Hot Boss

by Anne Marsh

  1. Take responsibility.

  2. Family first.

  3. No one you love should want or hurt.

  4. Fix what’s wrong. See rules 1, 2 and 3.

  The Colemans play by a similar set of rules—they’re just louder about it. Much, much louder. Their compound is like a hipster version of the Kennedy compound. It’s surrounded by castle-worthy stucco walls and worth a small fortune. The first time I saw it, I asked Hazel if any of her high-school boyfriends yelled for Rapunzel to let her hair down.

  Once Hazel and I are dressed and out the door, it doesn’t take long to get to the compound. Unfortunately, since we don’t arrive at the crack of dawn, I’m reminded firsthand that parking is a competitive sport in this neighborhood. I score the last open spot. Even better, I slide into it right before one of Hazel’s sister’s fiancés can do so. The Colemans respect ruthlessness—Hazel’s ability to amass a billion-dollar fortune is entirely expected after you’ve met her family.

  As soon as we go in, Hazel’s mom greets us, George the Git firmly attached to her side. George is her boyfriend and a bad seed according to anyone not dating him. With the exception of Hazel, the Colemans are all terrified that Margie will finally agree to marry the guy. He’s a flirty bastard who clearly adores Margie. Unfortunately, he’s also a serial entrepreneur with zero business skills, and Margie spends far too much time picking up his messes.

  “You’ve got the big three-oh coming up, darling. You should be doing something special.” Margie stares meaningfully at Hazel.

  George slaps me on the back and suggests, sotto voce, that we wander off for a craft beer and a catch-up because he has an idea he wants to run by me. I plant myself firmly by Hazel’s side.

  Hazel ignores her mom’s subtext because she recognizes a losing battle. “It’s a weekday. I’ll be working, Mom.”

  “Ask your boss for the day off.”

  Hazel makes a noncommittal noise and steers me toward the table of food laid out underneath two enormous lemon trees. The food is amazing, as always. Two of Hazel’s sisters cook and everyone else has mastered the concept of takeout. I hold two plates so Hazel can load them up. “Are you asking your boss for the day off? I’ve heard he’s a strict one.”

  Hazel gives me a smug smile. “Pretty sure my boss isn’t going to be a problem. I can give myself the day off anytime I want.”

  “You should check the calendar.” Our fingers and arms brush as we navigate the length of the table. Something inside me aches a little that she knows what I want and don’t want on my plate. “Because I’m certain that it’s my month to be the boss.”

  Hazel frowns, clearly flipping through a mental calendar. “Nice try. Were you planning on being a hard-ass boss or just a hot boss?”

  Heh. I lean closer because while I’m happy to share my fantasies with Hazel, I don’t need to broadcast them to the entire Coleman clan. “I’m voting hot. I could also do bossy, bastard or bondage.”

  “Points for the alliteration.” Hazel sounds a little breathless and I can’t help but wonder which word she’s thinking about.

  “Should I elaborate, too?” I sound hoarse, but hello. Sexy banter at the Coleman brunch is a first for me.

  The more important question is why Hazel sounds like she’s doing some thinking of her own. I’m betting it’s the word bossy that does it for her, or maybe I’m just being realistic about my ability to let Hazel take charge. The best I can manage is a fifty-fifty split, so it would be easiest if she had secret erotic fantasies about me giving her sexy bedroom commands in the boardroom, where anyone could walk in on us. The orange sundress she’s wearing is definitely fantasy fuel. The skirt floats around her legs and I could flip it up, bend her over the table...

  A voice from far too close has us springing apart. “You’re holding up the line.”

  Katie, sister number one, taps me on the shoulder, indicating that I should move on. We do, taking our plates over to the crowd spread out beneath the big trees. There’s California champagne with slightly squashy blackberries in Margie’s mismatched—or totally unique—collection of glass flutes. Hazel sits cross-legged beside me, sundress carefully tucked beneath her knees, waving her glass as she makes some point to her sister. The rest of us are one big, boneless clump, sort of like a Roman banquet except we’re reclining on Mexican blankets bought three for ten dollars in Tijuana.

