by Leigh, Ember
Dear Hazel, or should I say SELF: The answer here is clear. You should absolutely go to the bar, take three shots of Jamison back to back, dance unattractively in the middle of the dance floor until single creepers arrive, and then flirt with anyone. Literally anyone. Just so you can feel like you might have options once the love of your life leaves you in three days. Also, you should trip over yourself while you’re at it. And maybe have one boob pop out of your too-loose tank top, which is loose because of the recent weight you lost being puppy-dog enamored with the man who’s about to move away. Don’t forget to end it with a late-night pity quesadilla and crying in your bathroom.
This is my game plan. It looks suspiciously like my game plan when I first got to OSU and had my “wild streak,” which was also born of Grayson-induced trauma. Being nineteen and crazy goes over slightly better than being twenty-eight and sloppy. I can tell Luke, Callie, and Anthony are a little worried. Well, Callie, not so much anymore because I have her taking shots alongside me. See, I’m smarter than I look. Rope in your sidekick.
But they know something is up. All I said at the start of our evening was that Grayson and I were done because he never listened to me once in my life. That’s all. Barely anything. Yet the puzzled looks abounded.
It’s okay. They don’t know how hard I fell. They don’t know that I went headfirst into the abyss and cracked myself wide open. Top to bottom. And out came spilling guts and pride and all.
This guy I started talking to about a half hour is back. His name is Dan or Darrell or Juan. I have no idea. It doesn’t matter. Every time I look at him, I notice that he’s not Grayson, and it makes me sadder. I crave distraction, but even the distraction leads me back to Gray.
But weaning is necessary. It’s inevitable. And it’s going to happen whether I like it or not.
“So you wanna get outta here?” Juan or Darrell asks me. He’s looking down at my cleavage, so I push my chest out. Eat it up, buddy. I wouldn’t take him home with me, not in a million years. But pretending I would is fun. Pretending I’m not hopelessly in love with Grayson is fun.
“Ohhh, I don’t know,” I drawl, peeking at him from under my eyelashes. Already this is getting boring. I sigh, shoulders dropping. “I might get another drink.”
“Let me get it for you,” he says, turning to the bar. As he does, I glance over his shoulder. Just a few bodies away there’s Luke, and at his side...Grayson.
His stormy blues are like a fire whip against me. In the gauzy glow of the bar, I can see him in a new light. The off-duty Grayson light. No longer the polished New Yorker wearing suits for days. No, this is the small-town hottie as I always knew him. His hickory hair has grown since he got here, and the longish strands are starting to curl. He can almost sweep it across his forehead. His square jaw is flexing, flexing, flexing as he stares at me. Like he’s contemplating whether to walk away or to kidnap me on the spot.
My entire chest cavity seizes, and I suddenly go weightless and rigid. A chorus of angels erupts from somewhere, drowning out the music, and all I want is to run to him and collapse into his arms. The day and a half away from him has, once again, basically crippled me. Which doesn’t bode well for the rest of our lives.
He’s heading toward me now, and hoo boy, he doesn’t look happy. I remember Darrell or Dan. I glance at him, mouth opening to maybe warn him, but what can I say? Sorry, you’ve been a pawn? Gray stalks up to a me a moment later and grabs me by the arm. Brisk. Fierce. He brings me toward him, face level with mine.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
He’s dressed in all black, which is my weakness. Our outfits actually complement each other perfectly, so, you know, one more spear to the heart. His simple black tee shows off his biceps, which bulge even bigger since he started working on the house. Black mesh shorts hug narrow hips. The scent of him, cedar and working man, forces a whimper from my lips.
My arm sizzles where he touches me. The jealousy crashes off him and nearly drowns me. I hate how much I love it that he’s jealous. No, scratch that. I just love it.
“I’m enjoying a night at the bar with my friends?” I try to act put out, but I can’t look away from him. He’s all I want to look at. He’s the one thing missing in my already-awesome life.
“Yo, man, step off,” Juan suddenly interjects, like he’s my knight in drunken armor.
“She’s with me,” Grayson barks, fiercer than I’ve ever heard him.
