by Leigh, Ember
“Okay.” He’s still white-knuckling the steering wheel, staring ahead at the one-car garage of his house. “Give me a call when you’re ready.”
I tear out of the car, beating back the tears until it’s safe for them to spill.
This feels a lot like a breakup.
It never should have felt like this.
I never should have started this at all.
Chapter 18
GRAYSON
Two days.
That’s how much I give her. That’s the most I can stand to give her.
Because once forty-eight hours go by without Hazel, I’m a tightly wound mess, itching from the inside to see her. We’ve been texting, but it’s not enough. She hasn’t even sent me a selfie. I’m ending this needless stalemate because I’ve got a week left here, and though the future is uncertain, my present is more than certain.
I need Hazel.
GRAY: Okay, you’ve had your time. Get yr sweet ass to my house. Making you dinner tonight.
HAZEL: Ugh fine. What time?
GRAY: 7. And pack clothes for tomorrow.
Once she’s on board, I head to the grocery store to pick up ingredients for the meal I plan to make. Except no visit to the grocery store is ever just about buying what you need. No, I run into about three hundred different people I know—almost the entirety of Bayshore—while I’m circling the perimeter of Bayshore’s most popular grocery store, The Daily Shop.
I always used to think it was named for our family until I realized the spelling difference a little too late, around age nine. But oh well. A part of me still likes to think it’s my namesake and possible future inheritance.
I manage to pick up shrimp and salmon, just in case I can’t decide on what I want to make, plus a whole array of vegetables to roast. I’ve also crossed paths with Mrs. Whitmore from the next street over, Mr. Hank who is a regular at the bar on the beach, Corey from high school, Tabitha who used to babysit Maverick, Ms. Koch who heard about my success in New York and wants me to talk to her son, and even my own mother.
“Grayson!” she exclaims, like she didn’t see me two hours ago.
“Mom, I gotta go,” I tell her while I press her into a quick hug. “If I don’t leave now, I never will.”
“Let’s head to the bar and get a drink real quick!” She points to the bar that The Daily Shop recently constructed. Smart move, letting your shoppers get drunk and loose with their snack cash.
“Mom,” I tell her. “I’ve spent the past forty-five minutes socializing in the bread aisle. I need to get out of here.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll see you at home.” She pats my arm and wanders off past the display of lilies. I bolt for the checkout line and heave a sigh of relief once I’m safe inside my car. One hour and fifteen minutes. That’s how long it took me to complete what would have otherwise been a fifteen-minute run. Except, I admit, in New York it would have taken longer. Once you figured in traffic and the insane lines at Whole Foods and whether the ride share could circle around onto my one-way street on the first try or not.
At least here I could catch up with some people I haven’t seen in ages. I’m interested in helping guide Ms. Koch’s son. Maybe I could give him a few pointers, the same way people helped me when I was finding my path in life.
Back at the house, I throw myself into dinner prep. It’s only three thirty, but still, I need time. This is going to be the best meal I’ve ever made, and Hazel deserves it. We deserve it.
Besides, it’s high time I tell her about my idea for preserving the “we.” I know she loves Bayshore. But she’s got to see the monetary opportunities just waiting for her outside this city’s limits. How much she could be raking in if she’d take the leap and move to a bigger city.
Mom loaned me all her unused cooking stuff to use while I’m in town, so I’ve got a decently equipped kitchen. West got me an apron, like a weird housewarming gift. The picture on the front is a bodybuilder, naked from the waist up.
While I prep food, music pulses out of my laptop, switching from jazz to hip-hop to rock. Cutting vegetables and making foil packets of produce gives me ample time to think over the spreadsheet I’ve been working on for the past two days. Sort of my formal proposal package to Hazel. Hey, what else am I going to do with all this time off and no way to occupy the math-oriented side of my brain? I’m used to crunching numbers in a big way. It makes sense to crunch the numbers on Hazel’s behalf so she can see what an opportunity a move to New York would be for her career.
