Hot Boss - Anne Marsh Page 0,24

it takes to reach the private parking lot where my BMW is being babied under the watchful eye of a seventeen-year-old part-time employee. I hand him my ticket and a twenty.

Hazel loops her arm through mine and leans into me. This is less a friendly gesture than it is a practical one. Her T-shirt is thin and her bra thinner still. She’s visibly cold.

“Why French?”

Hazel shrugs. “Why not May? She’d date you. You could have sex tonight.”

Valet Boy jerks to a brief halt at Hazel’s words. The twenty in his teenage pocket works its magic, however, because he lurches back into motion. I pretend he’s not imagining me and my dinner guest doing it in a penthouse suite.

“It didn’t feel right,” I say.

Hazel groans dramatically. “It was two hours. How did things go so wrong? You’re a guy. You have a penis. This should be like basic math.”

I try not to think about Hazel thinking about my penis. Or how she makes a popping sound on the letter P, the same kind of ripe, juicy sound her mouth would make coming off my dick.

“It was forever,” I counter. “And easily.”

“You just need more practice.” Hazel’s wrapped around my arm so tightly that she’s starting to cut off my circulation. I’m honestly not sure if I’m allowed to think about Hazel’s breasts, but they’re hard to ignore. Her nipples are tight little twists that demand sucking.

No.

Cold Hazel is one problem that I can fix. I peel her off my arm, shuck my jacket and wrap her up in it.

When the valet finally returns with my car, I open the passenger-side door for Hazel and wait. She makes a face but slides in. I add a point to my mental score.

“Did you drive?”

Hazel laughs. It’s part snort, part guffaw, all Hazel. I’m not sure she knows how to hold back. “Car service.”

She pulls off the blond wig and tosses it into the back seat. Her own hair is pulled back in a tight, sleek knot at the base of her neck.

“Prudent.” Hazel’s a late bloomer when it comes to driving, having only just gotten her driver’s license a year ago—and only after three attempts at passing the road test. Max, Dev and I spent hours coaching her, but Hazel’s still not convinced—she says—that God intended human beings to drive faster than twenty miles an hour. Max claims that she’s a reincarnated Amish person in mourning for her buggy. Whatever the reason, however, the truth is that Hazel is the world’s slowest driver. She still won’t tell me how she actually passed her road test, but Dev believes bribery was involved.

It hasn’t quite hit me that I’ve had my first date since Molly and I split. I stare at the road, concentrating on staying perfectly between the lines. The ocean spins away on our right, the dark water melting into the horizon. Just a few days ago, Hazel offered herself to me, suggesting that we sleep together until we both come up with better options. It’s a strangely seductive thought, although not a plan that I should be entertaining. Hazel and I are business partners and best friends, and introducing naked activities to that relationship would be a mistake.

“Tell me about your date.” Hazel manages to curl into me, despite the ample legroom in the BMW. She flicks on the seat warmer and groans. Is that the sound she makes when she’s having sex?

“There’s nothing to tell. We met, we had drinks, dinner was consumed and then a crazy woman landed in my lap and my date decided it was time to exit stage left.”

Hazel’s head against my arm makes shifting difficult, but I manage. “You need more practice. I’ll help. I can be your practice date. Chat me up. Hit me with your best lines.”

I slide a quick glance at her. “You want me to hit on you?”

“I’ll start,” she says. “You must be an angel because I’m in heaven!”

I mock-groan and one-up her. “Somewhere in heaven they’re missing an angel.”

“I can die happy now because I’ve seen heaven,” Hazel shouts.

We trade corny lines back and forth, smirking as we try to top each other. I tuck an escaping strand of hair behind her ear. For a second, my finger traces the curve of her ear.

“Hazel?”

“Yeah?” She fiddles with the dashboard again, but I don’t think she’s still cold.

“What’s the last pickup line that worked on you?”

She doesn’t even have to think about it. “Guys don’t try to pick me up, Jack.