“I bought you this drink,” Juan-Darrell says, sounding a little miffed. Whatever.
“You can drink it!” I suggest cheerily as Grayson leads me away. God, what a relief. Not only to be rid of the company I didn’t want to begin with, but also to have Grayson back at my side. To be able to give in despite fighting it for so long.
“You two leavin’?” Callie slurs, apparently not noticing that Grayson was never here to begin with.
“I’m taking her home,” Grayson says as he steers me out of the bar, his hands clamped onto my shoulders. I can’t fight the grin, but only as long as he can’t see it.
“Bye, drunky,” Anthony taunts, while Luke waves us off. It takes work to weave out of the bar, but once we hit the warm night air, the sounds of the bar become a dull murmur behind closed doors. I tear myself away from him.
“I’ll walk.” It’s my last chance to exert any sort of dominance over my waning willpower. I stumble, and Grayson catches me.
“How about no? I drove. Get in the car.”
“Grayson, I don’t want to leave with you.”
“You left the bar with me.”
His logic leaves me searching for a comeback. If I were sober, this would be much easier. I wouldn’t have to struggle to be snappy. “You left the bar with me.”
Grayson snorts. That wasn’t a good response. My street cred is waning.
“Come on.” He grabs for my wrist, but I slink away from his reach. I stand my ground on the sidewalk in front of a huge mound of lilies.
“I don’t want to go with you,” I say, resting my hands on my hips. As if my posture might help my cause. “We’re supposed to be weaning. You’re leaving in like a day and a half and I—” My voice cracks suddenly, which is just the space needed for all my repressed emotions to come rushing forth. Fuck. I stop talking and turn away, swallowing the knot.
“And you what, Hazel?” His voice is softer this time, and right at my ear. His heat surrounds me like the most amazing sweater. I would bathe in his scent if I could. I pinch my eyes shut.
“I can’t handle us breaking up for a second time,” I say in a quiet voice, looking everywhere but at him.
“Then come with me.”
A sigh rockets out of me. I’m not sad anymore; I’m pissed. “Why is that the only solution?”
“Did you look at my spreadsheets?” he demands.
“Yes, I looked at your perfect spreadsheets,” I hiss. They were a modern work of art. Perfectly bolded text and outlined columns with a level of detail that I haven’t seen in…years. It’s my level of work. The type of attention I pay to things that really matter. And goddammit, that spreadsheet was moving. Like a practiced symphony.
“And?”
“And we need to wean,” I say, slicing my hands through the air. “Your numbers are solid. The profit is…enticing.” I wobble a little. “But I want to have babies, Gray.”
He steps closer, smoothing his hands over the sides of my arms. He’s all manly tenderness now. He forces me to meet his gaze. “We can have babies. I want to have babies with you.”
I pinch my eyes shut again. Lord, those words don’t help matters.
“When? After I turn forty?” I scoff. “I mean, sure, it can be done. But I was thinking, like, oh, I don’t know, in a couple years? But I can’t. If I move to New York, I can’t. I’ll be saddled with debt and working ninety-hour weeks and—”
“Hazel.”
“And your mom would love to help out with the kids,” I barrel on, all of my worries gushing out of me at on
ce. “We need to have a support network, you know? We need to have help, and in New York, we might get some random weirdo posing as a babysitter or, or, or a nanny who puts spoiled goat milk in the bottles and—”
“Hazel.” His arms squeeze around me and I melt into his embrace, my worries suddenly quieting. I bury my face in the solid wall of his chest, taking deep gulps of the scent of him. Like this is the last time I’ll ever get the chance. “You don’t need to decide now. We’ve still got a couple more days.”
A couple more days. The words prompt another whimper. A breeze from the lake reaches me, and I take a restorative breath, propping my chin on his chest to look up at him.
“Can we walk back?”
Gray wets his bottom lip, dragging the pad of his thumb over my cheekbone. “Yes, baby. Whatever you want.”
