Twice Upon a Blue Moon (11 page)

Hazel made no promises. She didn’t want to give up the handy fiction of an upset stomach. It had served her well enough in high school.

She hung up and fell back into bed.

Sleep found her easily.

In her dreams, she went back to Dunby and the home she’d been so eager to flee. She found herself trying to get ready for school but finding all her clothes had disappeared. Her mother burst into the room to tell her she would be late.

A breath later, her father did the same. Then Buddy.

An endless succession of family and friends paraded before her bedroom door, all shrugging when she asked where her things were. And all along, pieces of her childhood haven vanished off the walls. It was an eternity before she noticed that every time her back was turned, her visitors removed another Backstreet Boys poster, another Missouri Princess Pageant trophy. She was down to her pink-swathed twin bed and an empty wardrobe by the time she jolted awake.

Rain pelted the window, fat droplets slamming against the pane like pebbles. It took Hazel a long moment to grasp that it wasn’t the rain that had roused her.

Her cell vibrated on the bedside table, rocking the reading lamp and the stack of books balanced precariously on the corner. Hazel checked Caller ID.

Dylan
gleamed on the screen.

“Duh…” He’d said he would wait for her call. This was proof of poor impulse control.

Or maybe he just likes me?
Hazel dismissed the thought as she clicked Reject. He would call again later, when she was better prepared to face the conversation brewing on the horizon. Much like the tornadoes of her childhood, she knew she couldn’t outrun it.

She endeavored to get back to sleep, but last night’s events wouldn’t give her peace. Sighing, Hazel kicked off the covers and stomped into her minuscule bathroom. Pipes rattled and clanged as water gushed from the shower spray.

It wasn’t a matter of feeling dirty. True to his word, Dylan hadn’t left any marks. Nothing hurt the day after he’d worked her over with a sure hand. Hazel leaned against the tiles. If she closed her eyes, she could see Dylan on his knees before her. She could feel the sting of the crop making the pleasure that much sweeter. Her clit throbbed with the memory, body yearning for touch despite the curl of shame in her belly. The shower ran cold before Hazel had exhausted the stock of lewd flashbacks. She wrapped herself in a towel and wrung out her hair before pinning it up in a messy twist.

Last night had been a happy accident—evidence that there were some good men left out there. So why did the woman staring back at her from the mirror look so hollow-eyed?

The phone shrilled in the other room.

It was Dylan. Again. This time, Hazel picked up.

“Hey…”

“Hey back. How are you feeling?” His voice sounded echo-y, like he was speaking from inside a tunnel.

Was he asking because he’d stopped by the diner and she wasn’t there or because of what they’d done last night? Hazel opted for the likelier option. “I’m not that much of a fixture that you can’t digest breakfast at Marco’s without seeing me, am I?” Never mind that she was still happy to pull double shifts—as long as they were in daylight—just so she wouldn’t be cooped up at home, alone with her thoughts.

Dylan scoffed. “Sadie mentioned you weren’t feeling well. Was it the salmon?”

“Salmon was fine.”

“I thought so, too… But if you didn’t like the salmon, I hope you know you can tell me. There are other dishes on the menu.”

Hazel parked herself on the edge of the bed, chilly rivulets dripping from her hair down her spine. She smiled despite herself. “Or we could just eat in from now on. I do make a killer cheese casserole…”

“I wasn’t really talking about salmon.”

“I know.” It wasn’t the most obscure analogy he could’ve come up with. Her smile dimmed. “I don’t know how to say this without coming across as giving you the brush-off.”

“So don’t say it,” Dylan breathed, his voice dropping an octave.

“It’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t want you to be fair. Be as—as unfair as you’d like, just… Give us a chance?”

Hazel ran her tongue along the flats of her teeth, mulling it over. She couldn’t do that. Not only would it lead to heartache in the long run, but Dylan would regret ever talking her out of a quick and easy breakup. She knew how this story ended.

“Ward doesn’t like me much, does he?” Hazel asked, trying another tack.

“Did he say that?”

“I thought it was implied.”
Especially when he owned up to online stalking me to make sure I wasn’t some kind of a gold-digger.
“Guess I can’t blame him. I’d be protective, too, if I was your friends-with-benefits person.” She’d nearly said ‘guy’, but more and more she was beginning to think homosexuality wasn’t something that Dylan or Ward were comfortable admitting to. It made no difference.

