Found

by Claudia Burgoa

  Something about Hazel brings me back to life. But what is it? A taste of her will remind me what it is about Hazel that makes me happy, crazy, and furious.

  But that caress is all I get. She takes a step back. “Please, don’t,” she warns me.

  A tear escapes from the corner of her eye, rolling down her cheek. “I’m not in a good place, and this will just confuse me even more. Can we be friends?”

  “How can you ask me to be happy with stardust when you were my sun?”

  “I can’t, Eli.”

  “Please,” I beg her. “This is me, asking you for another chance.”

  “For your help to find me. I’m lost. Broken. Stuck in the hell I created for myself.” I stare at her lips wishing they were mine again. “A place where you don't exist.”

  “If you knew me, you wouldn’t be pushing this hard, Elliot,” she insists that her personality changed.

  I can feel her soul, and it loves with the same intensity. Her courage hasn’t diminished. On the contrary, she’s fierce.

  “After my heart broke, I put back the pieces differently. I lost some, and added new ones.”

  “Despite everything that transpired between us—time, pain, and my unforgivable mistakes—the tie we share remains intact, Hazel.”

  Our connection was real. That link we share can’t break or die—it’s permanent. Isn’t it?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “You don’t have to fit into someone’s mold to be loved.” ― Scott Everhart

  Hazel

  My entire body is on fire. His eyes concentrate on my lips. He’s right. Some things don't change, and we know about each other. I watch him and wait for his next move. My gut tightens with anticipation, expecting more words, a caress … Or a deep kiss.

  Do I want to kiss him?

  My lips crave that touch. A part of me always wanted more. My legs shake, and I want to run away. I hate the uncertainty. I’m too old for this shit. Deep breaths, Hazel. No one is going to kiss you.

  Why am I so afraid of his affection?

  Years ago, I yearned to have him close. I hated losing him. My heart hurt so much. His eyes radiate tenderness. I break the connection between us, glancing around the house one more time. The table is set. The colorful walls make my place feel homey, like the way he used to make me feel. He's always going out of his way to make sure I'm okay. To protect me. And I see him. His eyes are the color of the fog. I’m reminded why gray calms my soul. It’s because I feel safe that I surround myself with that color.

  When I move my eyes to meet his. I notice the pain in his gray orbs, it squeezes my heart.

  What can I do to make everything better for him?

  Stop! I order myself.

  I’m done trying to fix everyone’s lives so they can be happy while I’m stuck in a bottomless pit of despair. It brings me joy, but at the end of the day, my heart remains hollow.

  “Dinner?” He asks, walking toward the dining table.

  Moving my eyes to the table, I spot them. An arrangement of deep red tropical flowers. How does Elliot know my new love for them?

  “I bet you’re hungry and in need of a home-made meal.”

  My heart stops when I pull the card from the flower arrangement on top of the dining table.

  I miss Costa Rica.

  SDE

  Me too, I think as I close my eyes, wishing Scott was closer.

  The thump-thump of my heart is quick and desperate. Lifting my arm, I reach for the vase, pulling it toward me. Smelling their exquisite fragrance, they transport me to our time together. Although I dealt with one of the most painful moments of my life, Scott made everything manageable. He’s not my savior; he’s the rock I can lean on when things are rough.

  “Everything all right?” Elliot asks.

  “Uh-huh. Thank you for receiving the flowers.” I smile, tipping my head toward the vase as I place them back on the table.

  “There’s more to him isn’t there?” Elliot stares at me, frozen. His eyes concentrate on mine. Is he breathing?

  “Him?” I scrunch my nose. “You mean Scott.”

  He shakes his head as he glares at the flowers without blinking.

  “Scott has many layers, so yes, there’s so much more to him.”

  “I mean—”

  The knock on the door breaks our conversation and the thick tension surrounding us.

  “Beesley, open the door,” Fitz demands.

  “Or not, I can take it apart,” Harrison offers.