  I shovel my food in because I’m hungry and the Colemans like to Discuss Things. Not only do feelings get hurt and the volume level soar, but food fights also break out occasionally.

  Sure enough, Em—sister number two—sets down her reusable plastic picnic plate and turns to Hazel. “Are you dating?”

  “Nope.” Hazel shoves a forkful of pasta salad into her mouth, as if good manners would keep her family from poking their noses into her business.

  “Why not?”

  Hazel makes mock googly eyes. “I’m here with Jack. I don’t want to hurt his feelings by introducing another guy into our relationship.”

  There’s a round of good-natured, mocking laughter. I’m not sure when the Colemans collectively got the idea that nothing romantic could ever be possible between Hazel and me. She’s a girl and I’m a guy, which checks both of our boxes, so it’s hypothetically possible.

  Margie charges in. I suspect she’s motivated by the possibility of new grandbabies. “Jack doesn’t count. He won’t mind. Would you?”

  Brown eyes drill into me. It’s easy to see where Hazel’s good looks come from. I just hope that Margie’s a shade less astute than her daughter, because explaining that I have carnal knowledge of said daughter would be awkward at best. I’m probably safe, though, since Hazel’s family has me firmly in the doesn’t-count camp.

  Tread carefully. “I’m happy to cede my prior claim when Prince Charming comes along.”

  “You know lots of guys.” Frankie, sister number three, joins the fray. “Can’t you fix her up with one of those VC guys you know? Pick someone successful. Rich. Not too much of an asshole.”

  Frankie’s opinion about Silicon Valley investment circles is clear, but George the Git perks up. He’s willing to be supportive if it brings more business opportunities his way.

  “You should settle down,” Katie announces. I’m sure what she really means is settle, and that pisses me off. Why should Hazel pair off with someone who doesn’t worship the ground she walks on?

  “Hazel’s having a hard time choosing,” I tell the crowd of faces turned my way. “She has a crap ton of options and you don’t want her to make a mistake.”

  “Really?” Em sounds skeptical, but Margie just looks hopeful. I know that they only want what’s best for Hazel, but their execution sucks.

  “Scout’s honor.” I hold up two fingers. When Hazel elbows me, I add a third. “Hazel’s awesome. She shouldn’t settle for just anyone.”

  Hazel looks like she’s trying to figure out how to turn invisible. When that fails, she pretends a sudden need for the restroom and scurries toward the main house. I’m sure everyone knows she’s just removing herself from the temptation to commit murder, but no one says anything.

  When I get up to follow her, Margie puts a hand on my arm. “My best friend, Julie, has a daughter who’s a lawyer for an ocean-conservation group in San Francisco. I could introduce you.”

  “No thanks. I’m good.” I give her a polite smile and stroll after Hazel. She’s moving fast as always, charging down the hallway. I reach out and catch her swinging fingers with mine, tugging her to a halt.

  For just a second, this feels like something more.

  As if we’re friends with possibilities.

  As if I’m something—someone—more to her.

  Hazel laughs up at me. “A character reference and sex. You’re the best friend ever.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DOES IT BOTHER her that her family is so eag
er to hook her up with husband material? That none of them believe she can do this on her own? Part of me is starting to wonder why no one considers me to be Mr. Hazel material, when in some respects we’re the most perfect of matches. We’re both driven workaholics. We both love our families, prize loyalty above all and take care of our people. We’re both here and all I can think is why not?

  Why not see where we can go?

  Why not stay together?

  Why not go back down the stairs and introduce ourselves as a couple?

  But that isn’t what Hazel wants. It’s not that she’s antimarriage or anticommitment. Despite her mother’s pressure-cooker expectations, she’s still looking for her perfect one and only. It’s just that she’s most definitely not looking at me. We’re each other’s wingmen at the bar, sitting back-to-back on our bar stools and pointing out hot singles to each other. Buying consolation drinks when those singles hurt us. Offering to exact bestie vengeance.