They wouldn’t be the first well-heeled men to take long walks across the Kinsey scale while keeping up a front of respectability.

Dylan was quiet for a long moment. “Could we talk over coffee?”

“Afraid someone bugged your phone?”

“No, but I can tell you’ve got some thoughts,” Dylan said softly.

That was putting it mildly. Hazel glanced at the rain-spattered window. “You could come over.”

“Right now?”

“Unless you’re busy—“

“No,” Dylan said, a little more forcefully than was necessary. “No, now is fine. I can come now.”

“Bring coffee,” Hazel told him.

She hung up and set about putting the apartment to rights. It wasn’t as bad as it had been two nights ago, when they’d wound up at her place because his was under occupation
.
There were no dirty dishes and the living room was as spotless as it got. The bedroom was another matter. Hazel found last night’s dress scattered at the foot of the bed, her pumps by the door. She stuffed her underclothes into the hamper with the rest of the laundry, to be washed in three days’ time, the earliest she’d been able to book the washing machine in the basement.

Dylan rang the intercom just as she was brushing out the knots in her damp hair.

Hazel buzzed him in.

“I didn’t know if you had breakfast already, so I got us a couple of BLTs,” Dylan confessed, holding up a plastic bag.

“You’re not huffing and puffing.”

“They fixed the elevator.” They stood in Hazel’s foyer, neither of them entirely at ease, until Dylan sighed and leaned in to peck her on the cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Last night. This morning. Whatever’s going on… I should’ve told Ward it was too soon, but he insisted.”

Hazel felt her face heat. “Didn’t seem like he knows how to take no for an answer.”

She produced two plates and a couple of paper napkins from the kitchen before joining Dylan on the couch. The napkins were patterned with snowmen and mistletoe, remnants from last Christmas’ sad-sack, one-woman feast—a far cry from three-figure dinners at an upscale restaurant in the heart of the city.

It was a little late to feel awkward around Dylan. After all, last night she’d been naked in his bed, his cock down her throat. Yoga pants and a hoodie couldn’t be any more embarrassing than no clothes at all.

“Speaking of Ward,” Dylan started cautiously, “I just got off the phone with him.”

Hazel froze, paper cup halfway to her mouth. “Oh. Do you have report to him before you’re allowed to see me?” She might have been able to keep the arch tone at bay if she’d bothered trying. “What did he say?”

“That he had a great time and would love it if we’d join him at his place in San Diego next time he decides he’s too good for L.A… Full disclosure, I may have taken liberties with that last part.”

“Huh.” Hazel tilted into the cushions stacked against the armrest of the couch. “Didn’t see that coming…” Intimidating, background-checking Ward wanted to play host.
What’s he planning now? A ‘greatest hits’ exhibition?

Dylan picked at a pill on his trouser leg. He was dressed for work, the clean lines of his suit a cross between undertaker and CIA operative. “I think you have it wrong.”

“What, you mean Ward really, really likes me?” Hazel rolled her eyes. “He’s not that good of an actor.”

“No, but he does have a hard time making himself understood.”

“His accent isn’t
that
thick.”

Dylan pressed his lips into a thin line, breathing out through his nose. He seemed to be trying hard to indulge her, but it was costing him. Hazel felt a touch of remorse for the unnecessarily flippant tone. When she got nervous, she lashed out whichever way she could.

“He’s never been comfortable with new people. That’s why he does his homework, why he overcompensates with a slew of anecdotes… It’s not that he’s trying to monopolize the conversation,” Dylan insisted. “He’s just nervous.”

“He’s a thirty-year-old CEO.” Did it bear recalling? Hazel hadn’t felt more out of her depth since she’d had to sit next to Reverend McDaniels at her brother’s wedding,
after
the pictures came out.

“And in debt up to his neck. And trying to keep his father’s company from sinking… If it’s Ward you’re worried about, don’t be. He’ll learn to like you.”

“Or you’ll what? Leave him?”

Dylan cocked his head. “Is that it, then? You’re uncomfortable with our relationship.”