  “It'll be fun!”

  “Coming Fitz, keep your brother out of trouble,” I respond almost running to the door.

  “Huh?” Fitz looks around, handing me the bag he carries and admiring the living room. “New bookcases?”

  “Nice wood,” he says turning to Elliot and then the bookcase. “Is Le’asshole staying for dinner?”

  Harrison glares at Elliot, then looks at me. “That’s him?”

  “Be civil, please,” I warn him.

  He’s the hot-headed of the four brothers. If someone would make good on his promise to break Elliot’s neck, that’d be Harrison. The former Delta force can do a lot of damage with only one punch. But I’m hoping that he stays amicable and quiet—at least for today.

  “I have to run,” Elliot says, puffing his chest.

  “I understand that you want space, but I’m just asking to have dinner with you. It’s just a meal, Hazel.” He opens the casserole dish, saunters toward me and kisses my cheek lingering for a few seconds. “Think about it, please.”

  Relieved, I release my breath when he’s gone.

  “What was that?” Fitz asks after closing the door.

  “An olive branch, part of an apology.” I chew my lip.

  “What are you doing, Beesley?” Harrison narrows his gaze.

  “I…I don’t know,” I deflate. “Can we eat?”

  ✰ ✰ ✰ ✰

  “Welcome to healthy cooking for busybodies.”

  I look around the classroom, but Fitz is nowhere to be found. What happened to we’ll do this together, Hazel?

  “My name is Tori, and I’ll be your instructor for the next eight weeks. Today we’re going to focus on your pantry and utensils.”

  Hazel: You better be in the hospital or dead.

  Fitz: No, I’m at the Ritz drinking a mimosa while having brunch with Harrison. You should join us next week. Oh, wait you’re busy for the next two months. Oops.

  Hazel: Are you abandoning me?

  Fitz: Never, you’ll be fine on your own. I have faith in you.

  I grind my teeth. He lied. But who am I to complain? I will give him a pass since he’s still upset about the whole Scott fiasco. Yet, I give him a warning.

  Hazel: If they pair me with some weirdo I’ll kill you. Better yet, I’ll ask Harrison to torture you.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  I twist my neck toward the throaty voice I’ve missed for the past couple of days. The corners of my lips curl upward when I find a pair of aquamarine eyes staring down at me. Scott is here.

  “You’re my cooking partner?”

  Scott winks at me in response. My heart skips a beat. The corners of my lips pull toward the sky at the sight of him.

  “The gentleman in the back, welcome to the class. If you don’t mind taking a seat. The class already started.”

  “Sorry for interrupting,” Scott says out loud leaning closer he mumbles, “Why are we taking cooking lessons?”

  He spots my organizer and rolls his eyes. Reaching out to it, he opens it and points at each item of the list.

  “Perfecting cooking?” He raises an eyebrow, glancing at me while he continues reading. “Might as well name this, how to be the next Martha Stewart. What made you decide this?”

  I shush him lightly, moving my attention back to Tori. Later, I’ll tell him about my latest epiphany. On a scale from one to ten, my domestic skills are about a negative three. A two if we count baking, which I love. It relaxes me, and I’m good at i
t. I can bake a mean chocolate mousse cake. The Everharts recognize that I’m the best at making their mother’s chocolate chip cookie recipe.

  But when it comes to cooking, I can’t get it right. I can clean, but I’ve never sewn or ironed. All my clothes are dry-cleaned, wrinkle-free or I don’t care how wrinkled they are while I wear them. I own needles and yarn, but I haven’t found the time to learn how to knit.

  He continues flipping the pages, his index finger moving from one item to another. “Pen,” he whispers.

  I lift my purse, grab my pencil bag and hand him a teal color pen. I have everything color coded, and teal ink is designated for Scott’s alterations. Stretching my neck, I see some of his scribbles, but can’t read any of what he’s writing. Once he’s done, he hands it over. He added searching for a house in San Fran, going to New York in two weekends, and reestablishing both Mexican Monday and Sushi Sunday. Being spontaneous. Smile.