  Hazel’s watching me, her eyes moving over my face, down my arm, to where our fingers are tangled together. “I needed some space.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “This is good.” She slants that secretive, catlike Hazel smile at me, the one that says she’s happy and as relaxed as she gets, but that her brain is still moving a million miles a minute because Hazel never stops thinking. Even though we’re standing in the hallway of her childhood home, I want to kiss her. I want to keep standing here beside her because I like it. I like her.

  “I would apologize for my family, but someone will just say something else.” She grins at me. “Then we’ll be trapped in an endless loop of apologies and neither of us will be able to leave.”

  “We’d have to stand here forever.” I make a face of mock horror.

  “Champagne out of reach.”

  “Eternal sobriety.”

  Hazel laughs in agreement and then she pulls me toward her. Somehow we just fit together, side by side, arms around each other. Our arms know where to go.

  “They shouldn’t ask you to find me a date,” she says. “But fair warning—they’re not going to stop. They don’t think I can find someone on my own and they see you as the mother lode of bachelor recommendations.”

  This is my cue to give her shit for her lack of accomplishments in the husband-finding-and-landing sweepstakes. I’ve done it dozens if not hundreds of times before, and then she would always tease me back about being a homebody and a one-trick pony who was monogamous and middle-aged at seventeen. It’s a comfortable, familiar pattern...and it feels all wrong.

  “Why doesn’t it piss you off?”

  Hazel makes a frowny face, forehead puckering. “Getting mad wouldn’t be effective. I know I don’t need a husband, but it would make them happy. I’m not a people person and my relationship skills need work, so they’re just trying to be helpful. It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does.” I brush my mouth over hers. She’s the perfect height for kissing. “You’re not the problem, Hazel. You’re fucking amazing and anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve you.”

  The frown melts into suspicion. “My self-esteem is perfectly healthy, thank you. I don’t need compliments.”

  I nod even though I’m suddenly not so sure about that. “I’d demonstrate just how amazing you are, but we’re in your mother’s house.”

  “Oh.” Hazel brushes against me, specifically against a very happy-to-be-supportive part of me in my jeans. “That’s going to make an interesting brunch statement. How do you propose to fix this very large problem?”

  She leans up and nips my bottom lip, which predictably just makes the problem bigger.

  Conceding she has a point, I say, “Capital pricing models. Z test stats. Normal distributions.” When she looks at me quizzically, I say, “That’s what I’m going to be running in my head to make myself socially presentable.”

  “Nut,” Hazel says affectionately. “Does that actually work?”

  I’m fairly certain she’s asking in all seriousness. “Let’s run a test.”

  I pull her close to me, until my back’s against the wall, her body pressing into mine, and this time I kiss her. My kiss is hot and wet, wild and urgent, like there’s a mental countdown in my head of how many seconds we probably have before someone wanders down the hall and spots us. My hands cup her butt, lifting her up, and she reaches for me. Anyone could discover us, so it’s risky to keep kissing her, but I can’t stop.

  “Lift,” she groans against my mouth. And then before I can react, before I can do more than suck in a quick breath before she steals the air from me, she’s wrapping her legs around my waist. I cup her harder, lift her higher.

  I want this woman, I want all of her, so I kiss her like I mean it, trying to show her with my mouth, my tongue, how she makes me feel. She’s not a consolation prize in the dating sweepstakes—she’s the golden ticket, the brass ring on the merry-go-round, the first-place winner.

  And then I hear the voices. A woman’s voice, high and happy...and getting closer. I think it’s one of Hazel’s sisters, but either way it’s a wake-up call. I’m really not going to get caught kissing Hazel in her mother’s hallway. I pull back and let her slide down my body to her feet. We need a new plan—and an exit strategy.

  Hazel looks up at me, eyes narrowed, grin in place. “Downstairs bathroom, upstairs bathroom, guest bedroom. Choose quickly.”

  Then she smacks my butt.

  “Bossy.” I narrow my eyes at her. I love Hazel, but she’s never mastered boundaries. I have a moment of quiet panic; I didn’t say those words out loud, not quite, and it’s not as if I meant love love. Love is just one of those words you use, right? I mean, objectively, of course, I love Hazel. I love Max and Dev, too, although I have zero interest in getting either of them naked.

