Make Me Lose

by Leigh, Ember

  “It’s pretty tense at the house.” I love how interested she is in this information. And most people who grew up with us would be. Kinsley Cabana is practically the Juliet Capulet to Connor’s Romeo Montague. Except they’re not sixteen—they’re in their mid-twenties and consenting adults. Even if my parents and Kinsley’s parents would rather die than have their offspring mating.

  “Connor brought back…Kinsley?” She’s practically shouting. “How—?”

  “They both live in San Francisco,” I explain, “and apparently started dating out there. But I don’t know. The whole thing smells fishy to me.”

  Hazel is gaping at me.

  “They’re staying at the house together. I see them every morning, eating oatmeal like a pair of octogenarians.”

  “I can’t believe this,” she whispers.

  “Come on. Help my mom stave off heartbreak. Make my dad slightly more tolerable. Be my realtor.”

  Hazel’s head drops to the cushion behind her, and she scowls. “Fine. But you need to leave.”

  Frustration and doubt crash through me. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she wants to pursue this as much as I do, but that one percent of doubt is a vast ocean. Maybe that’s not sexual tension I’m smelling; maybe this is real-life exasperation.

  Maybe I’ve been trapped in my own New York work bubble so long I’ve forgotten what it’s like to engage in consensual flirting. Even with a thorn bush like Hazel.

  Walk out of here. Walk out of here now. It’s dangerous being this close to her, and I need to leave before I really do something stupid. Like ask her if I can push my fingers under those pretty purple bathing suit bottoms. My cock twitches just thinking about it.

  “Great.” I squeeze her ankle before I come to my feet. She looks panicked, but only for a second. “We can talk more about it at your office on Monday. Feels really good to have you on board.”

  She sighs, crossing her legs.

  “You good here?” I prop my hands on my hips, scanning the room. “Or do you need more help tending your loser wounds?”

  And then Hazel cocks her head at me, eyes shrinking to slits.

  But I see the things she’s trying to hide the most.

  Like the start of a smile on those pretty lips.

  Chapter 7

  HAZEL

  I’m not going to admit how many times I came on Saturday and Sunday, imagining Grayson while my vibrator worked overtime.

  It would be embarrassing. I should add, though, that it was the best weekend I’ve spent by myself in a long time.

  His electric touch has always been dangerous, but when he touches my sweet spot? Forget it. I don’t know how he made it out of my house with his dick intact. I was a breath away from claiming it for my own. It’s been too damn long—I’m the first to admit that—but with the gorgeous wall of Grayson tempting me like that, practically demanding action from me?

  I may be bitter and jaded, but I’m still all woman.

  And honestly, I’m not mad that he plans to come in today. I’m refining my approach now. He wants to take this into sexual territory, then I can play his game. I’ll lift my boobs so high they touch my chin. My heels will double as pole barn beams. I am about to be every man’s fantasy, and I can’t wait for him to see me and not have me.

  I’m humming to myself as I prepare myself for my workday. I wake up at the crack of dawn because I thrive in the morning hours and I love watching the sunrise. I get testy if I miss one—it sets the wrong tone for the day.

  Once I’m suited up—ruffly, lowcut blouse, form-fitting skirt, glossy black heels—and at the office, I work and watch the clock in equal measure. Wondering when he’ll finally strut in. Whether or not he’ll bring his hand to the back of my knee and turn my body into an aching pool of desire.

  I squeeze my thighs together. I get a few calls early, and an unexpected visit from the newspaper delivery lady. Hours tick by.

  And then finally—blessedly—he arrives. I spot him as he’s parking across the street in a shiny black VW, the type of car you don’t see in these parts too often. I go rigid as he steps out, sunglasses on, his tall, wide frame covered in a sexy black-on-black suit.

  I whip my attention back to my computer. I can feel him approaching inside my bones. He’s getting closer. Closer. Yes. Come into the office, Grayson! I am lassoing him in my mind’s eye.