  There’s also a note at the bottom of the page. Everything is subject to change without notice.

  I shake my head.

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Let’s ditch this class. I can teach you how to cook. It’ll be a one on one instruction, and you can have your Sunday mornings back.”

  “Tempting.” I chew the bottom of my lip.

  Charlotte Everhart raised her children to know how to do everything at home. Cooking, cleaning, sewing, even changing diapers. Well, only Scott and Harrison got to learn that. “But I’ll have no excuse to ask for your cooking skills.”

  “Then, I’ll cook for you.” He turns to the front, then toward me. “This is boring, please.”

  The instructor is showing pasta, pots, pans, and items I can buy at the store next door. Spices … and the big commercial continues. This isn’t what I signed up for, but I want to learn how to cook without incidents. Like food poisoning, burnt meals or other episodes I’ve encountered in the past.

  “Maybe that’s it. I’m not wife material,” I mumble.

  “What’s wife material?” Scott leans closer and uses a low voice. “Because my brother’s brides have many skills, but none of them include these.” He taps my notebook.

  He’s right, my sister is less qualified in the domestic goddess department than I am. And Luna … wait, Luna knows how to cook, but she enjoys holding a knife against the throat of bad guys more than being in the kitchen. I chuckle, as I now realize that the Everhart men are the ones who cook the most in their households.

  “There’re no skills required to find happiness,” he reminds me, lifting his index finger as he gives me the reasons for why this is unhealthy. “Marriage doesn’t equal happiness. Everyone is different when it comes to relationships. You don’t have to fit into someone’s mold to be loved. If he doesn’t love you for who you are, he’s not worthy of your love.”

  He shows me his open palm. “Should I continue?”

  “Life coaching me again?”

  “Life coaching isn’t a verb,” he corrects me with a smirk plastered on his lips. “I have to bring the obvious. I left for a few days, and you’re micromanaging your life, again. What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Liar,” he says, winking at me. He checks his watch and moves his gaze to the front. “We have an eleven o’clock appointment at the property on Scott Street. Why don’t I take you for brunch?”

  “Shh,” I pretend to pay attention, but instead I chuckle as he grabs my organizer, goes to my calendar section, crosses out cooking class, and scribbles ‘brunch and house hunting, now!’

  Giving up I put my things away. “You’re insane and bossy, Everhart.”

  “You love when I’m bossy,” he smiles, kissing my cheek.

  Without uttering a word to the instructor, we make our way out of the class.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  There’s a million reasons I should give you up, but my heart doesn’t believe in reason, it believes in love. ― Hazel Beesley

  Hazel

  “My brothers told me he was at your place last night,” Scott says as we enter the house.

  “This Italian Villa was built in nineteen-o-five,” the realtor tells us, giving me a little time to think about what Scott just said. “It has seven bedrooms, ten baths, five marble terraces, six cast-bronze balconies, seven fireplaces, and innumerable French paned windows. Ten years ago, the owners updated some of the features. There’s new wiring, plumbing, and heating systems. They reinforced the structure with steel beams.”

  “When you say he are you referring to Harrison?” I feign ignorance admiring the tiled Tiffany glass fountain outside on the patio.

  “Elliot,” Scott sneers, clenching his teeth.

  “Jealous?” I smirk turning my gaze away as I fight the laugh.

  “Is that even a question?” He growls, heading to the elevator that connects the four stories. “Of course, I’m jealous.”

  “Accepting you have a problem is the first step,” I observe, shoving him playfully.

  “Why was he there?”

  “Your mood changed too fast. What happened?”

  “Harrison texted me.”

  “Ah, the one who likes to provoke you texted,” I say, glancing casually at him.

  Harrison gets a kick out of annoying everyone—Scott is his favorite target.

  I search for my phone and text him.

  Hazel: Why did you tell Scott about Elliot?

