by Anne Marsh
“Plus, we’re not together. You’re not my secret anything. If you need me to define the word done, I can do that. We had sex. I can write your penis a poem if you’re feeling insecure.”
“It was amazing.”
“You’ve had amazing sex before, Jack.” She smacks me on the chest. “So have I. It’s not a big deal.”
“It is to me.”
“This is what I get for being selfish.”
“Excuse me?”
Her eyes narrow. Danger.
“I wanted you, so I took you. I mean, have you looked at yourself? You’re a big, built Viking look-alike. How could I not want you? And then you and Molly split up and I saw my chance. I sat on your desk.” She waves toward the wall separating our offices. “I suggested we have sex and you looked like the idea had never crossed your mind once.”
There’s no good answer to that.
Hazel shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. What’s your pitch?”
It does matter. It matters more than anything. I resist the urge to punch my laptop or do something equally stupid. Hazel makes it sound as if we’re completely in the past, which is bad. I don’t want to be her one-and-done before I can even ask her for a second chance. I turn, keeping my arm around her waist, and punch the key that starts my slide deck.
The start-up of Jack and Hazel.
Jack and Hazel 2.0
“I want a second chance. No. I want a first chance at us.” I wish I knew what she was thinking as she studies my slide, but I’m pitching blind here. “I screwed up big-time. I thought I didn’t want a relationship, that what I wanted was just sex with my best friend.”
She pulls away and drops into her chair. I hate that she’s putting that distance between us. “You made me feel like crap, Jack.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wanted a chance at us. I knew you’d never make a move, so I made it for you. And then you made it very clear—on multiple occasions—that you were perfectly happy sticking with the just-sex plan.”
“I was a dick. I didn’t mean it.”
“But you said it.”
She leans back in her chair, her expression pissed off and beautiful—and hurt. I hate so much that I’ve put that look on her face. I adjust my plan...and abandon it.
“Look. I have a slide deck. I have an Excel spreadsheet. I have a well-thought-out plan.” I slam the lid on the laptop and lob it into Hazel’s trash can. “I could give you numbers. Reasons. Plans. Hell, I’ll do my best to give you romance, too, but there’s only one reason I’m here and that’s to fix us. Give me a chance.”
Hazel stares at me for a long moment. I can’t read my chances on her face. And then she stands up and sets her hands on my shoulder. Her mouth brushes over mine, once, twice. For the best moment, I think I’ve won.
Until she steps back. “You’re fired, Jack.”
And then she leaves.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I ONCE TOLD Hazel that marriage was like Mount Everest. At most, you summit it once in a lifetime. It turns out I was wrong. Sure, it’s not for the faint of heart or the out of shape. You do need to watch out for avalanches and bad weather and, yeah, most of the guys climbing that particular mountain plan to do it just once. But there are exceptions. It turns out that thousands of climbers have done it more than once—and done it successfully. Plus, the Sherpa guides climb up and down it all the time like it’s a goddamn StairMaster. If they can do it, so can I.
Two weeks after Hazel shoots down my pitch, I have a new plan. I’m the king of plans. I’m going to climb and I’m not going to stop until I reach the top. Hazel’s worth fighting for. So, new plan?
1. Design mountaineering training program. We have a shit ton of mountains in California—I can climb them all and write a bestselling book about whatever epiphany I achieve on their peaks.
2. Build my physical conditioning by schlepping enormous packs around at perfectly reasonable elevations so I survive high-altitude sickness when I finally reach Everest.
3. Strength train.
4. Run fucking everywhere.
5. Work on my flexibility. Yeah. There’s a life lesson there.
6. Shell out a ton of cash and book my climb.
I can’t wait to get started. To start my climb—to finally be doing something to fix the mess I’ve made of my life.
One advantage of living in Santa Cruz is that we have a ton of things to climb. Today I’m staring down a watershed full of granite crags. The baby crags are a mere fifteen feet, while the one I’m about to tackle stretches fifty feet into the air. There’s a line up the steep face.
It’s a pretty day, all sunshine and birds, and the only thing missing is a singing cartoon princess and maybe a baby fawn. Everest is going to be a whole lot colder and more crowded—have you seen the lines to summit? The top is more crowded than the BART train platform at rush hour. I start my climb, moving methodically up from one handhold to the next. Right now, I’ve got this, all my focus on the next step and then the next step after that one.
“Are you insane?”
I swing around, losing my grip.
Hazel glares up at me from the base of the crag.
