My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(22)

I step onto the plane first as a flight attendant in a red pantsuit greets me. When I show her my boarding pass, she says, “Right this way, Ms. Valentine.” She gestures to the second row, then turns to Axel. “And Mr. Hendrix-Blythe, you’re in the second row too,” she says to my companion, and we slide into our seats, me by the window, him by the aisle.

When the man walks past Axel to the last row of first class, the fanboy nods at Axel without knowing who the guy next to me really is.

I have a hunch as to why Axel didn’t tell him. Only, as much as I want to dive into his motivation, now’s not the time. I put a pin in the you still don’t believe your success convo.

A girl with a big old apology chip on her shoulder has got to do what a girl with a big old apology chip on her shoulder has got to do.

“Axel,” I say quietly, stripping any residual snark from my tone. I’m tempted to reach out and touch his hand. His arm. His shoulder. But I refrain.

Like a mistrustful dog, he turns to me, blue eyes guarded. “Yeah?”

Just do it. Just say it. No conditions. No justifications. The opposite of your father. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

He blinks. “For what?”

“For what I said about Max,” I say, nervous. I hope I’m not making this worse.

He scoffs. “Max?” he asks, incredulous. “You’re sorry about Max?”

I wince. This is so much harder than I’d thought. I’m going to have to repeat my snide comment. “That was shitty for me to say I can’t believe you’re working with him. Just because I have issues with him doesn’t mean you should stop doing business with him. He’s a great agent.”

Axel smiles, easy and confident, like a superhero shedding his mortal origins, donning his cape, luxuriating in his new powers. This smile is Axel at the hipster restaurant. It’s know-it-all Axel. It’s Axel who silently corrects people’s grammar. “Max is a great agent. He’s also a great jackass.” Somehow, that superhero grin grows impossibly wider. “I left him ten months ago.”

Seriously?

I sit up straighter. Study the guy next to me like he’s under a microscope. “You left him?”

“Mason Stein reps me now, but Max will always be in my work life. He’s a soul-less, money-loving bastard, enjoying all his last laughs since, obviously, he makes money off my backlist. But at least Mason makes the fifteen percent on my new deals.”

Mason.

That’s right. Axel mentioned Mason’s last name to Linus outside the hotel after the reader Q and A last month—lunch with Stein. He said Mason, too, a little while ago when he picked up the phone. I know Mason. He’s fantastic. He’s TJ’s agent. A sarcastic, Ari Gold-esque, will-go-to-the-ends-of-the-earth-for-you agent. He’s perfect for Axel.

“He’s terrific for you. He’s great,” I say, meaning it completely.

“He is,” Axel says. Then his expression goes blank before he turns serious. “Appreciate you saying that. And listen, Hazel, I agree with what you were saying before we saw him. For this trip, we’ll do our best just to be…writers touring together.”

He extends a hand to shake. I take it. It’s the first real handshake we’ve had since I ran into him again. It feels good to hold his hand. There’s a zing, a little shiver down my spine.

That’s just because I love a good handshake.

Not because his dark blue eyes hold mine for a long beat.

Not because his touch feels both familiar and new.

And not because I’m still thinking about him with his shirt off.

I let go of his hand. “Does this mean we’re friends?” Because someone has to end the moment, return to barbs and stings.

With a laugh, he says, “Oh Hazel. Please.”

I smile, relieved to be enemies again. “Don’t worry. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“Good. You wouldn’t want me to relent that easily. If I know one thing about you it’s that you love a challenge.”

“Oh, I do? And you’re a challenge?” I ask.

“I’m your Everest, sweetheart.”

I lean my head back against the leather chair, scoffing at his analogy. “You know I can’t stand outdoor sports.”

He snorts. “Who said climbing this Everest was an outdoor sport?”

I smack his arm. “You dog,” I chide.

“You know you want to plant your flag,” he says, crossing his arms, so defiant, so familiar. So entertaining.

“You think I want to plant my flag on my archnemesis?” I ask.

“I’m still your archnemesis?” He uncrosses his arms, delivering a hard stare through those black glasses. Hmm. Have those glasses always looked so sexy smart on him?

Wait. Nope. I can’t go there. I backpedal to enemy-land. “Of course you’re my archnemesis. What could possibly have changed?”

“You apologized. Doesn’t that make me a mere nemesis now?” he asks, intensely serious.

I nearly break first, but I hold my laughter. “You want a demotion from archnemesis to mere nemesis?”

“Sure. I thought we were regular…nemesises,” he says, attempting to make a plural of that word and failing. “Shit, what’s the plural of nemesis?” He grabs his phone as if world peace depends on the answer.