Make Me Lose

by Leigh, Ember

  Inside, the smell of cumin and floor cleaner greets me. Ms. Singh is a self-proclaimed incorrigible vegetarian, and the smell of her veggie creations have permeated this storefront for decades now.

  “Grayson,” she drawls as I come inside, my boat shoes scuffing over the dirty linoleum. “It’s good to see you back.”

  I extend my arms for a hug. She’s a squat and squishy woman, made of pure love and wry humor. And, of course, cuminy vegetables.

  “I’ll be around for another few weeks,” I tell her. “Then it’s back to NYC for me.”

  “Pity,” she says, grabbing a dishtowel. “Bayshore needs more men like you. So many new arrivals around here recently. Nobody cares about Ms. Singh’s store like you and your brothers.”

  It’s true—we probably supported her throughout the 90s based on our gum and magazine purchases alone. Now, though, I’m here for more sophisticated things.

  Like wine and whiskey.

  “You know that this is my only stop when I’m in town,” I promise her. “Don’t Weston and Maverick come around?”

  “Oh, Maverick’s in here basically every day,” she laughs. “Weston stops by occasionally. When he’s not jumping trains or whatever it is he does out west.”

  I lift a brow. Apparently, nobody knows what Weston does, or he really is a secret jack of all trades. “Out west?”

  “Yeah. He did some mining thing in Nevada…?” She waves her hand. “I’m not sure. It’s hard to keep up with him.”

  That’s the truth. I make a note to bring this up later. If Weston went west, maybe he met up with Connor. I feel like this might make my mom feel better. And I’m trying to gather all the feel-good tidbits possible.

  I peruse her famed wall of liquor and wine. I get the most expensive bottle of whiskey she has, as well as her best bottle of dry red. Something from California. She rings me up and throws in a pack of gum for free. For old times’ sake.

  With the sunset blazing at my back, I walk away from the lake and back into the neighborhood, swerving toward the next street over from my mom’s house. The farther I walk, the more my heart rate picks up. I shouldn’t be this nervous—I’m a twenty-eight-year-old professional bachelor for God’s sake. I could use Tinder while in a coma. But the closer I get to Hazel’s house, the louder my heart hammers.

  It’s because this is scandalous—and I know it. These bottles of alcohol are an olive branch. The last time I offered one of those—the metaphorical olive branch, not rum—we ended up dating.

  It’s just that Hazel is the only person I want to be around, even with all the barbs and the spitfire and the heavy history. There’s something reassuring in our rivalry. And I need it more now than ever.

  I start whistling once her house is in view, as if trying to convince myself that everything is fine on my insides. I can already see her brow arching up into the clouds. Questioning my presence. Stepping aside to let me in. Regarding me with that sexy suspicion that will melt away into certainty and passion.

  The bottles clink together in my arms a bit as I step up the brick path to her front door. Everything is as neat and appealing as the last time I saw it. I knock three times on the front door and swallow the last bit of my nervousness. Hazel can’t catch a whiff of it, or she’ll seize it to her advantage.

  We might have spent the last ten years apart, but I still know this woman like the back of my hand.

  The door doesn’t open. It didn’t occur to me that she might not be home. I check my phone—almost nine p.m. The late sunsets of early summer are particularly magical, and I feel like I’m on stolen time. Just as I raise my fist to knock again, the door opens.

  Hazel is in front of me suddenly, her cinnamon hair pulled back from her face, a few wisps loose and wild. She looks at me with an expression that is so pure, so honestly confused, that for a moment I am taken aback. I have no words. I have no response. I can only take her in.

  “Hazel,” I finally muster. My gaze has trekked across her face thirty thousand times in the ten seconds we’ve been staring at each other. And God, I want more.

  “Gray?” she asks, her brows knitting together.

  And that’s when I notice the interior of her house. The slight movement behind her. I don’t know what pulled at my attention, only that when I look up, I see she’s not alone.

  Hazel has company. And he goes by Bryce.