* * *
In the brief second it takes me to fall ten feet, I get an eyeful of Hazel. Her hair’s slicked back in that tight little knot she loves, emphasizing her cheekbones and the dramatic slash of her eyebrows. Her gray T-shirt emphasizes the sweet vee between her breasts and is tied up over a pair of black leggings. She’s wearing hiking boots that seem far more practical than the little black leather backpack slung over her shoulder. I have just enough time to appreciate that she looks fucking amazing before I crash-land on the ground at her feet.
I suck in a breath. Ouch. My lungs still work, though the rest of my body is seriously unhappy. “Am I dead?”
“Jesus. I hope not.” Hazel’s face comes into focus above me. Bonus—there are three of her.
“Because I sure think I see an angel.”
“What the fuck, Reed?” Hazel straddles me. I’m not sure that’s an approved medical tactic, but parts of me perk right up. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m climbing.” I’m disavowing all knowledge of how it happens, but my hands curl around Hazel’s hips.
“You fell, you moron.”
“You surprised me.”
She slaps a hand on the ground next to my head. “What was the big plan?”
“I was thinking I’d climb to the top of Everest and then I’d send you a message.”
“News flash. This is not the Himalayas.” Hazel pats me with her hands. I’m not sure if she’s checking for broken bones or frisking me for hidden weapons. It’s a good thing I don’t have a Florence Nightingale fantasy because Hazel’s not much of a nurse.
“I know that.” I reach up and pat the first part of her that I can reach. Fortunately for my health, it’s her shoulder. “I’m practicing. You have to work up to these things, so I’m starting small here, and then I’ll climb the really, really big stuff in the Himalayas.”
Hazel rolls her eyes. “You’re such an ocean boy. The whole message-in-a-bottle thing works best if you have water.”
“It would make a great story. I could spell out ‘I love Hazel’ in the snow.”
“I love you? You’re going to hike five-plus miles in life-threatening conditions and that’s the sum total of your message?”
“I was going to add ten reasons why,” I say, “but yeah, that’s the executive summary. There’s not a whole lot of room on the top of Everest, so I may need to abridge.”
I pull her down on top of me. Carefully.
“Mmm-hmm. And how would I know you’d done that, seeing as how you didn’t invite me on this trip?”
I slide my arms around her. God, she feels amazing. “It turns out there’s surpri
singly good cell phone reception there for being on a 29,000-foot mountain. I could take a picture from the base camp.”
I think she’s trying not to laugh. “The base camp’s not the top.”
“I’m sorry.” She freezes, but she doesn’t leave, so I say it again. “I’m so sorry, Hazel.”
“Say it again.”
“Which part? That I’m sorry?” Because I am. I’m so, so sorry.
“I’ll give you a hint,” she says. “I say ‘I love you, Jack.’ What do you say?”
“That I’m the luckiest bastard in the world.”
Someone erases the distance between us, and our mouths meet. I missed you. It’s cautious at first, both of us waiting to see what the other does. I’m sorry. I love you. Do you love me? And then I palm the back of her neck and she works her fingers through my hair, and we yank each other closer. She tastes so fucking good, just like I remembered. Hot, wet, one thousand percent Hazel. How did I ever think I could walk away from this woman?
“I love you.” My delivery isn’t great. I’m hoarse, out of breath, pulling her so close to me that it’s probably illegal in a half-dozen states. I’d much rather show her how I feel about her than use my words. Which is why I kiss her again.
And again.
At some point we have to come up for air. I can’t stop touching her, holding her against me as I reacquaint myself with her bare skin. And her mouth, her smile, her heart.
She cups my face in her hands, making me look at her. “Were you really going to climb Everest?”
Remember that new plan? Whatever it takes?
I fish my phone out of my pocket—it’s looking a little the worse for wear thanks to my landing on it—and show her the tickets. Two first-class tickets. “I have a date and everything. You want to come with me?”
“To spend two months climbing a frozen ice mountain where people die?”
“It sounds really romantic, doesn’t it?”
She leans down and kisses me. Is that a yes? Or a not-a-chance-in-hell? “I have a better idea. After we get you to a doctor, I have tickets to Paris. I could use a date—there’s a Marie Antoinette exhibit at the Louvre and I might possibly have made a substantial donation so we can borrow a dress.”
Hot. Damn.
There’s one flaw in that plan.
“Marie Antoinette didn’t have a happy ending.”
Hazel grins at me. “Then we’ll make up a new story. A hot, kinky love story about two best friends who get it on and fall in love.”