I spared no imaginary expense, either. I drilled down to moving costs (provided we hired a moving company for her), realty investments (I could help her with thirty percent of it), half of my apartment’s rent (I wouldn’t really expect her to pay though), and the time costs of re-licensing in the state of New York. This will be the supplemental documentation to follow my pitch.
I don’t mess around when I have a goal. I’m in it to win it.
Hazel’s coming to New York.
Around five o’clock, the kitchen starts getting extra hot, so I tear off my shirt and leave the apron on over my mesh shorts. Shortly thereafter, my simmering white sauce pops with the heat and splatters the back of my shorts. I take some time to remove the stain and stay in my underwear, since the kitchen it still so damn hot. I’ve got someone coming tomorrow to install a central air system for the house. It’ll sure beat this 80s unit I’ve got in the side window that puffs out air that smells like it’s a hundred years old.
“Gray?”
I whip around at the unexpected voice. Hazel is peering inside the kitchen, looking both fascinated and quizzical.
“Hey! Hazel! What are you, uh—” The tea kettle starts screaming. Hot water for the French press coffee I suddenly decided I needed. “What time is it?”
She sends me a tight smile, and that’s when I notice she’s clutching a folder to her chest. Something isn’t right. It’s too early, but then again, I haven’t looked at my phone in at least an hour. I snap the heat off for the tea kettle.
“Did you see my message?” Urgency thickens her voice.
I feel around the front of the apron. No phone. “No, I—”
“Oh, this is lovely,” coos a new voice, and that’s when two wide-eyed prospective buyers step into the living room behind Hazel.
My jaw drops. “Oh. Hey!”
I am wearing very tight briefs right now, so this is fun. I back up against the counter, trying to keep my front angled toward them, but the apron doesn’t help matters. It only makes things worse.
“Mr. and Mrs. Parker, I’d like you to meet Grayson Daly, the current owner of the house.”
“I’d shake your hands, but I’m covered in shrimp juice,” I offer. And basically nude behind the apron. I see Hazel stifle a smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Mrs. Parker looks particularly amused. “We’re excited to see the changes.”
“Grayson has been hard at work,” Hazel says.
“And very hard at work at dinner right now,” I add. “I’m wining and dining our realtor tonight.”
Mrs. Parker lifts a brow, looking between the two of us.
“This shrimp juice is all for you, Hazel.” I send her an exaggerated wink. Hazel lowers her chin, sending me a private smile before spinning on her heel and beginning the tour. While they creak and step around the house, I track down my phone—I left it on the bathroom sink—and send Hazel an SOS text.
GRAY: Bring pants from my bedroom?? PLEASE
HAZEL: But those briefs really show off your quads.
GRAY: Should I take off the apron too?
HAZEL: No. That’s for my eyes only.
GRAY: And lips.
HAZEL: Stop. I’m trying to work.
GRAY: My cock is for your lips, mouth, tongue, hands and eyes only.
She doesn’t reply to that last one. I grin as I set the white sauce aside to thicken. A few moments later, footsteps thud down the staircase. Hazel rushes in with a pair of workout shorts.
As she hands them off, I jerk her toward me for a kiss.
“Mmm.” The scent of her washes over me, and whatever doubts or questions might have cropped up over the past two days are entirely gone. This woman is for me.
“Watch your shrimp juice,” she teases and then hurries back up the staircase.
The tour is quick, and now that I at least have pants on, I take some time talking to the couple about the renovations and the upcoming changes. In the past two weeks, I’ve completely redone the kitchen, downstairs bathroom, and painted all the walls in the entire house. The upstairs hallway isn’t quite ready yet, and the back porch I might not get to before I leave. But the house is a total one-eighty from when I inherited it.
And there’s still so much more I want to do.
Really, the past two weeks have brought me closer to Weston and Maverick, who have been my unofficial right-hand men. It’s occurred to me more than once that it would be awesome to start my own renovation company. I could even hire those two. We’d be the Daly Brothers, Inc. It’s got that small-town charm that works.