  Except the bells never jingle with his arrival. I look up, glancing down the long line of windows. No Grayson. Not out front, trapped in conversation with our very chatty mailman who has trapped everyone in the middle of a big hurry. Not down the sidewalk of Water Street, which hugs my office. He’s gone. Freaking gone.

  I push to standing and head to the window to further inspect what I can see of downtown. It would be wrong to go outside and start searching for him, but I want to.

  Sighing, I pace the far wall of my office. This is the sign I needed—I’m going crazy. This needs to stop. Immediately.

  I jump when the bell jingles. I whip around. Grayson stands in the doorway, blowing on an open cup of coffee.

  “Oh,” I say, unnerved that my legs threaten to completely give way. Like they’re made of Jell-O. Like they are traitorous limbs that need to be removed, lest they be associated with Grayson Daly.

  “Morning,” he says, breezing toward me. He sets a second coffee cup—with a lid—on the desk without a word. He sinks into the seat facing my desk. I swallow hard, but my mouth has gone dry. I can’t tell if this is a Trojan horse or a peace offering. Either one is unacceptable.

  “Why are you dressed like that?” I go through some mail on the top of my desk. I don’t look at him. Strictly speaking, it’s not wise to. One glance at him in the doorway and he’d robbed me of my vital energy. He’s like a vampire, but without the sinking teeth. His gaze alone cuts deeper than any fangs and drains important energy better than any Dracula ever could.

  He clears his throat, and that’s when I notice. Something’s off about him. He sets his coffee down, something haunted in his gaze. “Funeral’s later.”

  I bite at the inside of my cheek. “Shit. Sorry, Gray.”

  He shrugs. “Is something wrong with the way I’m dressed?”

  “No, no.” I lean against the edge of my desk, frowning. “It’s perfect for a funeral.”

  “So what’s your excuse for how you’re dressed?”

  I blink, slowly turning to face him. I cannot believe he said that. Or that he returned the same tone I used with him.

  “Do you have a problem with the way I’m dressed?”

  His heated gaze skates over me. The tension spikes between us. I think I have proof that my evil plan is working. I decide to test it further. To gather evidence. For science.

  “I’m wearing a simple, plain skirt,” I say, crossing my arms right under my boobs. His jaw flexes. “A very normal, conservative shirt.”

  “Conservative,” he repeats.

  I cross my legs, grateful that my skirt was already riding high, and now half my damn thigh is exposed. I perch on the edge of my desk, daring him to admit that I look good. “I would call this look professional chic.” I kick up a leg, turning my foot around to admire the heel. “Do you like my shoes?”

  He sighs tersely, shifting in his seat. “Look a little high for someone recovering from a water ski crash. Though I think I’ve seen them at the dollar store before.”

  A laugh rockets out of me. Probably not the reaction he expected. “Okay, pal. Insult my designer shoes. I’m so offended. Do you want me to start talking shit about your German car out there? Is that the next step in this?”

  “Insult my brand-new car and there will be consequences,” he says, a sexy edge to his voice.

  “Don’t talk about my clothes then.”

  “Fine.”

  I pop to my feet. “Fine.” I come around to the back of the desk, feeling both frustrated and resolved. I want more of him; I just don’t know how to get it. I think the solution has something to do with that frustr
atingly nice appendage between his legs. “Let’s get a move on. I have a one o’clock appointment that I can’t miss.”

  Grayson sits up, rummaging in his inside jacket pocket. He pulls out his phone and answers a call. His face turns stony, and all the air in the room goes taut.

  “Do I need to remind you,” he begins, a testy edge to his voice I haven’t heard before, “that I’m on vacation?” I try not to appear too interested as he takes the call, stacking folders that don’t need attention.

  “No,” he snaps after a long period of silence. “You handle it. And if you call me again today, I’ll cut your pay.”

  Grayson pockets the phone a moment later, glancing up at me. “What?” he asks.

  “Wow. I didn’t know you could be even more unpleasant than you already are.”

  He stands up, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. “It would be nice to have employees who could respect the one day of the year that I need to be unavailable.”

