,” she cracks.
I fight a smile. “Aw, my buddy Bryce? Now why would he do that?”
“Please,” Hazel says, but her voice is devoid of that edge. The razor that can cut deep if she lobs it right. “He’s probably ready to report you for harassment.”
I scoff. “Harassment? He should have been around sophomore year.” That was truly the apex of our competition. She even tried to join the men’s tennis team, just to show me she could beat me in the matches. “This is nothing.”
We’re pas
sing my grandmother’s house, the one I recently inherited. I’m not going to bring up that she’s on the hook for selling it now. I’ll need to finesse my way into that one.
“Oh, hello there, Hazel!” A neighbor steps out of her house as we go by. Mrs. Thomas. She’s been on this street for ages. She’s probably eighty by now. “And Grayson?”
We both wave. “Hi, Mrs. Thomas.”
“Good to see you back in town, Grayson. When’s the wedding?” Of course, she’s talking about us. The perfect couple that never was.
“Mrs. Thomas—” Hazel begins.
“This woman wouldn’t marry me even if I carried her on my back to her house when she was injured!” I said, my voice full of that 90s-sitcom good-naturedness.
“She’d be silly to turn you down!” Mrs. Thomas agrees while shuffling to the mailbox. Hazel lets out the fakest laugh of all time.
“Real funny,” she hisses once we’re out of earshot.
“Was I wrong?” I ask, and Hazel doesn’t respond. Because I’m not wrong. “We both know you’d never marry someone who could whoop your ass in everything.”
A sharp laugh erupts from her, but it’s genuine, not snarky.
“I would never marry someone who was hellbent on whooping my ass in everything,” she counters. Again, this would be a good time for you started it, but I hold my tongue.
“Where the hell do you live?” We’re coming up on my mom’s house now.
“Next block over. Hang a left up here.”
“So close to my parents,” I murmur, keeping an eye on my parents’ front door. My skin tingles, and I can sense it—my mom is about to walk out the door. The door creaks open as we approach. “Oh God—”
“Hazel!” Mom’s voice pierces the air, and she waves like she’s seeing a celebrity. “Now what is going on here?” She’s using her I-know-what’s-really-happening voice, and I shake my head.
“Hazel hurt herself skiing,” I explain, walking faster. The bottoms of my feet are sore from all this hot concrete sidewalk action, but hell if I’ll let that slow me down.
“Your son injured me,” Hazel adds.
Mom tuts, shaking her head. “Back at it, I see.”
“Wouldn’t be a trip home without it.” I hoist Hazel. She squeaks again, which makes my heart race, just as my brother, Weston, pokes his head out.
“Gray?”
I huff. I don’t have time for all this shit. “Kinda in a hurry, guys. I’ll be home soon.”
I cross the street to make my point. Hazel is laughing softly in my ear again.
“Can’t a man walk down the street in peace?”
“This street is the definition of peaceful,” she points out.
“I don’t remember the last time I walked down my street in Brooklyn and had anybody even acknowledge me.”
Hazel hums low. The sound she makes when she’s really thinking about what you said. It makes something nervous flutter through my limbs. “Must be why you came in so keyed up. Desperate to be noticed.”
“I don’t need to do much to be noticed,” I shoot back. “Not like some people and their billboards.”
“Is that a dig on me?” she asks. “That’s my business, asshole. Listen, put me down right here. I can walk.”
I squeeze her legs against me tighter and keep walking. I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t want it to end. And that’s more confusing than anything.
“Your billboard looks great, by the way.” Maybe that’ll soften the blow.
She relaxes against me but sounds suspicious when she says, “Thanks.”
Í turn the corner. Green bushes line the sidewalk, a privacy hedge, and tall oak and maple trees tower above us. The waves crashing on the shore are distant now. A weed whacker hums from somewhere in the neighborhood.
I look up at the sky, barely visible through the branches and leaves of the trees.
This isn’t so bad. Not at all.
“It’s right here,” Hazel says, pointing. There’s a cute little century home, painted slate gray with a gable over the front door. Petunias and ferns and rose bushes line the brick walkway to the front door. Wrought iron lamp fixtures jut out from the house, lending it a gothic feel. It’s cute as hell…and totally Hazel. I’d be able to pick it out as hers from the lamps alone.
“Wow.” The awe slips out of me, but I’m not as keen to mask it anymore. Something shifted between us while she was piggybacking. Maybe she feels it too. “This is the best house on the block.”
“Yeah, I know a thing or two about curb appeal,” she says with a sigh. “You can drop me off here.”
“You need to be on a couch or something.”
“Here is fine,” she says, swatting my shoulder.