Before the couple leaves, they take a moment by the front door, discussing something heatedly. Then Mr. Parker marches up to me.
“Would you take three eighty?”
The offer thuds through me. I immediately look to Hazel, who’s got a big grin on her face, squeezing that folder to her chest. That’s a full thirty thousand more than Hazel thought I could initially get; eighty thousand dollars higher than her worst-case estimate.
I haven’t sunk more than five grand into the renovations, either, from doing it with my brothers. This is almost easy money.
“I need to think about it,” I finally say. “Let me get back to you tomorrow.”
The Parkers look a little crestfallen, but Hazel counsels them as she leads them out of the house. I know better than to accept on the spot as a general business rule. But more than that, I have some serious reservations. My gut tightens thinking about selling the place as it is right now.
When Hazel reappears, I can tell she’s out of work mode. She breezes up to me, and I catch her in a hug before she can dodge me. I capture her lips in a kiss, and then another.
“You took too much time to yourself,” I murmur before stealing another kiss. “Now you’re going to make up for it.”
She’s all smiles, wrapping her arms around my naked body apron and actual half-naked body. “Consider me a willing hostage.” Her gaze slides to the stove. “What’s going on in here, Chef Daly?”
“The best flavors are about to assault your senses,” I say, moving toward the stove with my arm around her shoulders. “From head to toe.”
“Does that mean you’re going to pour the sauce all over me?”
“Yep. In the new bathtub. It’ll be sexy.”
She snickers, then she swats at my chest. “So why’d you shoot down the Parkers?”
“It’s not smart to accept the offer on the spot,” I say, bringing the wooden spoon up to my lips to taste the sauce. “And I didn’t want to break their hearts.”
“You’re not going to take it?”
“I don’t think so.” My gaze lands on the French press loaded with ground coffee, but suddenly it seems like it’s time for wine. I’ll save that coffee for tomorrow.
“But it’s thirty more than I quoted you,” Hazel says with an incredulous laugh. “You’d be crazy not to take it. They’re motivated to buy. This is essentially the retirement home of their dreams.”
“I’m not ready to sell,” I say simply, moving the two of us toward the far counter where I have the wine selections set out. “I think I can get more money once I finish the renovations.”
Hazel is quiet, her arms still wrapped right around my middle section. I get out the corkscrew and open the sixty-dollar merlot I picked up for tonight’s dinner.
“Fancy a glass?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
I pour out two generous glasses, and then she finally dislodges from me so that we can clink glasses. We grin and sip, and I take her in. Her loose chestnut braid curling over her left shoulder. The sheer black tank top she’s paired with slate gray slacks and peep-toe heels.
“This is nice,” she admits.
“I got it from The Daily Shop on my three-hour trip down memory lane in aisle five.”
She laughs. “It’s hard to go anywhere without running into everyone from high school.”
“Yeah.” I smile, tasting the wine again. “But it was nice.”
We clink glasses again. For no reason this time.
Still, it feels definitive.
Like we decided something.
Like now that the Parkers are gone and I’ve rejected the offer and dinner’s about to be ready, we can get back to what really matters.
Hazel and Gray.
Chapter 19
HAZEL
Thirteen tiny shrimp and two bottles of expensive wine later, Gray and I are racing down to the private residential beach.
He wants to make good on our idea to fuck on the beach from earlier that week, and at this point? I can’t deny him.
The two days apart to “take some space” have nearly crippled me. I spent each second apart from him thinking about him, which means that when he finally goes back to New York, I’m going to physically perish.
I should be smart and start taking my space now. And I tried. But while he’s living within two blocks of me, I can’t stay away. Not when I show up at his house and he’s in a naked bodybuilder apron. Not when he’s made shrimp scampi just because.