  The sentiment behind his words softens me slightly. He’s in mourning, which makes his assholiness even assholier. “Aren’t you on vacation?”

  “Vacation means something else in New York. It means I’m working, just not physically present.” Grayson runs a hand through his hair, tension straining at his jaw. Whatever his job is over there, he doesn’t love it.

  I’m not sure what to say. If he were anybody else, I’d try to console him. Learn more about his life. Maybe find ways to make it better, like a hug or offering a shoulder. But I can’t treat Grayson like any old person. He’s my enemy. I must be alert.

  “Find a job you love and you won’t work a day in your life,” I say, heading toward the door. It’s unhelpful and I know it. He follows behind me, and I lock up the office. It’s a beautiful, sunny spring day. A breeze lifts my hair, bringing the tip of my long ponytail over my shoulder.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  “Meet you there?” I ask, jerking my chin toward his car across the street.

  “I’m driving.”

  I glance down the street where my American-made care is waiting for me. Honestly, his car is sexier. I’d love to check out the interior. “You sure you can tolerate having me in that confined space for five minutes?”

  He pulls out his keys and unlocks the door. The VW beeps softly in response. “I think I can manage.”

  My heels click over the asphalt of the road as we head to his car. Grayson slides into the driver’s seat, and I come around to the other side. I’m already squeezing my thighs together. This is my weakness—a sexy man with a sexy car. Add in that suit, and I’m a goner. I should have insisted I drive separately.

  Inside, the car is immaculate. A well-kept car is an insane turn-on. The engine roars to life, and I can tell he’s got a non-standard engine under the hood. I roll my lips inward, the backs of my thighs loving the feel of the soft leather.

  “Nice car,” I mutter, reaching for the seatbelt. “You drive this in New York?”

  He jerks his head to say no as he backs out of the spot and pulls into the street. “She spends most of her time in the parking garage. I get her out mostly to take road trips.”

  “Hmm.” I keep my hands in my lap, though really I want to touch every inch of the interior. The inside even smells like him. Like if a cedar tree and a cologne bottle had a baby. My head is swirling by the time we pull up to his grandma’s house.

  I go into Realtor mode as soon as the car shuts off. Curb appeal stands out first. The front yard is a disaster. Landscaping totally weeded over. The front step up to the dilapidated porch is broken, cement pieces crumbled off to the side. Grayson leads the way to the front door and pushes inside.

  The house is empty, and it’s obvious it’s sat that way for a long time. Cobwebs have gathered in the corners of the ceiling. The natural light is great, but the whole place looks like it’s fresh from a 70s catalog.

  “When was the last time anyone lived here?” I ask.

  “I think the 80s,” Grayson says, scuffing along behind me as I poke around all the downstairs rooms. My whole backside sizzles. I wonder if he’s staring at me. I glance over my shoulder; his gaze is waiting for me. An expectant shiver runs down my spine as I recall the intensity of his touch on my couch the other day.

  I shouldn’t want more of that, but I do. It’s the only thing I want anymore, and it doesn’t make sense.

  “Can we go upstairs?” I ask.

  He leads the way, our footsteps clunking up the wooden staircase. Upstairs, the hallways are a bit dark. Things feel closed in. My skin prickles as I imagine a skylight going in. That would give the place a major refresh. He could do a hundred tiny things to make this place more desirable to the average buyer. And about a million more that I could suggest to suit my own personal tastes. I don’t know if he cares enough to make the most basic changes, though.

  “It’s really a cute house,” I finally say, after the brief tour of the bedrooms. We’re paused in the master bedroom, looking out at the tree-lined street. Cute is an understatement. It’s the house I wish I’d bought, with its wraparound porch and tree-shaded backyard. I love my house—I really do. This house would be so fun to fix up. “Obviously the location is amazing.”

  “So what do you think you can get for it?” He rests his palm on the wood trim around the window, rustling something around in his pants pocket as he stares out to the street below.