Between sweet nothings like that and his fire spreadsheets, I’m toast. I need to be with this man. Each time I try to put distance between us, I fail anyway, so why not give into it? Sadness washes over me, fueled by alcohol and the very real heat of this man. Because in a few more days, he’ll be hundreds of miles away. Back to his own life, in his own routine.
And I’ll be…what?
Missing him so hard I’ll be ready to call the moving company.
We walk down the curved sidewalk leading to the lakefront. There’s a boardwalk that traverses the majority of the shore, cutting through downtown, and eventually dumping off near a side entrance to our neighborhood. It’s pretty convenient. And quite romantic. Which is another thing that doesn’t help.
Walking like this—even though I do occasionally stumble—is what I’ve always wanted. To have the man of my dreams at my side while the lake air whips around us on the perfect summer night. I watch the lake, the dark waves moving against the shore, and before I know it, I’m crying.
Grayson doesn’t notice at first, and I try to hide it. But soon my chest hitches, and I have to wipe my eyes, and then Grayson is in front of me, gripping the sides of my arms.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want you to leave,” I wail.
“Aww, you’re drunk and sad,” he teases, a dimple flashing.
“Yeah. Drunk on Jamison and sad about you.” I poke his chest, wiping at my eye. I’ve probably fucked up my winged eyeliner already, but who cares? Grayson sees me pee in the morning, so there’s nothing left for us to hide.
We walk down the boardwalk a little more, pausing every so often to admire the water or erupt in an accusatory back-and-forth about who is sadder about his time here coming to an end. By the time we make it back to the neighborhood, I’m tired and way more sober. The humid night air and the walk did me good.
Once we go into Gray’s house and I chug a glass of water, I know what’s next. If he’s leaving in three days, I need to take advantage of this possible last time. Don’t get me wrong—we still need to wean. But I’ll start tomorrow. The first day of weaning never goes well. Everyone knows that.
I push Grayson’s back. He barely moves, only twists around to smile at me. He knows what I want. The curtains are open at the bay window in his bedroom, and the light of the full moon spills in. The room is bathed in ethereal darkness, barely lit enough for me to catch the tanned skin of his belly as he tugs his shirt off. The arc of his biceps as he sits on the bed and beckons me closer. The squareness of his jaw as he tilts his head to take me in as I straddle him buck naked.
Each time with him has been memorably hot. But there’s something else happening tonight. There’s sadness and raw, aching love spilling out of both of us. We move against each other as if we’re about to be sent into outer space on different rockets. End of the world–style lovemaking. His hot palms slide up my back, over the bumps of my spine. My hard nipples graze his smooth chest.
Everything is moving like a dream sequence. The sensuality of the moment forces my eyes closed, but I need to watch what’s happening between us. To memorize it. To inscribe it into my soul so that I never forget what true love looks and moves like.
Grayson’s gaze is a vortex as I look down at him, my pussy hovering over his straining cock. His breath comes out harsh as he traces the lines of my body, urging me closer. Our mouths connect, desperate, hot, and seeking, as I lower myself down. He sinks into me with spellbinding slowness, guiding my hips with his hands. I’m on top, but he’s controlling this as much as I am.
And isn’t that how it’s always been? Two equals vying for best. But neither of us could be here if it wasn’t for the other.
The thought slams through me, making my throat thick, as I arch and rock on top of him. Our game of who’s-better and who’s-winning was never about being number one, at least not after a certain point. It was a dance to celebrate the fact that we were both together. And I love being together with this man.
Tears prick my eyes as we rock and moan and grind in the moonlight. Every flex and groan from him sends me spiraling, until finally I crash down on him one last time and my entire body starts tingling. It never takes long with Grayson, and I cling to him as the orgasm wrings me out. I’m moaning and crying out and saying his name, over and over again, as the pleasure makes my vision go spotty. Grayson is jerking beneath me, his thumbs digging into that hollow above my hips, and I can tell he’s coming.
When he’s spent, he releases a long exhale and then collapses backward on the bed, inviting me on top of him. I laugh and cover his chest, hugging him. He’s still inside me. And I want him to stay there.
I want to stay here.