Once our feet hit the sand, we start racing like children. I lunge for him and tumble, hitting the sand. A laugh pops out of me and he circles back to help me up, and then we keep running. Sand flies underfoot, and the scents of lake water and fish reach us in equal measure.
Grayson leads me toward a shadowy alcove of trees above an outcrop of rocks. It’s a secluded area—honestly the first place I’d pick for fucking in public at night—and we climb carefully over the bulky stones stacked up along the shore. When Grayson finds the right spot, he sits down and pulls me on top of him.
“Here,” he growls, and then he captures my lips in a punishing kiss. It feels like a reprimand for the time I’ve separated us. My hips open and I straddle him, our groins colliding. His heat washes through me despite the damp night air dancing over my skin. The waves lap against the shore as his hands scorch up my legs, then tug down the lounge shorts I changed into after dinner.
I gasp when the night air breezes my ass. Nobody can see us from here, but still, it feels scandalous. And totally awesome.
“Now this is a pretty tasty dessert,” I mumble through a kiss, fisting the hair at the back of his head.
He grunts, and a moment later, he tugs his own shorts down. The warm cockhead grazes my folds, and the sudden pressure against my swollen clit causes my breath to hitch. His biceps are straining on either side of me as he lifts me, guiding me into position.
“This is the only dessert I want anymore.” His voice is rough at the edges, betraying his straining composure.
“Mmmm.” My lips find the sweet spot by his ear. Gray shudders beneath me. His words mean so much more than our little public sex outing. But this is all about the naughty stuff right now. “Then go on and give me your honey.”
He laughs a little, but then he eases himself inside me, and all my thoughts zap into nothingness. All I can feel is the heat and stretching and the steel of him filling me, against the harmony of the lapping waves and the crickets all around us in the darkness. This moment is perfection, and I know I’ll never find someone else to make me feel like this—to fuck me on the rocks after shrimp scampi.
Hell, Gray’s the type of guy to do this when we’re seventy. Because that’s how we’d be.
And I don’t want to be with anyone else.
Tears prick my eyes as we start a rocking, passionate rhythm. I wrap myself around him, hanging on for dear life, like this might be the last time. Because any
time could be the last time. His departure is looming, and nothing is guaranteed. We haven’t talked, and I’m scared to bring it up. I just want to exist in this, right here, forever. In the warm, languid knowing that we’re somehow made for each other, even if time and space doesn’t allow us to align.
I can take solace in that. Once he leaves.
I move against him, every inch of my body alert in the night air as we buck and rock and try to tamp down the moans. Grayson’s stormy gaze glints in the moonlight. Washing over me, pinpricks and silk. I want to be wrapped around him and only him.
I lift myself off him and then slam down, burying him to the hilt, so deep that it makes me wince. His fingertips dig into my butt cheeks. I rock again, a victim to my own merciless rhythm, spurred by the lapping waves and the wall of man beneath me. My breath whooshes out of me as my knees grind against the stone. He grunts, and it sounds strained. He’s as close to the edge as I am.
“Hazel,” he breathes into my ear, and there’s something in his voice that tugs on the final thread holding me together. My name on his lips is a plea. It cracks me open, and the emotion clenches my throat.
“Gray,” I begin, the I love you burbling up to the surface like the pressure in a shaken bottle. I rock my hips in a slow circle, but before I can say the words, my orgasm comes barreling through me. Pummeling. Igniting me from head to toe, rushing through the scrapes on my knees to the tips of my toes and all the spaces inside me. I cry out, arching back, but Grayson scoops me closer, like he’d fit me inside of him if he could. Our chests collide, and I can feel him pulsing inside me, his abs jerking as he fills me with liquid heat.
He’s the only man I’ve ever let come inside me, and each time it happens, I fall deeper. Harder. It’s intimate in a way I can’t express, and by the time my orgasm washes away, I’m clinging to him, and there are tears in my eyes. I gasp for air.
Gray holds me, his breath at my ear a reassuring anchor in the wild and dreamy aftermath.