  “Well, that really depends on what sort of updates have been done. I’m talking water heater, roof…” I use my pen to point out the hot water radiator sticking out from the wall. “That right there is not a great selling point. They get hot; people get burned. You get a family with three kids under five looking to buy, and there’s a serious issue with safety suddenly.”

  Grayson looks annoyed. He swings to face me. “Okay. So what can I get for it?”

  I sigh, running my fingertips over my hairline. “Ballpark? Probably three-fifty. But that’s strictly based on location and the current market. You’d probably be driven down by a savvy buyer who recognizes that the purchase of this house means redoing the heating and roof. I’d say a realistic closing price might be around three hundred.”

  Grayson works his jaw back and forth, his eyes made of pure storms. “That’s not what I want to hear.”

  “You wanted me as your real estate agent; I’m not going to lie to you.”

  “The lake is a block away,” he says, gesturing north.

  “But the house has been abandoned since the 80s.”

  He sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. He takes a few paces across the room, then swivels my way again. “I need that number to be higher. Much higher.”

  “The more buyer-ready you make this house, the better the price you’ll get for it,” I say, shrugging. “Some small but important renovations could really jack the price up on this one. My recommendation would be to do as many renovations as possible. But you can sell it as-is, of course.”

  Grayson doesn’t look enthused about this information.

  “Truth is…this area in tourism season is hot,” I go on. “You’ve got thousands of visitors streaming in daily because of the amusement park in the next town over. Why don’t you want the property? You could do so much with it.”

  And it’s true. I’m seeing dollar signs everywhere I look. Not only the dollar signs that go into my pocket from the sale of this house, but the potential of it. He could turn it into a trendy home share. I can already envision the cute little wooden sign on the wall that says Lake. Sunset. Wine. Repeat. The houndstooth bathmats with a fake fern in the corner.

  It would be incredibly fun to turn this into a rental property. And it’s something I’d take on myself, if I had a fraction of free time, or, I don’t know, a partner who could keep up with me.

  “Are you serious?” Grayson asks, the acid practically dripping from his mouth. “Owning property in Bayshore is the last thing I want to do with my life. I fought for eighteen years to get away from
here—and now that I’m out, I’m never anchoring myself here again.”

  I roll my lips inward, all the sexiness that had accumulated over the weekend dissolving in a weak puff.

  “Bayshore has changed a lot since we were kids,” I say, feeling like I should defend Bayshore, even though it’s pointless. Grayson’s position is clear.

  “Maybe so. But it’s still Bayshore. Way too small for what I want to do with my life.”

  I clench my teeth, fighting back the slew of retorts that come to mind. Getting into it with him right now is not the wise choice. I need to capitalize on his desire to sell his house, make my money, and move on.

  But still, I feel like Grayson is fundamentally wrong about our hometown. I don’t understand why he hates it so much. Maybe he doesn’t either. I shouldn’t spend a second longer wanting to change this man.

  Besides, what am I thinking? That the sparks I felt over the weekend might catch fire and grow into something bigger, something more satisfying?

  I realize right then that I’ve been deluding myself, if on a very abstract, unaware level. That’s where all the best delusion occurs, after all. Part of me was hopeful that Grayson might actually prove to be a breath of fresh air. That unexpected romance I’ve been craving. That equal-witted partner I’ve only dreamed about during my adulthood.

  But no. He’s none of that.

  He’s just the same competitive, unhappy asshole he’s always been.

  Except now? Unhappier. Even more of an asshole.

  And that is the last thing I need in my life.

  Chapter 8

  GRAYSON

  Funerals suck. It’s a universal fact. Maybe you don’t care about the relative or long-lost friend that much, or maybe you do—either way, funerals turn into a pressure cooker of emotions and nostalgia, and everyone loses their goddamn minds.

  I’m no exception. The second I step into the big, Catholic church in the center of town, my dark mood turns black. Like black hole-level black. Nothing escaping its clutches. Thankfully, people are supposed to be quiet in churches, which means avoiding eye contact and conversation. Sign me up.