Eons of silence drift by. I’m caught in some dreamworld between sobriety, sexual satisfaction, and the hazy aftermath of being drunk. I feel like I could fall asleep but also fuck until daybreak.
There’s nothing better in the world than this: the solid heat of him beneath me. The rise and fall of his chest. And the steady thrum of his heartbeat.
“You should just stay,” I finally say, my croaky voice something even I don’t recognize.
Grayson runs his fingertips through my hair and says nothing.
Chapter 24
GRAYSON
Hazel knows how to compartmentalize better than most men.
Maybe that’s her dad’s influence showing. I don’t know. But when I wake up the next morning after rescuing her from the bar, she’s not in my bed. She’s not in my bathroom. She’s nowhere inside my house.
She’s gone. Because she fucking vanished. Per her compartmentalized plan.
And I’m back to square one. Texting with no response. Calling and getting her voicemail. And lurking on the sidewalk around her house like some sort of asshole.
Except I can’t text or call her nonstop. There are only so many hours in the day to stake out a lover’s house. I’ve got shit to do during my last two days in town. At least ten hours of reno work per day, if I’m being honest. Not to mention packing, buttoning up the house, and saying goodbye to my parents and brothers.
Mom and Dad insist on taking me and Weston and Maverick out for dinner on my last night in town. I can’t argue. Hazel has made no effort to respond to my thirty-five unanswered texts and fifteen calls, so I should take the hint, right? My mom is as sad as I am about Hazel not being there with us, but I’ve got nothing. I can’t convince the woman of anything, much less to follow me to a place she doesn’t want to go.
Even though I know she’d fucking love it.
The last two nights in my house are lonely. The house feels empty without her in it, and if I’m being honest, I hardly want to go back to my apartment. Sure, I’ve got an awesome spot in Brooklyn, but I didn’t rehab that place from the ground up. I bought it ready to go. Cookie-cutter perfection. This house, here in Bayshore? This is all mine.
It’s occurred to me more than once that maybe I should hang on to the house. Stop trying to sell it and keep this place for sort of a…summer house. Or a retirement home. I don’t know. It might be worth trying to keep it around, at least for a little while.
By the time my last morning in
Bayshore arrives, my chest is thick with anxiety. I haven’t seen Hazel since our last night together. Every bone in my body aches with wanting to see her. I said goodbye to Luke and Anthony and Callie the night before when we met up for drinks. Hazel was conspicuously absent, and the four of us didn’t even talk about her. We’d all gotten the memo. My guess is she swore them to silence. To act like I was already gone. Or dead.
But I’m not leaving town without saying goodbye to her. She can ignore my texts, but she can’t ignore me when I come to her office. I show up just before noon, because I know she’ll be there. Her office hours are, without fail, eleven to twelve-thirty. I’ve got dark slacks and a light gray button-up on as I stroll into her office. As soon as I step inside, I push my sunglasses onto my head. She’s behind her desk, staring daggers at me. She’s wearing a black tube top with a black cropped bolero jacket over it. Her hair is darker. She died it dark brown, a touch beyond mahogany.
My beautiful, thorny Hazel.
“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice suspiciously placid.
“Asking you one last time.” I walk her way, hands shoved in my pockets. “Come with me, babe.”
Her nostrils flare. The only sign that I’m getting to her. Her fingers are poised over her keyboard. I interrupted her mid-thought.
Her silence sends my anxiety skyrocketing again. There has to be some way to resolve this. We’re two grown, intelligent adults. Why can’t we make this work?
“I’ll wait for you. Come on, Hazel. Just let me know you’re thinking about it.”
Her gaze drops to her desk. She blinks a few times, then says, “A new offer came in on your house. It meets your threshold. Do you want to sell?”
I sigh, my shoulders drooping. “You didn’t answer me.”
“Well, I can’t right now. I’m busy.”
“Hazel.” I can hear the desperation in my own voice. I’m pleading, and I know it.
She meets my gaze again. Reluctantly. Indecision flashes in her hazel eyes, and then she straightens. Reaffirming her position. I have to act fast. She’s gearing up to shoot me down again, and I don’t know how much fight I have left in me.