It wasn’t an accusation Hazel could easily refute. Instead, she scowled. “You’re acting like I’m supposed to be okay dating a man who’s sleeping with another dude. I don’t know many women who’d be on board with that.”

And it’s not why I’m struggling.
It would’ve been easier if she could have drawn a line in the sand and claim that she couldn’t—wouldn’t—step over it, come hell or high water. At least then she could pretend to have standards.

“I don’t know any.” Dylan set his plate on the coffee table and pushed himself up. It was too controlled to kindle panic in Hazel’s gut.

He cut an incongruous picture, pacing the length of Hazel’s living room in his Italian leather shoes, charcoal gray suit draping seamlessly down his body. It was a bit like hanging the Mona Lisa over an Ikea sideboard. It just didn’t work.

“I’ve known Ward for more than a decade,” he confessed. “And yes, there have been others since, but I’ve never been interested in a relationship with any of them.”

“Until I came along?” Hazel asked, arching her eyebrows.

Dylan abruptly stopped pacing, his back to the window. “Is that so hard to believe?”

“It’s very flattering. Are you sure it’s because you’ve never wanted to date anyone before and not that Ward wouldn’t allow it?”

“Yes.”

“That makes one of us,” Hazel muttered under her breath. She knew that Dylan heard. She knew it in the narrowing of his eyes and the straightening of his broad shoulders, as if he was bracing for battle.

“Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear,” he replied, dipping into his ‘Dom voice’ at a moment’s notice. “Ward Parrish is my closest friend. My relationship with him is not up for debate. If you’re worried it’ll interfere with what we have—don’t be. I can keep them separate. I’ve done it for years.”

All that kept Hazel from spitting her coffee back was some dormant sense of propriety and the knowledge that somewhere at the back of his mind, Dylan was probably judging her already. She barked out a mirthless laugh. “And if I’m not convinced, you’ll pick him. Is that it?”

“I don’t see it as a choice.”

“Well, I do.” It was Hazel’s turn to stand. She pushed a slice of damp hair behind her ear. “I can’t believe you’re trying to guilt me for not wanting to share the man I’m seeing. Like that’s an outrageous thing to ask!”

“It’s not,” Dylan agreed. “But it’s not something I can offer.”

“That settles it, I guess.” It didn’t feel like much of a victory. “I think you should go.”

“Hazel—”

She shook her head. “Thanks for lunch.”

Dylan didn’t stop her turning her back on him. He didn’t block her path as she started down the hall to the bedroom.

“I’ll be in Shanghai for the next couple of weeks,” he said to her retreating back. “Can I call you when I get back?”

No
simmered on the tip of Hazel’s tongue, rich and satisfying like chocolate liqueur. It was also the equivalent of closing a door she’d barely peeked through and too final to be spoken.

“It’s a free country,” Hazel retorted off-handedly.

The ugly wall-to-wall carpet in the living room and the dented linoleum that blanketed the entryway muffled Dylan’s footfalls. The click of the door shutting in his wake rang like a bell toll.

By the time Hazel spun around, he was already gone.

Chapter Eight

An hour stretched into three, then five. Noon rolled around before Hazel made herself pick at what was left of the BLTs. Her appetite remained elusive. No matter how faithfully she tried to devote herself to
Days of Our Lives
reruns, she couldn’t stop replaying Dylan’s parting shot in her head.

It spun in and out of focus like a screeching, broken record.

Hazel should have asked him to stay. She should’ve said
It’s not you, it’s me
. Clichés were cheap, but no cheaper than putting blame where there was none. She couldn’t get over the chance that maybe some of what he’d said was true.

Maybe he did want her—and not just to smack around in bed.

She rose from the couch to dispose of the sandwich wrappers. The trashcan overflowed. She needed to take it down the curb, get at least one thing done for the day.

Anxiety bit at her insides. Sadie
had
recommended that she go for a walk.

So why the makeup?

Hazel blinked at her reflection, mindful of smearing the mascara she’d just applied.

Why the push-up bra?

She donned a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Sadie had returned her car keys the other day. Hazel grabbed them off the hook by the door—just in case she felt like going for a drive. According to sources, Mulholland was supposed to be quite the scenic route.

Garbage bag stowed in the appropriate dumpster, Hazel idled for a long beat on the curb. There was no harm in driving around. It might even help clear her head.