“I love you.” I pull her down onto my chest and wrap my arms around her tight. “This is going to be one of those indissoluble partnerships.”
“I love you, too.” Her mouth curls up in a smile. “I might love you most, Viking man. What do you have to say about that?”
“I love you so much. Challenge accepted.”
* * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from At Your Service by A.C. Arthur.
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At Your Service
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CHAPTER ONE
LET’S DO THIS.
Whispering the mantra as she stepped out of the ladies’ room, Nina smoothed her palms down the front of her navy-blue pencil skirt. With her portfolio tucked under one arm and her black leather purse hanging on the opposite shoulder, she walked easily in four-inch black pumps. Until she turned the corner and collided with something hard and delicious-smelling.
Her portfolio hit the ground as she threw her hands up and felt a strong grip on her upper arms.
“Whoa, there.”
His voice was deep but smooth and made her feel like warm water was streaming down her body, easing to her core.
“Sorry,” she mumbled with a shake of her head.
Nina pulled out of his grasp and went down on her knees to snap up the pages that had escaped from her folder. As if in rebellion, or just because they wanted her to look like a complete idiot, the papers had scattered across the dark-carpeted floor a distance away from where she was standing.
“Here, let me help,” he was saying, but Nina didn’t reply.
And she didn’t look up, just continued to gather the wayward sheets, cursing herself and what had been a horrific start to this very important day. Clutching a handful of pages, she started to stand when her purse decided to slip from her shoulder. Oh no, I’m not dropping anything else today. She lifted her hands and caught the bag as Mr. Helpful came closer.
Anxious to just get this uncomfortable encounter over with and to make it to the meeting she was already in danger of being late for, Nina glanced up to meet his gaze. Warm root beer–brown eyes stared back at her while lips of medium thickness parted slightly as if he were ready to speak again. His words were halted when her hands took that moment to continue moving upward, brushing over this gorgeous guy’s pants on the way.
No, not just his pants but his...
Nina’s jaw dropped, heat immediately fusing her cheeks as her eyes widened and she yanked her hands back against her chest so hard she almost lost her breath.
“Are you all right?”
Hell no!
Nina was on her way to a meeting that would make or break her business and she was standing here touching a man she didn’t know. A man who was the epitome of tall, bronzed, handsome and apparently very aroused.
“I’m fine,” she managed to croak and then cleared her throat. Stuffing the papers under her arm, she reached for the black case he held. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Can I help you get your belongings together?”
“No. Really. I have it. It’s no problem,” she said because the problem was obviously her. Or it could have been the train from York to Manhattan that was late because something had spilled on the tracks, or the gigantic rip in her stockings from when she’d slid across the torn seat of the taxi upon finally arriving at the Ronald Gold Fashions headquarters. Either way, this day was not getting better.
Nina stepped around the man, hoping he wouldn’t say anything else to her. She walked as quickly as she could without running and
appearing more like a crazy person. Not knowing exactly where she was going, she continued down the long hallway, turning the moment she saw an opening on the right and then moving just as fast in that direction.
Her phone buzzed and she stopped to dig into her purse to retrieve it.
“Hey, Angie,” she answered after seeing her sister’s name on the screen.
“Hey. I won’t be able to run past Dad’s tonight to check on him and Daisy’s got a photo shoot so she doesn’t think she’ll get there until after eight.”
Nina closed her eyes as her fingers tightened on the phone. She didn’t scream the way she wanted to because everything that could go wrong today had already gone wrong. She inhaled deeply once more and let the breath out slowly before replying. “I’m in New York for a meeting, as I told everyone at dinner last night. I won’t be back until tomorrow morning. So somebody’s gonna have to go over there and make sure Dad takes his medications as directed and doesn’t end up passed out on the floor.”
It was, to Nina, as simple as that. But to her sisters what she’d just said wouldn’t make any sense. Younger than her by four and six years, Angie and Daisy were so used to Nina taking care of everything—from their father to them when they were young girls—that the idea of doing some of the grown-up heavy lifting was too much for them to fathom. They’d much rather continue to dump it all on Nina’s shoulders. Well, not today.
“I thought you were coming back tonight,” Angie argued.
“No. I changed my mind. I don’t get away from home often so I’m going to spend the evening in New York. I told you that also, in the reminder text I sent earlier when I was on my way to the train station.” Nina lifted a hand to touch her hair, double-checking to make sure it was smooth and neat after her run-in with the hot guy.