His Father’s Addiction

CHAPTER 13

Elvis

"Are you flirting with me, Hazel?"

A low chuckle left her mouth.

"If being honest is called flirting, then I suppose I'm guilty, sir. You did permit me to speak freely."

I was looking directly at her now. After an entire morning of careful avoidance, I finally looked, and it turned out to be the worst option.

Most people, under that kind of direct attention, would glance away. Find something interesting on the floor, not her.

She stood there and looked straight back. I held it as long as I could.

I looked away first.

Whatever this was, it needed to stop.

This girl was dismantling something in my brain, rearranging things that had been fixed in place for years, and I had neither the time nor the patience for it.

The solution was obvious, and I had used it before without a second thought.

I opened my mouth to say the word, Fire.

It hung there between my mind and my lips, hooked on something I couldn't identify, refusing to come out.

The glass door slid open.

"Hey, Dad." Donald stepped in, already looking around the office.

"This space is impressive. I might stay longer than I planned."

"I'll be at my desk, sir." Hazel's voice came after his, entirely professional.

She was already moving toward the door, gone before I could say a word.

The effect of what she'd said hadn't left my body. I became aware of my sweating palms.

I pressed them against my trousers discreetly.

"Are you alright, Dad?" Donald was studying me again.

“You've got sweat on your forehead."

"Oh." I reached into my pocket for the small handkerchief I kept there, wiped my face, and tucked it away. A compliment. A simple compliment from an employee. This was what I'd been reduced to.

You look so good in that outfit. You're very handsome, sir.

The words circled.

"You're doing it again," he said.

I looked at him.

"You're smiling." He tilted his head. "And, wait." A slow grin broke across his face. "Dad. Are you blushing?"

He folded his arms and began tapping one foot on the floor with the quiet patience of someone who had decided he was not leaving without an answer.

"It's nothing." I straightened. "I was thinking of a film I watched over the weekend, a comedy."

"A film." The disbelief in his voice was barely disguised. "Dad. You don't watch films."

I said nothing.

"Fine." He raised both hands. "I'll figure it out eventually, you know I will."

He glanced toward the door.

"That woman who just left your office. There's something familiar about her. Have I seen her before?"

My hands came off the desk. I moved them beneath it, out of sight, because my middle finger had developed an involuntary habit of tapping against surfaces when I was restless.

"She's my assistant, Hazel. She is trouble.”

"Hazel." He said the name slowly, then smiled.

"Perfect name for her eyes. And trouble, Dad?" He was already on his feet, jacket adjusted, entirely too amused.

"Nothing you can't handle. I'd better get to my office, Anna's waiting to brief me."

He patted the doorframe on his way out. "Have a good day."

The door closed.

The rest of the day moved quickly.

The blueprint project was the kind that consumed everything: attention, energy, and the margins of the day that other projects left untouched.

It would be worth it. Every project we'd launched had been worth it, eventually. This would be no different.

Still, several times throughout the afternoon, I found myself reaching for the desk phone to ring Hazel's extension, a question about a document, a file she'd know where to find, something small and professional and entirely reasonable.

Each time, I stopped. Put the receiver down; found the answer myself.

Hazel was a disruption. I didn't have space for disruptions.

When I next looked up at the wall clock, it read nine o'clock.

The noise reached me at the same moment, a low, building pressure in the air outside.

My phone vibrated. An emergency weather alert: Heavy storm expected imminently. Seek shelter.

The office door opened. Peter, coat already on.

"Sir, we should leave now. The storm is moving in fast."

"I know. Help me with these files."

He gathered them quickly while I took a final pass around the room, lights off, screens dark, everything in its place.

We were nearly out when something stopped me.

Hazel's office. The light was still on.

I told Peter to get the car and double back. When I pushed the door open, she was there, bag half-packed, moving around the desk with the energy of someone who had stayed too late and was only now fully registering it.

"You're still here; you should have left hours ago."

"I know, sir. There was a lot to get through." She slung her bag over her shoulder. "I'll just book a ride."

The thunder arrived before she'd finished the sentence.

A c***k of it, enormous and loud, and she crossed the room in almost the same instant, crashing into me with both arms locked around my torso, face pressed hard against the front of my shirt.

Everything in my body went completely still.

If my heart continued at this pace, she was going to hear it.

Hazel stepped back several seconds later, cheeks slightly flushed. "I'm sorry, sir. Thunder and lightning… I can't help it."

"I see."

The rain came down immediately after, very heavy, the kind of rain that makes driving dangerous.

Peter appeared in the doorway. "Sir, I don't think we should attempt the drive yet. We'd better wait it out."

"Agreed. Find somewhere comfortable. Let us know when it's safe to leave."

He nodded and retreated. I turned back to Hazel. "We'll take you home after it passes."

"Thank you, sir."

I settled into the chair by the window and occupied myself with my phone, emails, the news, anything that would keep my attention pointed in a sensible direction.

It worked, for a while.

When I glanced up some time later, she was asleep on the small couch against the wall. One hand tucked beneath her cheek, shoulders finally unheld.

She looked peaceful, funny.

I looked away.

Peter appeared in the doorway a short while later. "Sir, the rain has let up. We can go."

"Good. Get the car. I'll wake her."

He left. I crossed the room and crouched down beside the couch.

My eyes moved to her mouth.

I found myself wondering, briefly and against my better judgment, what they'd taste like.

Vanilla, something in me decided, before I could shut the thought down entirely.

I pushed to my feet.

What is wrong with you?

I crouched again, more purposefully this time, and tapped her shoulder with two fingers.

She stirred, rolled slightly, and her hand came out and closed around mine. A mumbled syllable or two disappeared into the cushion beneath her.

Hazel was, apparently, a sleep-talker.

I tried to ease my hand back.

She tightened her grip and pulled, one quick, sleepy motion, and before I'd fully processed what was happening, my lips had made brief, glancing contact with hers.

A peck. Her eyes never opened.

"Strawberry," she murmured. "I like."

I straightened up, walked directly to the water dispenser in the corner, filled a cup, and drank it slowly.

I went to carry her to the car.