Hot Boss - Anne Marsh Page 0,54
version of reality in each one, right? One where Molly and I never met, one where we split up, one where we reconciled. Hundreds and hundreds of different endings.”
“One where we never met or never had sex,” Hazel says. “One where there’s not this thing between us.”
As usual, she takes me by surprise. Even after all our years working together, I’m constantly amazed by the directions that her brain goes. It’s part of what makes her such a brilliant venture capitalist, though, because she sees connections and outcomes the rest of us don’t or can’t.
I try not to think about a universe where I never meet Hazel. Naked, warm, wide-open Hazel—her hands tugging me down until I’m at her favorite angle. God, she has so many preferences. Directions. Pointed suggestions. I never have to wonder if Hazel’s enjoying herself in bed. The words just pour out of her, throaty moans, half-spoken commands, the bite of her nails underscoring the moment when I do something she really, really likes. She talks and talks and talks the whole time we’re having sex, and I fucking love it.
“I think,” she muses, clearly chasing down a thought, “that you need to decide which universe you’d choose to be in right now. If you had a choice or magic universe-hopping skills. Life’s not a flip book, Jack. Eventually you have to pick one page. One place.”
She shrugs and returns her attention to her margarita. The light changes and people flood the crosswalk. It’s like a swarm of drunken salmon all battling to swim in opposite directions. I grunt and wrap an arm around Hazel when someone smashes his shoulder into her. I don’t want her to get hurt, not ever.
“I know.” I squeeze her shoulders gently, and not just because we’ve barely made it to the other side of the street unscathed. “But I just need to make sure that Molly’s okay, that she’s safe with this guy.”
“White knight,” Hazel says. “You’re the guy who marches into battle glued to the back of his horse.”
“So?”
There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look out for the people in your life. It’s good to care, to be loyal.
“So maybe it’s not an accident Molly picked a guy who gets thrown off horses for a living.”
“Sticking is better.”
Hazel makes a noncommittal sound and applies herself to her margarita. It’s pretty clear what her position is on white-knighting. I mean, I know we’re not that kind of thing. We’re friends and partners. We’re fun and we’re each other’s benefit. But we’re not a couple, not for real. We’re not in a relationship and I don’t get to ride through her life, tilting at her monsters.
“Do you still love her?” Hazel laces her fingers through mine as she talks, tugging me toward the casino’s entrance.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t love love Molly—not anymore and maybe not for a long time. Feelings aren’t something I’m good at, if we’re being honest. For all the effort I put in with Molly, I still didn’t get it right. Rather than holding on like a cowboy, I went flying off and bit the ground.
“Jack?”
“No.” I try it out and realize it’s true. I have affection and regret, fondness and memories, but the bigger feelings are gone. Or more accurately, they’ve been redirected when I wasn’t looking.
Maybe those parallel universes can overlap this one; maybe one small sidestep and bam, you’re in unfamiliar familiar territory. Because there seems to be some alien place that I’ve just stumbled into, and it’s a place where maybe I have feelings for Hazel. Not love, not that way, not yet, but there’s more than a seed of something sprouting in my chest.
* * *
It turns out the rodeo after-party is open to anyone, so we don’t have to sneak, bribe or buy our way in. Hazel’s visibly disappointed. I’m not sure what her plan was. In addition to multiple cash bars, there’s a country band performing up onstage.
And dancing.
Lots and lots of dancing. Hundreds of would-be cowboys and cowgirls strut their stuff, boots thumping in rhythm, hands clapping. It takes me less than a minute to spot Molly and Evan in the thick of the dancing. He twirls her in a circle, one arm wrapped around her waist, the other holding her hand. He’s a cocky bastard, loose-limbed, confident. The asshole definitely knows what he’s doing out there. You’d never guess he got tossed off a horse an hour ago.
“That’s not a waltz,” Hazel hisses. Her elbow