  A door opens and closes somewhere. Sister averted, but Hazel has more than one and we’re still in a very public spot.

  “Action-oriented. Decisive.” Hazel flaps her hands at me. “Stop waffling, Mr. Reed. This is a limited-time offer to get mostly naked with me, so shit or get off the pot.”

  God, the things she says. I laugh and capture her hand before it can land on my butt again.

  I grab her, slinging her over my shoulder in a fireman carry. It’s hardly dignified, but Hazel muffles a shriek of protest because we’ve both heard the new sounds coming from the other room—someone’s Mini-Me, one of Hazel’s many nieces and nephews, is rapidly approaching, belting out the words to a cartoon-show theme song. Now we really shouldn’t get caught kissing.

  That’s my excuse, at any rate.

  The truth? I haven’t had this much fun in ages. I discard the idea of the downstairs bathroom—its dimensions are a miserly three feet by five feet and fitting two people in there would be challenge enough without the logistics of undressing my Hazel surprise. Plus, toilets are gross. Whatever you’ve done in there, a million other people have also done. Sorry to spoil your fantasies, but it’s a fact—the unromantic 500,000 bacterial cells per square inch does not make for the hotness of potential discovery. The upstairs bathroom is larger but it’s full of her mother’s stuff—so that’s also a hard no, leaving the guest bedroom as our sole viable option. Done. “Bedroom,” I say.

  I take the stairs two at a time before we can be ambushed by any more family members. Hazel works her hands down the back of my jeans, cupping and squeezing my butt. I can’t see her face but I know the expression she’ll be wearing—happy, mischievous, focused. Hazel doesn’t believe in half measures.

  “Left,” she announces when I hit the top of the stairs and pause in the middle of the long hallway that stretches to the left and right of the stairs. “Third door down.”

  I walk-spring down the hallway, open the door and aim for the bed. Since the room’s not that much bigger than the downstairs powder room or a closet, it’s hard to miss. My knees bump the edge
of the mattress as I tumble Hazel onto it and twist around to close and lock the door.

  When I uncontort, Hazel’s just setting her phone on the tiny table beside the bed. “Timer,” she says.

  “Is there a prize for who comes fastest?”

  She looks interested for a second, but then shakes her head. “I project we have more than ten and less than twelve minutes before we’re missed. Grab a towel.”

  She points to the stack of clean towels dwarfing the minuscule dresser—Margie’s tiny house requires equally miniature furniture—and I do as ordered.

  “Are we committing kinky acts on this towel?” I unroll it as Hazel shifts to make room for me.

  “We can’t get the coverlet dirty.” Hazel reaches for me, tugging at my wrist. “Get naked and then get over here.”

  I’m surprised she doesn’t decide we need to do it up against the wall or on the floor. Still, I strip off my jeans and boxer briefs and let her pull me down onto the bed. I definitely don’t protest when she straddles me.

  And I know we’re in a hurry and that even if we weren’t, this is only temporary, but I still kiss her slow, a leisurely exploration of her mouth, our lips pressed together, angling for surer, deeper possession. I cup the back of her neck, pulling her closer. We’re equally good at this—giving, taking, sharing the electric heat that builds between us. As if we were both cold before, but now I’ve found the right person to warm me up and so has she. Not the one person, but right—and that’s more than good enough for me.

  She presses harder against me, her thighs gripping my hips, her hands cupping my face as she moves me where she needs me to be. Her touch is determined and eager and so fucking amazing. Like she knows exactly what she wants and I’m perfect. Like I’m exactly right for her.

  I kiss her harder, sliding my tongue over her bottom lip, tasting peaches and champagne, mint and something else that’s entirely Hazel. Hazel opens up and we kiss like that for long, stolen moments, filling the bedroom with husky, rough sounds and naked need. If I could eat her up, I would. She feels...effervescent, like the bright fizz of the champagne we drank—sweet and sharp, a fleeting, impossible-to-capture pleasure.