My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(12)

“Is there such a thing?”

“Not really, but one of the ways you can tell grapes are ripe is when birds, raccoons, or bears show up. They like the grapes when they’re sweet,” he explains.

That just makes wine even more delightful. “I must find a way to put Sweet Raccoon Wine in my next book,” I say.

“I agree. You must,” he says.

When I leave a little later—without a bottle in my jeans, sorry Rachel—I’m dying to tell someone about the raccoon wine. As I hit the bustling sidewalk, I open my phone to text TJ, but annoyingly, my brain whispers someone else’s name.

Axel.

Tell Axel.

I scoff at myself. As if I’d tell Axel, I argue back.

But he was there for the full-moon wine harvest.

So what? TJ will still get it.

But you know you’re dying to tell Axel you dispelled the Tides of Wine theory with him.

Enough! Just enough!

As I weave through the afternoon crowds on a spring day, I write to my bestie. Once I hit send, my phone trills. The number is the main line at my publisher, Lancaster Abel.

“Oh,” I say to no one. A familiar mix of nerves and excitement pings through me. Usually it’s good news when the publisher calls, but you never know. What if someone canceled me online while I was visiting Hugo? Worse, what if my publisher is dropping me because I’ve been canceled? Have I done something to get canceled? I’m not a dick. I don’t say stupid things. But oh god, I hope I didn’t fuck up.

I swipe answer so fast.

“Hey there, it’s Hazel,” I say as I duck down Eighty-Second Street, where it’s a touch quieter than the avenue.

“We know it’s Hazel!” the twin voices of Aaron and Cady, Lancaster Abel’s publicists, chime in. “We called you!”

Like most good publicists, they speak in exclamation points.

“What are you doing?” Cady asks next. She’s the peppier of the two, which is saying something since Aaron ranks a ten out of ten on the cheer scale.

“Just leaving Hugo’s Wine Bar. Research for my new book,” I say, hoping to impress them, because I’m always hoping to impress everyone at Lancaster Abel since I need them to love me forever and ever and then some.

“Oh my god. So fun. I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Aaron says, then clucks his tongue. “Sooooo…”

I brace myself. Doom is coming. “Yes?”

“We had the best idea,” Cady tag-teams, just as a furniture truck rumbles down the block. She says something more about this best idea, but I can barely hear her.

“What did you say?” I ask, covering my other ear.

“Wait. Hugo’s. You’re at Hugo’s? Why didn’t you tell us? The office is five blocks away,” Aaron says.

Sure, I know that. But why would I tell them? I don’t want to be clingy. “I didn’t realize you’d want to see me,” I say, honestly.

“We always do,” Cady says. “Wait! New idea! Can you come by? It was someone’s birthday today. We have cake.”

“Oh my god, girl. Don’t offer her someone else’s cake,” Aaron says, mortified. “Hazel, hon. You deserve your own cake.”

I blink, trying to make sense of these two. “So, you want me to come in for cake?”

“Cake and news,” Aaron adds. “Cady, we need to get Hazel some cake. Like, now. Go to that shop—”

“Actually, you don’t have to get me cake.” They don’t need to roll out the red carpet. “I’m happy to come by cake-free. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

We say goodbye, and as I march toward their building, I text TJ, trying to figure out why they want me to visit.

TJ: Maybe the hot guy on the cover of your last book wants to show off how he grew his six-pack into an eight-pack.





Hazel: And the answer is no cheese and no fun.



TJ: I believe in cheese and abs.





Hazel: And I have a time-share in the sea to sell you.



Soon, I arrive at the skyscraper, giving my name to security. Up I go to the twelfth floor, and the second the elevator doors open, Cady and Aaron squeal. Aaron’s blond. Cady’s blonder. They escort me into a conference room, pawing at me the whole time, asking about Hugo, my favorite wine, how my day is going.

I love their enthusiasm, but I don’t want to be touched this much. I don’t say a word, though, except great, everything is great.

Once I take a seat in the room, my editor, Ramona, pops in the doorway, tucking her stick-straight brown hair behind her ears as she beams at me. “They told me you were coming by. Are you excited?”

“Um, sure. I love coming by,” I say, even more confused.

Ramona shoots the publicity twins a seriously look. “You didn’t tell Hazel on the phone?”

Cady has the good sense to look chagrined. “She was around the corner. We wanted to tell her in person. You tell her!”

Ramona tuts at them then turns to me. “It’s every writer’s dream. We want to send you on a special book tour. If you’re amenable,” she adds, a diplomat in a way the publicist pair is not.

Tour the country, meet with readers, sign books, and chat about stories? That is the ultimate fantasy. “Amenable? Of course I’m amenable,” I say. Inside, I’m elated. I haven’t been canceled. I’ve been…continued. “Whatever is involved, I’m game,” I say, but wait. That’s not true. “Unless it’s a bungee jumping tour. Or, say, one of those tours where you have to walk across rickety bridges with roaring rapids one thousand feet below.”