  “What are you doing here? Is everything okay?” she asks. I catch a whiff of her scent, the orange blossom and floral musk that has begun to haunt my dreams.

  I force my gaze off Bryce and back to her. I tighten my grip around the necks of the bottles in the paper bag. “Yeah. I, uh…I was walking by and thought I’d say hello.”

  Each heartbeat reinforces my disappointment. The implicit rejection of finding her here with him. I have no reason to be jealous. No reason to be angry. Yet I am. I’m so fucking jealous I could haul him off by the collar and make sure he leaves her alone for good. Heat flashes through my limbs. The paper bag crinkles beneath my grip.

  “I don’t want to bother you though,” I hurry to add, hoping my face doesn’t betray an ounce of the devastation trembling inside me. “Just thought…you know.” I flash a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. My legs are carrying me away. This is retreat mode.

  “Well—” she begins.

  But I’m already halfway down the path, and halfway decided to chuck the bottles against the sidewalk. I had everything planned in my head. Hey Hazel, let’s spend the evening together. Netflix and dry red, amirite? Or Netflix and whiskey. You pick. But it must involve Netflix. And heavy groping.

  My mind buzzes as I head for the next street over, as fast as I can go without breaking into a run. I might duck away from her house in an embarrassed dash, but hell if I’ll look as desperate as I feel. Once I hit the next block, some of the tension in my shoulders lessens and I can think again.

  And what hits me is the disappointment. Not in her—in myself.

  Finding her there with Bryce shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. Because I still carry this stupid torch for Hazel. No amount of denying it or ignoring it made it disappear over ten years. That’s clearer than ever now.

  And once again, old habits die hard. Hazel picked someone else. Someone lesser. Someone not as good looking, not as successful, not as smart.

  I know that she has no reason to pick me. But fuck, I want her to. I’ve always wanted her to. Back then, I would have done anything to get her to pick me, and still she chose someone else. Even changed schools to get away from me.

  This feels like an unnecessary rehash of something I should have learned eons ago.

  And you know what? It’s time to learn the lesson.

  I’m done carrying this torch.

  Time to burn it and bury it.

  Chapter 10

  HAZEL

  The front door shuts with a final click. Signaling the end of the opportunity I’d been secretly craving since age nineteen.

  “Was that the asshole from the boat the other day?” Bryce asks.

  My mouth flops open like a dead fish. I am as stunned as if Jason Momoa had stopped by my house on a whim. In fact, I previously thought there was a greater likelihood of Jason Momoa showing up over Grayson on a goodwill mission.

  “Yeah.” I nibble on my lip and return to the couch. That brief flash of Grayson is all I need to help me make up my mind.

  My evening had been bombarded by two unexpected male visitors. First, Bryce, who’d walked me home from a group dinner with friends and was making his moves to try to spend the night.

  And now, Gray, the fireball from left field.

  “What’s his deal?” Bryce asks, stretching out on the couch. He’d not-so-subtly invited me into his arms no fewer than five times.

  “I honestly don’t know.” I curl up on the farthest edge of the couch from him, studying my cuticles as I talk. “He’s probably just lonely and looking for someone to bother.”

  “Glad they didn’t invite him
to the dinner tonight,” Bryce scoffs.

  I try to muster my agreement, but the comment makes me sad. Grayson should have been there. He would have had a good time. Hell, I even missed him a little. Part of me wonders what it might be like to have him back in the group. My forearms light up with goosepimples imagining it.

  For as much as it burns, I want the fireball.

  “So, what, you two were friends back in the day?”

  “Hardly,” I say, voice sounding hollow. We were so much more than friends, and so much less. We’ve covered every notch on the spectrum between love and hate.

  “Yeah, I can tell. Dude doesn’t even know you. You know what he said about you on the boat?”

  My neck flushes hot, and I hazard a glance toward Bryce. This isn’t going to be good—the tense prickles in my shoulders warn me of it. “What?”

  “He said you were a lesbian.”

  I almost laugh, even though it’s so annoying. That’s Grayson, all right—up to his old tricks. Even ten years later. I shake my head.