  Harrison: Why didn’t you tell Scott about Elliot?

  Hazel: You’re annoying.

  Harrison: I had to, Elliot has no business in your life. And I like it when my brother curses over text.

  Hazel: That’s my decision, not yours.

  Harrison: Yes, but I like to meddle in your love life—payback and all that shit. Plus, I’m #teamscott.

  “You four have to grow up a little and stop behaving like children when you get together. Harry’s almost forty for heaven’s sake.”

  “You love us like that,” he points out the obvious.

  “I do.” I fight the urge to kiss his jaw and tell him he’s my favorite.

  My body stiffens, as I fight the desire to hug him. I want to be in his arms so bad. As reason is about to lose the fight again my heart, the realtor walks toward us.

  “We reduced the price, but the owners are willing to negotiate it,” the agent offers, interrupting our discussion.

  I look at the brochures she handed me earlier and whistle. “That’s still one too many millions,” I lean closer to Scott, mumbling the words.

  “It’s in Pacific Heights,” he responds, as if that makes complete sense.

  He takes my hand and we go to the room at the end of the hallway. The library. It’s filled with walls of books, hardwood floors and the scent of paper.

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  I twirl around the room a couple of times. “Sure, but again, it’s too much.”

  “We’ll make an offer, if they agree, we have to make a few financial decisions. Move some assets and sell stocks.”

  He says everything, like he’s buying something of less significance and much cheaper. Don’t get me wrong, I want it, but not at that price.

  “Ideally, you should give me a power of attorney, so I can handle your estate. This uncharacteristically expensive purchase is a cry for help. Clearly, you’re mentally unstable,” I say in disbelief.

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve invested in real estate,” he reminds heading toward the window.

  He calls me with his hand. Curious to see what he’s watching, I march to where he is and gasp when I look at the Golden Gate and the City of San Francisco. The ocean, the view. “I’m in love.”

  “I know,” he says, with an air of arrogance and triumph.

  “It needs some renovations,” I point at the old, one-panel windows. “Paint, new floors. I am already flipping one house.”

  “I will take care of this one,” he offers. “You can just create a Pinterest board and give me your input. Can we buy i
t?”

  “Explain to me, what do you plan to do with the library?” I walk around the room. The scent of old paper and tobacco reminds me of Gramps.

  “Fill it with signed first editions of your favorite books?”

  I bounce from foot to foot, and twirl around thinking about the books I’ll get. But stop and frown.

  “I have my apartment,” I remind him. “Fully furnished and decorated.”

  “The apartment is temporary,” he fights back. “Whether you stay in San Francisco or go back to New York, there’s a place where you can stay when you visit.”

  “You make a compelling case, Everhart.”

  “Hazel,” he snaps his fingers, cutting into my lost mind. “Please, don’t disappear. Stay with me, we’ll go horseback riding after this. There’s a place in Napa. We’ll be busy. This is just a house.”

  I swallow, feeling all kinds of confused. Scott believes I’m sad, but what I’m is different. Happy, worried, elated, nervous and jealous. I envy those couples who buy their first homes knowing they’ll be decorating their room neutral but with feminine touches. That there’ll be a man cave around the premises.

  “But what if I want more than just a place with walls and a roof?”

  “Time,” he sighs looking down at the contract and away from me. “But buying this not only makes sense, but it makes me happy.”

  He says my favorite words, the magical words. He’s happy. I love when he’s happy and even more when it’s because of me. Heat radiates through my chest when he smiles at me.

  I sigh. “You’ll end up like Gramps—owning so many properties that you won’t know what to do with them.”

  “I’ll save them for a savvy granddaughter, or grandson.” He winks at me extending his arm as he holds a pen.

  My throat closes with his response. He flusters me just as much as he elates me. What’s in that mind of his? He peaks my curiosity, and I want to dig deep into his psyche. This is so damn crazy, and he expects me not to micromanage my life.