My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(23)

But before he can ask Google, I answer with, “Nemeses.”

He checks the dictionary still. Understandable. I’d do the same, since there’s no better way to drill home a word. As he reads the definition, he cringes, bemoaning his own mistake. “Nemeses,” he repeats as he bangs his head against the back of his seat.

“You know what this means,” I say, far too pleased.

“I do,” he mutters.

A vocabulary sin requires repentance. It’s a game we invented when I told him about my dad’s Draconian grammar rules. We took Dad’s ruthlessness and turned it into fun.

“Lunch is on you,” I say, delighted to celebrate this schadenfreude as I’d expect him to do if the tables were turned.

The last time we played was more than a year ago, when we were working on Lacey’s story. The brilliant and pretty ER doc was arguing with her annoying co-worker Noah, before she went home to prep for her date with her sexy new neighbor.

I wrote another thing coming in chapter three instead of think. Oh, the pain. The terrible pain I felt.

“You’ve got another think coming if you think I don’t know that about lunch,” he says.

“I do know that,” I say.

“Good. You understand the rules,” he says.

And I understand him too. Because ten months ago was when I broke up with Max. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that that’s when Axel split with his agent.

“You left Max ten months ago?” I ask, wanting to be one hundred percent sure.

“I did,” he confirms.

“Because he’s a jackass?”

“And a liar,” he adds.

I take a few minutes and let this new understanding of Axel fall into place, like a room rearranged. A table’s in a different spot. A couch is up against the wall. But this new room layout makes so much more sense. It aligns with the man I knew.

It makes sense—intrinsic sense—that Axel would leave Max.

It makes me feel understood too. Like maybe we’re…frenemies.

I meander back in time to thirty minutes ago. To Axel’s dry mic-drop—I’m sure the reviews would love a smackeroo. To the smart dig in those words. My heart gives a happy little squeeze.

A few minutes later, as we prep for takeoff, I close my eyes then say quietly, “Thanks, Axel.”

“For what?”

“For leaving Max.”

He’s quiet at first, then, barely audible above the hum of the plane, he says, “I couldn’t stay with him after that.”

Maybe, just maybe, I can make it through this trip.





11





A TIDGE RUGGED


Axel

That was a close call.

But at least we only talked about the end of things with Max. Not the beginning of his romance with Hazel.

I’m happy to tell the truth about the demise of my business relationship with him. No interest in digging into that damn book party when I introduced the two of them.

They say hindsight is twenty-twenty but I may need to get my glasses checked, since I’m still fuzzy on what I should have done that night.

But what’s done is done.

At least Hazel and I buried a sliver of the hatchet. Maybe a sliver is enough. Sure seems to be, since we make it through the next few hours of the flight with occasional small talk, questions like do you want a beverage and excuse me, I need to step over you. Fine, I might watch her ass as she climbs over my legs. But the view. Dear lord, the view.

Hazel Valentine does not possess a writer’s butt. She’s got a peach rear, and I want to bite into it like a piece of fruit.

Which is not a helpful thought, so I return to the book I’m listening to for another few minutes, turning it off when the meal comes.

Hazel’s more quiet than usual as she bites into her penne pasta, then stabs another piece with her fork. “Did you know this is airline code for vegetarian?”

“Pasta?”

“Yup,” she says, then pops it into her mouth.

“Were you expecting the wild beets, sweetheart?” I ask as I slice a piece of the roasted chicken, then take a bite.

“Of course,” she says. “It’s my greatest hope. But you know what else is?”

“Your greatest hope?” I ask.

She sets down her silverware, then looks me square in the eyes. “For you to talk to that guy.”

My brow creases. “What guy?” I’m not sure what she’s getting at.

She tips her forehead behind us. “The guy you were chatting with as we boarded, Axel,” she says, a bit of a plea in her voice. “He likes your work. He’d be really excited to know it’s you he was talking to.”

I frown. “Nah. That ship has sailed.”

She arches a brow. “Has it though? There’s no reason you can’t go back there and say you wrote A Lovely Alibi. He’s a fanboy. He’d be excited.”

My stomach churns, and I wish I knew why.

But maybe Hazel does, since she sets a gentle hand on my arm, “You think you don’t deserve your success for some reason. But you’ve earned it. Through hard work and talent. The guy likes you. You’d make his day.”

Would I though? “It’s so presumptuous,” I say, but my argument sounds woefully weak. Like, it’s such a weak argument I’m embarrassed I made it.