My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(11)

Well, at least from the backside.

Is he waiting for me?

I might have reached my weekend dose of faking it with the enemy. I don’t know if I can handle another run-in with the man. But as I walk outside, I steal a glance at him. He’s chatting with someone. I tense, wondering if that’s his agent. But a better look shows a tall, older man with a thick beard, a shiny bald head, and tortoise-shell glasses, and I sigh in relief.

His editor, not his agent.

“And we’ll have that lunch with Stein later this week,” Linus is telling Axel.

“Looking forward to it,” Axel replies. They’re focused on each other. Excellent. All I have to do is walk past, smile vaguely, and head downtown.

Wait. I don’t even have to do that.

I turn the other way, but as I wheel around, Axel calls out, “Hazel.”

I groan but turn back. “Yes?”

Axel motions to Linus that he’ll be a second. The editor waves to me, and I give a professional grin and a nod. It’s a small world, after all. Then Axel heads over to me, the corner of his lips curving up. “Tacos?”

It comes out curious but approving. For a second there, I thought he’d be annoyed I made up the taco thing.

“I improvised. Don’t tell me you hate tacos too?”

He laughs. “Who hates tacos?”

“No one,” I say. I expect him to say something cutting and leave, but he stands looking at me, silent.

My brow knits. “What is it, Huxley?”

He sighs, as if dreading what he’s about to say. “You win,” he mutters. “You were nicer.”

Oh, right. The Be Nicer contest. We didn’t even establish stakes though. “What were we playing for?”

He glances at the cabs streaking by on the street, then back at me. “I don’t know. Except, I guess, keeping things private still. So, um, thanks.”

He extends a hand once more. I take it and shake. Only this time, I hold his hand for a second or two longer. Maybe five.

But then I let go. What’s the point in lingering?

We’re just former friends, former partners, former confidantes.

We are former.

We’re dead to each other now.

There’s no prize for behaving like an adult.

“Maybe the prize is we won’t have to see each other again,” I offer. That’s probably for the best—playing to keep the status quo and staying far, far away from each other.

That’s easiest.

He purses his lips and then nods. “Good night, then,” he says, and it sounds like we both agree on something.

I turn around and head to meet Veronica at Gin Joint. Too bad I don’t feel like I won anything today.





6





WINEDAY


Hazel

The next morning in the shower, the muses of opening chapters deliver my next hero’s profession. Because all good book ideas originate when you’re naked and wet.

The winner is—wine guy.

My hero will own several vineyards.

Which means wine’s now a write-off for me.

Once I’m not naked and wet, but not fully dressed either—because why be fully dressed at home?—I reach out to one of the city’s top sommeliers and schedule a time to see him next week.

I might be counting down the days.

When next Wineday—I mean Monday—rolls around, I leave my apartment, texting my friend Rachel in San Francisco as I take the subway uptown. She’s a wine lover, so I’m required to make her jealous.

Hazel: Guess where I’m off to…Hugo’s!



Rachel: I hate you. Also, steal me a bottle of his best cab.





Hazel: I’ll stuff it down my jeans.



Rachel: Don’t get me excited while I’m heading to work.





Hazel: Speaking of, how’s the new jewelry shop going?



Rachel: It’s day by day but I’m hopeful. I’m heading to Paris next month to check out some artists to possibly carry!





Hazel: Ooh, la la! (That’s, um, the extent of my French).



I’m almost at Hugo’s, so I wish her well then head into the fancy restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue, where I soak up the ins and outs of different grapes from the wine expert named owner.

The lumberjack of a man offers me a cab. “And this one is from my favorite region in California. The grapes are big and fierce,” Hugo says without a hint of snoot in his voice. He’s the wine everyman.

I lean in and draw a hearty inhale of the glass of red. Makes my senses tingle. “Mmm. Smells rich,” I say.

“The grapes were harvested at just the right time,” he says, patting the label on the bottle next to him like he’s praising the winemaker.

“Hugo, I have a very important question.”

“Ask me anything,” he says with a warm smile.

“Would you ever harvest grapes under a full moon?”

“Why?” It has five syllables.

“That’s exactly what I was wondering. Whyyyyy?”

I tell him the story of the full-moon wine. Hugo shakes his head the whole time, amusingly perturbed. “Everyone has a gimmick. Before you know it, someone will market sweet raccoon wine.”