“Hazel, I’m seeing this through.” I step up to her door, hoisting her one last time. “You know I can’t see our friends again and tell them I tucked and rolled once we got to your house.”
She grumbles but fishes a key out of her purse. I bend so she can reach the lock. The door swings open, revealing a spacious, two-story great room. Dark wood floors are intermittently covered with slate gray rugs and low, comfy-looking couches. I step inside, craning my neck to look around. A staircase curves up to the second floor. Everything is as immaculate as a showroom, yet somehow distinctly lived in.
“Damn,” I murmur.
“What?”
I jerk my gaze off the collection of ceramic owls sitting on little ledges on the walls. Of course Hazel would have owls everywhere. “I thought a realtor like you would have a mansion.”
Her muscles go rigid around me. “Okay, insulting me outside in the regular world is one thing, but in my own house? Forget it. Put me down. It’s time for you to leave.”
I dig my fingers into the backs of her thighs, and some of the fight goes out of her. I wait a moment before I respond. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
I head to the couch and slowly come to my knees so she can slide off. Once I’m gazing back into those mossy green eyes, I can barely remember what we’re talking about.
“Grayson?” she asks.
I jerk my gaze off her to the shaggy gray rug beneath my knees. It’s not shaggy like the 70s—it’s shaggy like the expensive section at Target. “I meant that most real estate agents are completely status-obsessed and would have some elaborate McMansion, devoid of personality.” I look around again, finding warmth and hominess in every corner. “This is the best home I’ve seen in a long time. In New York, in my circle, everyone’s got a swanky place, but there’s no personality in them.”
Hazel seems to have softened a little. Her lips curl up at the edges. “Hm. Yeah. I see that a lot. Like the stock photo version of a nice home.”
“Exactly,” I say, pushing my palm over the edge of her couch, dangerously close to her knee. She crosses her ankles as she settles back into the cushions. My fingertips brush her skin, and I meet her gaze again.
Just to see if she’s on the same page as I am.
To see if she feels even a fraction of this sexual tension.
“This place looks like you,” I add.
“You haven’t seen past my living room,” she says with a laugh.
“Should I give myself a guided tour?” I ask.
“Be sure to pick up the headphones by the door, so you can get the audio accompaniment,” she cracks. A laugh bursts out of me, and for a moment this feeling pulses between us. The best feeling in the world. Two people genuinely enjoying each other, digging the moment. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt that with someone. Even longer since it’s been Hazel.
And damn, if the way she’s looking at me right now isn’t making every inch of my body come to attention. Electricity snaps between us; the air grows taut. I trail my fingers over her kneecap, then trace that sensitive hollow behind. Her breath hitches.
So the unshakeable Hazel can be shaken by Gray, even ten years later.
“What are you trying to do?” she a
sks, a lazy tone to her voice. Like she’s caught somewhere between a dream and distraction.
My heart hammers as my gaze drifts up the sun-kissed expanse of her thigh. Fingertips sizzling from the contact, I trace a slow, invisible pattern over her knee.
I want to be honest with her. I’m trying to fucking kiss her. To reduce this tension in my chest by a fraction. To see if she’ll let me spend the rest of the evening at her side, getting lost in the past as much as the present.
“You know what I’m trying to do,” I say, enjoying the goosepimples blossoming beneath my touch. She’s never been good at fully convincing me she doesn’t like me. Hazel talks a good game, but I know her weaknesses. The area behind her kneecap might as well be an earlobe. I swipe my middle finger over that dip again, watching as her nostrils flare.
“Taking advantage of the woman you mortally wounded out on the lake?” She lifts a brow, but her gaze is on my hand. Willing it to continue?
“Mortally wounded,” I scoff and move my hand away from her. My skin protests the decision. And apparently she does, too. She moves her knee closer to me. My gaze snags on that scrap of fabric covering her pussy—that sweet heat I’d been lucky enough to know once upon a time—and I wonder what’s going on in there right now. Is she wet from wanting me? Is she throbbing, wanting things to move further?
The ball’s in my court right now. I don’t know what to do with so much power. I wonder if she realizes that she lost. The evidence is her prickled skin. Her flushed chest. Her green eyes boring a hole through me.
“There’s nothing wrong with being nice to my new realtor,” I say. It’s a struggle to hide the evil grin that wants to overtake my face, but I manage.
“Grayson Daly,” she says, “You did not win that skiing competition. It was undecided due to participant injury.”
I drag my thumb along the side of her thigh, heading for her knee. She rolls her lips inward.
“It would mean a lot to my mom,” I whisper, then send her my best puppy face. “She’s really upset ever since Connor brought Kinsley Cabana back from California.”
Hazel sat up sharply, brows knitting together. “What did you say?”
