My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(24)

I lean back in the seat, run a hand through my hair. “I just don’t want to come across like…I’m too big for my britches.”

That’s what my dad did, for all intents and purposes. He hoodwinked people. He pretended he was someone he was not. If I go talk to that guy, am I going to sound like my dad, pumping up my own ego?

Hazel shakes her head. “You won’t sound too big for your britches.”

“But maybe I’ll sound like I lied. Better to leave sleeping dogs alone.”

“It’s not too late. This is your chance to tell him the truth. Just say hey, I’m Axel Huxley, and I’m excited you like my books.”

Hmm. That doesn’t sound too tough. That doesn’t sound like a con either. Since, well, it’s not.

And maybe it’d be a con to say nothing.

Once the food is clear, I stand, shake off the nerves, and head back to the fourth row. The man is deep into Girl In The Hotel.

I clear my throat.

He looks up. “Hey?” he says, kind of curious.

“So, I’m…Axel Huxley. I’m excited you like my books,” I say, giving him the line Hazel fed me. That was weird, like stretching muscles that have never been worked before.

But when his eyes pop and he says, “No kidding” with utter delight, the stretch is worth it. We spend the next twenty minutes chatting about stories, and it feels incredibly fucking good.

I don’t feel like a grifter one bit.



When the plane lands around eleven on Friday morning, I feel like jet lag has nothing on me. I slept a solid six on the flight, barely even rousing for the quick layover in Paris.

I am raring to go.

My travel companion is another story. Hazel’s yawning. Again. They’re super-size yawns and they’re unstoppable. “You going for a record? I can call Guinness and see if you’re close?” I ask as we shuffle off the plane.

Hazel sneers. “Not all of us are world travelers who hop off to Europe at the drop of a hat,” she says.

“Ouch,” I say. That hit close to home.

But I deserved that.

Still, she mutters, “Sorry.”

This woman is on an apology roll. But the runaway to Europe situation? That’s all on me. I owe her a plateful of sorries, but I’m not ready to dig into my reasons for that matchstick choice.

And honestly, maybe we’ve tackled enough of the past. Hazel seems keen on moving forward. “No apologies needed. But you can apologize for falling asleep on me on the car ride to the hotel.”

“I’m not going to sleep on you, Axel. I’m going to sleep on my fabulous king-size bed in my hotel room overlooking the Spanish Steps,” she declares as we reach the gate, weaving past other travelers.

“Question. If you’re asleep, how are you enjoying the view?”

That earns me another sneer. “Who cares? I have a date with my mattress in about an hour,” she says as another yawn takes her hostage.

Oh man, I hate to break this to her, but someone has to do it. “Actually, Hazel, if you crash now, you’re going to be a mess the whole trip.”

She turns to me with no snark or sneer, just confused alarm. “What do you mean?”

There’s no mincing words when it comes to jet lag. “You’ll never get on track for the trip if you crash this afternoon.”

Her plaintive whine sounds ripped from her soul. “But napping is supposed to be good for you.”

“Not on the first day on another continent,” I say, as we head through the bustling concourse on the way to customs and immigration. “The best thing you can do is get out, see the sights, kick around town. You need light—natural light—then go to bed early. That’ll help you get on the schedule here in this time zone. You’ll enjoy the trip much more with your sleep cycle in sync. Trust me.”

She trudges beside me toward the immigration sign in the distance. “But my bed,” she whimpers as we pass a souvenir shop selling sweatshirts with sayings like Grab Life By The Meatballs and Less Drama More Pasta. She cups her ear. “Can’t you hear it?”

“What’s it saying?”

“It says: Hazel, come to me, be my love.” For a second, she brightens, full of energy. “I want to marry a bed. That’s what I want. A big, fluffy king-size bed. What better groom for a romance writer than a bed?”

I shake my head, amused by her slide into the land of the over-tired. “You are seriously exhausted. Did you sleep on the plane?”

She winces. “A little. But in my defense, I was reading a really good book. This memoir of a child actor. It’s so wild, the things she went through. It’s giving me all sorts of ideas for new emotional wounds.”

“So you worked the whole time?” I chide.

“I read,” she says, insisting.

“It gave me ideas for emotional wounds,” I parrot. I’m not letting her get away with that. “That’s work, sweetheart.”

“It was pleasure,” she retorts, and it’s fucking adorable how she argues with me. It’s so damn cute how she wants to be right. Shame I’m attracted to women who like to go toe-to-toe.

But every man has an Achilles’ heel. At least I’m aware of mine.

“You have no respect for mornings,” I say, tsking her. “Or jet lag. But here’s the thing. You can’t be a tired wreck this trip. Want to know why?”