My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(16)

She lifts a brow. Takes her sweet time. “Axel,” she says, then laughs. “He has an eight-pack.”

And I laugh too. Occupational hazard with her. “Touché.”

“And of course he smells freshly showered. He just got out of the shower.”

“Either freshly showered or woodsy or spicy,” I say. Those are the three main scents for romance heroes. We made a list one day, while we googled the sexiest scents for men and women.

“Just like you write ’em too.”

“Double touché.”

Then, we’re both laughing, and that feels deceptively good. So good, I lower my guard. “And in all fairness, this morning Brooks sewed up the laceration in his shoulder all by himself using only fishing wire he found on the dock in the dark and numbing the pain with whiskey.”

“That’s what whiskey’s for. It numbs the pain,” she says dryly, and it’s like we’re right back to the boom-boom rhythm we once had. But there’s a note of wistfulness in her tone that’s new, that almost feels like she’s talking about something else. Something beyond the power of whiskey. Something about pain, but maybe I’m reading something into nothing. Wouldn’t be the first time. She’s tucked the same rogue red strand into her bun three times between hopeful glances at the door. “Kennedy’s usually early. It’s weird that she’s not here.”

Hazel’s probably eager for our buffer too. Maybe Kennedy should get hazard pay for this trip. “She’ll be here any minute,” I say, hopeful Kennedy shows soon. At least, I think that’s what I’m hoping for. But I shove any uncertainty away, choosing wit perhaps for this round. “If she arrives before the tutor, maybe we can form a united front and ask Angeline to teach us the most important French phrases today? Like, how to say, Can the bar car stay open late?”

The corner of her lips twitches in a smile. “And how to order the best wine?”

I relax into the chair more, stretch my arm across the back of it. For a second, her eyes flicker down my chest, then up. Like she’s taking a lightning-fast tour of my body.

Wouldn’t that be fun if she were?

But nope. I’m not her type. She likes slick guys in tailored suits, with expensive watches, and silk ties. Whatever. I’m over it. “Look, here’s the thing. I figure as long as you can say please, thanks, where’s the john, and can you give me something strong to drink you’re good to go.”

With that smile staying intact, she nods. “Words to live by.” Then her eyes light up. “I should make a cheat sheet. I can’t believe I haven’t done that yet.”

“Yeah, I can’t either. You’re the queen of prep,” I say.

“I can’t help it. I have to prep. I hate surprises,” she says, and I know that. I definitely know that.

“Including when guys with eight-packs answer the door unexpectedly wearing only a towel?” I tease.

She taps her chin, like she’s seriously weighing that one. “That has yet to happen in real life, but I might be okay with that unexpected delight,” she says, a hint of a smile on her lips.

The conversation is interrupted when her phone buzzes on the table. Mine vibrates in my pocket.

“Twin buzzes,” I say.

“Probably Angeline,” she says.

I take my phone out. She swipes hers open.

A message from Kennedy blinks up at me. But it’s to both of us. Before I even read the message, the mood at the table shifts and turns heavy. A photo of Kennedy's leg in a blue fiberglass cast stares up at me.

I groan as I read the text.

Kennedy: Rats are my enemy! There was a rat chasing me down the stoop of my building. Chasing me, I swear. It’s like they’ve become even more powerful and evil. I tripped and fell and THIS is what happened. Is there anything worse than rats?





Another message lands.

Kennedy: Oh, in case it wasn’t clear, I’m drowning my sorrows over not being able to go to Europe in hospital Jell-O.





Then one more.

Kennedy: Also, hospital Jell-O is the worst. I think it was made by rats.





For a few long, shocked seconds, I try to picture seven days with just Hazel and me, on a luxury train, hosting a VIP reader tour.

But I can’t picture it. It’s the great and terrifying unknown.

With a heavy sigh, I set the phone down. So much for the buffer. I meet Hazel’s green irises, trying to read her emotions. But she’s blank. Maybe from the surprise. She must really hate this one.

She’s quiet longer than I’d expect. What is there to say though? Except the obvious. So I fall on the obvious sword, saying, “I guess it’s you and me, sweetheart.”

She looks like she’s about to answer when a flurry of flouncy skirt and jangly bracelets rushes through the coffee shop. Angeline hurries over to us, checking her watch. “Je suis désolée,” she says when she arrives. “I am late. I apologize.”

“No worries,” Hazel says to our tutor. “But if you could teach us to say, Can you open the bar car at midnight? that would be great.”

We’re definitely going to need that translation.





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