My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(40)

“By the way, did you ever hear from the travel manager about the suite?” Hazel asks, sounding eager. Overeager maybe? It’s a kick in the gut, yet another reminder that a kiss can’t happen again.

She doesn’t even want to share a suite with me. And, really, do I want to share one with her? Well, not like we did last night, playing crime-scene-tape-down-the-middle-of-the-bed.

Amy waggles her phone. “Working on it. I’ll have an answer soon,” she says, then picks a spot for us to meet in an hour.

Once she heads off, Hazel looks me dead in the eyes. “Are you mad at me? Because the only thing you’ve said all day is same here.”

That’s the real smack upside the head.

I am so see-through.

Better add another regret to my digital Post-it—how I’ve handled every single irritating emotion I’ve ever felt for her, then and now.

But I can only move forward, and I won’t ice her out again. That means I need to try to act like last night didn’t devastate my heart. I’ll have to find a way through with something I didn’t do when I took off—be honest. Be…kind.

“No. I’m not mad,” I say, but that’s not quite right. “I was sort of lost in my head today,” I add, since that’s true enough to give her something, but safe enough to protect me.

She takes the answer and nods crisply. “Fair enough. I’ve been there.”

She gets it. She gets me. “But I would love to check out the alley where that maddening kiss took place,” I say, since I’m not going to turn down a free hour in Nice. Especially with her.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“No, I mean it,” I say, free of sarcasm or acid. I want her to know I truly would like to kick around town. We’ve only ever hung out in New York, exploring that city together. Never another. This is a brand-new activity for us, for me. Maybe it’ll be what I need today to clear my head and my heart.

Her right eyebrow reaches above the sky. “You do?”

I suppose she’s right to doubt me. So there’s one surefire way to let her know I’m where I want to be right now. “Brooks will definitely have to hunt for treasure here as he evades bad guys,” I say with a smile that says I’m ready to plot, and she damn well better come along for the ride. “Want to help?”

“Sure,” she says brightly. She’s game for plotting anytime, as she’s always been.

That’s promising. It’s a return to what once worked between us. And if we return, perhaps last night can truly be behind us now.

Where it should be.





19





THE PLOTTING GAME


Axel

As she traipses down a cobbled alley, Hazel smacks a weathered yellow building with her palm. “This is where Brooks will chase Nefarious Ned,” she declares, upbeat, excited. “He’ll slam his shoulder against the brick, taking the corner at full speed. On foot.”

“Of course he’s on foot. He’s a badass. But he’ll keep going,” I improvise, as I assess the damage the four-story building will do to my hero. “It’s only a bruise after all.”

“Can it draw blood, please?”

“Damn, you want to make it hurt, don’t you?”

“I really do.” She mimes grabbing a knife and carving up Brooks’s insides. I only know that’s what this gesture means since it’s a Hazel thing. She does it while plotting, always saying our job is to make it hurt, like a knife through the stomach.

She’s vicious. It’s the best.

“Fine. I’ll make him bleed,” I say, like I’m acquiescing, as though I like to torture imaginary people too.

She pumps a fist as we walk past apartment buildings with white shutters and flower planters. “But then Brooks will lose the chase in the rubble.”

“I’ll be sure to let Brooks know you want him to lose,” I say.

“Of course. Because he has to lose before he wins,” she says. “That’s how books work.”

“I know, Hazel, I know,” I say dryly, but I’m glad, too, that we said yes to this hour. We’re resetting to something like friendship by plotting a book. And as we plot, I don’t have to face the aftermath of that kiss. Hell, we don’t have to talk any more about how quiet I was earlier today. We’ve tackled it. We’re done.

If I’m lucky, I’ll get my fountain of books’ wish—I won’t have to excavate any feelings for her on this trip.

Maybe we can skip over that day and just return to something I can handle—book talk. I’ve fucking missed it. “Did I tell you Brooks meets his heroine at a nightclub in Vienna? He’s very smooth when he picks her up.”

She shoots me a mischievous look. “Of course he is. I’d expect nothing less.” Then she doubles down on the twinkle in her eyes. “And I fully expect him to break a toe or something while he’s banging her over the bathroom sink in their luxury hotel room.”

That’s a thing in my books. My heroes always get it on with their ladies, but nothing goes perfectly. Someone usually stubs a toe, or hurts his back, or winds up with rug burn.

Sex is messy. But it’s still worth it.

“And he doesn’t regret a damn thing about his broken toe the next day,” I add.