My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(39)

But what is wrong with Hazel for picking these awful men? Though, I’m the pot calling the kettle black. My track record in picking women is as bad as Hazel’s in choosing men.

Still, I’m sure whatever guy got to take her to Nice, to kiss her, to have her, then to travel home with her, was a dude bro too.

Jealousy claws through me, dragging its jagged nails over my skin.

As she talks about her trip here, I look away, trying to tune her out. I should never have kissed her last night. I know better, yet when I was next to her on that awful couch, the hum of the train seducing us, that wildflower scent of her skin seducing me, I didn’t think.

I felt.

I felt an infuriating resurgence of all that pulsing, aching want I tried to vanquish when I went to Europe more than a year ago. To get away from her.

So I gave in.

Dumb fucking move, since now I can’t get her kiss out of my head.

“And it’s the perfect spot for a kiss, isn’t it?” she asks the group in that charming, vibrant voice that makes her readers adore her.

She’s so perfect for this genre, it kills me.

She has an every-girl charm about her. She’s accessible and chatty. She’s the woman they want to be their bestie. She’s not afraid to show them her real self. When we climbed up the steps earlier, Hazel stumbled on the second to last step, but one of the Book Besties grabbed her elbow, stopping her from falling.

“Guess I’m a clumsy heroine today,” Hazel had said to Maria, with a self-deprecating smile.

“I’ll save you anytime, girl,” Maria had said.

Now, they’re enrapt as Hazel brings them behind the scenes to the Nice chapters in one of her most popular books—Sweet Spot. But I can’t stomach hearing how she crafted that romance. Because I know—I just know—some other man inspired her. He kissed her here in this park, overlooking the Mediterranean, and I hate him.

“And I thought, someday,” Hazel continues, all wistful, and hearts-a-fluttering, “I will write a first kiss scene here, and it’ll be epic.”

“And the Sweet Spot kiss was so epic,” Jackie chimes in, bouncing on her pink Converse-clad toes. “It’s one of my favorite kisses of yours. But I also love the kiss in the alley in Old Nice, just past the market. When Bennett yanks her into a doorway—”

“—and he growls at her, saying, You are maddeningly beautiful,” Alecia puts in, hand on her chest, ready to swoon. “And all I can think about is what your lips taste like.”

“And she says, all sultry and needy, So find out,” Maria says, batting next with their performance of memorized lines from Hazel’s book.

Damn. They’re something else.

Hazel whistles in appreciation. “Wow. Impressive,” she says.

The Book Besties high-five each other.

“It’s one of our favorite kisses. It’s a top five Calgon Take Me Aways kiss,” Jackie says.

“What’s your all-time favorite? Across the whole romance genre. Not just my books,” Hazel asks the whole group. As different people answer, mentioning Kennedy, and TJ, and plenty of others, Hazel listens attentively and once, or maybe twice, I swear she steals a glance my way.

A furtive little stare.

Is she checking me out?

Regretting last night too?

Obsessing over it?

I don’t have a clue, so instead, I stare sullenly at the water, inventing character bios for all the people passing by down below. I do my best to keep my brain busy, so I won’t linger on that kiss I regret.

I definitely regret it even more after knowing she came here with a guy.

But I can’t tune her out since her voice grows louder, a closing note tone to it. “And that’s why I’m glad my mother took me on a trip to Nice years ago. When we visited here, I even told her someday I would write a kissing scene here,” she says.

It’s like a smack upside the head.

I was dead wrong. She came to Nice with her mom, not a lover. As she ushers the group out of the park, I straggle behind, delightedly corrected.

Feeling like the most relieved idiot in the world.

I grin privately as I head down the steps. I maybe even preen. Yeah, no one else kissed her.

You jackass, you didn’t kiss her here either.

You’re not sharing a sleeper car with her for real.

You’re not having a relationship with the woman who has utterly captivated you for years.

And so, I still regret last night.

Because I’m still the jackass who wants another kiss. One that doesn’t end.

As she finishes the tour, I stay quiet. I refuse to look at her. I live in my head. That’s easy for me. My imagination is rich and vivid, and I have so many stories to tell. Stories where the hero always gets the girl, no matter what.

But when the tour ends, and the readers head off with a local guide for a late afternoon snack (translation—glass of wine), Amy tells us we have a free hour before the early evening bookstore signing.

“I have some calls to make but if the two of you want to wander, we can meet up in an hour,” she suggests, checking the time on her phone.

Hazel looks at me, her eyes saying yes before her mouth does. “I’d love to,” she says, and I’m not at all surprised. She loves kicking the tires.

I just give a curt nod.

“Perfect,” Amy says.