My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(26)

I stifle a laugh, then say dryly, “She’s marrying a bed anyway.”

Hazel laughs.

The woman stares at us like we’re bananas.

Well, we’re writers, so…Yeah, that shoe fits.



On the drive to the hotel, I point out a few sights as we pass. She’s never been to Rome, so she stares with wide, eager eyes, taking it all in. But somewhere around Vatican City, her eyelids start to flutter and her head begins to bob. Then, she’s drifting off, her cheek introducing itself to my shoulder.

I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, balling my fists. I should say something. I should do something. Move her. Gently wake her.

But I don’t.

Instead, when she slides further and further into the land of nod and closer and closer to my lap, I just let her.

Jet lag be damned.

She’s asleep, her head in my lap, her red hair spilled across my legs. I’m careful not to rouse her as I take out my phone to text my brother, telling him I’m going to win an award for being nice.

Carter: What did you do? Hold the door for a little old lady? That’s baseline nice, dude.





Axel: O ye of little faith. I am next-leveling it. I am being nice to Hazel.



Carter: I don’t believe this is you. Say something Axel would say.





Axel: I hate people.



Carter: It’s you, brother! It’s really you!





We text some more as Hazel sleeps. It’s only another fifteen minutes to the hotel. Letting her doze is the nice thing to do.

Except, I’m not doing it to be nice.

When we reach the hotel, she wakes up with a jolt. Straightens. Blinks. Then mutters a thanks when we step out of the car, like her face wasn’t just in my lap.





12





GRAB LIFE BY THE MEATBALLS


Axel

After dropping off our luggage, Hazel and I trek to the Piazza Navona and snag a table at a sunny sidewalk café with a view of La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi. The afternoon sun paints the fountain with a rosy hue.

Hazel breathes it all in with a blissful expression.

“No wonder you have fountains in your books,” she says, appreciatively. “They’re gorgeous.”

Aesthetics aren’t the reason, but no need to unpack the real motivation. I’d rather eat, then eat up the rest of the day so we’re ready for tomorrow.

“I like fountains,” I say in an understatement.

“Me too,” she says. Maybe sleepiness softens her up, since she’s warmer with me than she’s been on the trip so far.

Or maybe it was the car nap.

As we settle in at the table, she opens the menu with a flourish, spreading it across the red and white checkered tablecloth. “It’s my nemeses lunch,” she declares.

“Enjoy it, sweetheart. Because it’ll be the last time it happens,” I say.

“Everyone trips on their words sometimes,” she points out.

“I don’t,” I say smugly.

“I can’t wait for your next fumble,” she says, then stabs the menu. “And I already know I want my next lunch here. Check out the pastas. Trenette al pesto, pasta alla norma, mushroom ravioli, pasta puttanesca.” She looks up, her green eyes glittering with culinary lust. “No wonder you spent so much time here researching books over the years. I’d have stayed in Italy just for the pasta.”

For a few seconds, I brace myself for a dig about my escape to Europe. But it doesn’t come. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure she was referencing my pants-on-fire departure to Europe when she made that comment at the airport about some of us jetting off to Europe on a whim. She might have just been talking about the fact that I’ve visited Europe a lot for story research. Her sorry then was probably just about the general comment and her worries of how it might have come across, not because it was a low blow. Since it wasn’t a low blow.

I relax my shoulders.

She salivates over the options for another minute then snaps the menu closed. “It’s official. Nemeses has earned me two lunches.”

I shake my head. “Nope. One lunch only.”

“Maybe I’ll order two dishes then,” she says, always wanting the last word.

But when the server arrives, she orders only the puttanesca. I choose a pizza, because…when in Rome. Then I ask for two espressos.

After he leaves, she lifts a questioning brow.

“I have to caffeinate you,” I explain.

She taps the veins on the inside of her wrist. “Just inject it right here please.” Then she takes a deep breath and looks around the piazza, bustling with tourists snapping pictures throughout the square. “So why’d you drag me a mile away instead of someplace closer to the hotel?”

All part of my plan to keep her busy. To enjoy some vitamin D. “I figured if we were outside in public, you wouldn’t dare fall asleep on me again,” I say, then grin.

She narrows her eyes, and I gird myself for an arrow dipped in poison. But instead, like she’s blameless, she says, “Look, you have a nice lap. It’s soft.”

I roll my eyes. “Great. Just great. I want to be known for my soft lap.”

Her lips twitch. “I won’t tell a soul it’s like a pillow.”