  “Like he was trying to throw me off your tail, you know?” Bryce says. “Didn’t work on me, though.”

  “What’d you say to him?”

  “If you were a lesbian, well, better for me.” He laughs like he really got one over on Grayson. “I mean, if you’re into that, I know a couple girls we could invite over…”

  I blink dully at him, something about his response settling bulkily inside me. Like boulders plummeting to the bottom of the ocean, tugging the last of my respect for him along with them.

  It’s not the ménage aspect that irritates me—to each their own, seriously. But whatever it is glinting behind Bryce’s gaze reminds me that he’s not what I’m after. Not even in a bid to have someone on my arm at the Bicentennial Ball.

  Grayson might not be the best choice, but Bryce definitely isn’t. I don’t want him here. And maybe that’s what Gray did for me tonight—reminded me that this half-assed excuse for male company isn’t worth the effort.

  “I think it’s time for bed now,” I say, my voice flat. So there’s no question.

  “So early?” he asks.

  “Yeah. You should go.” I stand up and head toward the door. I pull it open and offer the plastic smile reserved for my least favorite clients. “Gotta get up early for work.”

  Bryce doesn’t say anything else and brushes past me. So much for that friend. The door thuds shut behind him, and I’m left in a churning mess of doubts.

  Grayson showing up blew the lid off all these suppressed thoughts I’ve been having about him. Maybe he’s got an ounce of these doubts too. I know how much of a gesture his showing up at my house must have been for him. I’m not stubborn enough to overlook that. And really, it makes me want to march over to his mom’s house and demand he return.

  But no. I’ve got more finesse than that.

  I spend the night going over my game plan. This deserves immediate action. And I know exactly where to begin.

  Early the next morning, I’m curling my hair against the backdrop of a blue-gray dawn right before it explodes into daffodil sunrise, counting the minutes before I can text Grayson.

  I’ve rummaged up his number from my work database. The text has been typed out and ready to go since last night. My shoulders are tense from waiting, and I honestly think I’m going to explode. I pore over my outfit choices, settling on a high-waisted black skirt coupled with a ruffled blouse. I add a fake flower to my hair for good measure—a pinch of tropical in my otherwise business-casual attire. I smile at my reflection, asking the woman in the mirror the question that’s burned through me for the past week: What do you want with Grayson?

  I still can’t answer it, not even after I breeze into my office and hit SEND on the text that’s been waiting for twelve hours. I know that I want something from him. More than that, I need it.

  HAZEL: Can you be at the house today @ 4:30?

  Grayson’s response comes about fifteen minutes later.

  GRAY: Why?

  HAZEL: Interested buyer, I think you being there will help the walk-through.

  GRAY: Not a big house, can’t get lost.

  HAZEL: History helps sell a home.

  GRAY: You know the history of the house as well as I do.

  I nibble on my lip as I reread his responses. I expected this. I’d seen the dejection flash across his face when he walked away last night. Grayson doesn’t take well to failing at anything.

  God, is it wrong to feel bad for him? I want to scoop him against my chest and reassure him that I actually would have massively preferred to spend the evening with him, exploring the contents of that paper bag under the stars, peering up at the moon, checking the clock every half hour and allowing myself a little bit more time at his side…

  I press a hand to my forehead. I must have drunk some sort of mind-altering juice somewhere over the past week. Willingly spend a work night with Grayson?

  I don’t know who I’ve become, but this new Hazel is freaky. Practically unrecognizable.

  HAZEL: Do you want to sell this house or not?

  GRAY: See you there.

  Fine. So I manipulated him into showing up. Now I just have to whittle away the rest of my day, anticipating the moment I see him.

  The day passes blessedly fast. My phone rings off the hook, reminding me that I actually needed a secretary six months ago. I haven’t had the time or energy to draft the help wanted ad. Besides, it’s a whole thing, inviting another person into my space, into my process. Teaching them, getting them acclimated to the pace. I’m not mentally ready for all that. I’ll do it by myself until I can’t anymore.

  I lock up the office around 4:20 and pull up to Grayson’s house, being sure to park several spots away from the front door. The landscaping is still abysmal, not that he’s had time to really make any changes, what with his family still in mourning.

  I realize, after a full minute lingering on the sidewalk in front of the house, that I haven’t taken a single breath. I’m so focused on looking casual and furtively scanning the horizon for Grayson that I don’t realize when the couple looking to buy strolls up to me.

  “Are you Hazel?”

  I start, whipping around to face them. I’m never caught off guard. That’s not what “Ask Hazel” is about. I blink rapidly, feeling the ready-made smile take over. “Yes! Hello! You must be Mr. and Mrs. Whitehall.”

  We all shake hands, cooing over the quaint street and the abundance of leafy trees nearby. My Spidey senses already tell me Mrs. Whitehall is ready to buy—Mr. Whitehall, however, needs a little push. I clutch my folders to my chest as the three of us start a slow walk toward the front door. I grit my teeth as we step over the cracked cement steps.

  Right before I reach for the front door, Grayson shows up. He’s sauntering along the sidewalk, his palms pressed to the back of his head. The front of his T-shirt is stained around the neck, like he’s been sweating. Black workout shorts swish softly around his narrow hips, and the backward ballcap over his dark mocha tresses steals the air from my lungs.

  “Here’s the…” I can’t finish my thought as he comes nearer. He doesn’t look at me, which makes things worse. Gives me free reign to ogle. “The owner,” I wheeze, right as he reaches the group.

  “Hey there.” He sounds a little winded, like maybe he just got done with a run. I can barely tear my eyes off the dark leg hair sprinkled down his muscly calves. He rests his hands on his hips.

  “Grayson, please meet Mr. and Mrs. Whitehall,” I say, gesturing toward them, eyes riveted on the swell of his bicep as he offers a hand to each of them in turn. “This house has been in his family for over four decades.”

  The cooing from Mrs. Whitehall is enough to prove why I supposedly needed him here. Even though, honestly? He’s irrelevant right now. Irrelevant to anything other than a pulsing desire between my legs.

  “Maybe it can be in our family for four decades too,” Mrs. Whitehall says, lifting her eyebrows as she reaches for her h
usband’s hand.

  I lead the way, careful to keep my polite smile pressed in place as we walk through the house as I last saw it. Grayson lags, sticking to doorways and halls as I talk this place up as much as I can. I can feel his gaze sizzling over me. I hazard a glance once we’ve reached the kitchen, and as soon as I do, I trip over my words.

  “The bicep—” My cheeks flame “Basement stairs are in excellent structural condition, but the railing does need replaced.” I barrel on, unwilling to let Grayson bask in my mistake. Behind the Whitehalls, he begins scratching idly at his bicep. Lifting his sleeve up. Tempting me.

  “But that’s enough about this part,” I say, fluttering my hand in the air as I lead them toward the staircase. “Let’s see the upstairs!”

  It becomes a mental test to give security clearance to every phrase in my head before it passes my lips. Just to be sure that no other subliminal thoughts escape like Houdini. Like saying penis for pine trim, or sexy sweat stains for single family home.

  Luckily, I make it through my tour without any gross slipups. I am able to ignore the way Grayson props his hands on the top of the door molding, watching me with enough intensity that I’m worried the sun might catch his glare and light my blouse on fire.

  By the time the tour is over, the Whitehalls are still divided. The Mrs. wants to restore everything as a pet project, but the Mr. wants move-in ready. Once they say goodbye and leave the house, it’s Grayson and me in the foyer.

  Staring at each other with so much restrained emotion I’m not sure if the next words out of my mouth will be “fuck you” or “fuck me now.”

  Chapter 11

  HAZEL

  “Was I really so needed here?” he asks, his voice so dry it could make a desert seem moist.

  “I thought you wanted to sell this house,” I say, cocking a hip. “Doesn’t that entail doing everything possible to ensure that it moves?”