My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(41)

“Of course not,” she says, then stops at a terracotta building at the corner of an even narrower alley. She tips her forehead down the shadowy passage. “Even when that stubbed toe makes it harder for him to commandeer a motorcycle to chase the bad guy down these alleys as he tries to outwit the…evil banker.”

I laugh. “Did I tell you Nefarious Ned was a banker?”

She smacks my shoulder playfully. But it’s friendly, like two former writing partners should be. It’s not romantic, like it could be between two people who got lost in a kiss on the train after dark.

Or, really, one person.

“Hey! You promised you’d make me a villain. I’m holding you to it,” she says, sternly, shaking a finger.

“Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” I say as we wander deeper into the maze of alleys in Old Town.

We’re still side by side, but it’s a tight squeeze as we walk. After a beat, she says, “Axel?”

I brace myself. “Yes?”

“Why do you call me sweetheart? You started it…after,” she says cautiously, as she busts me.

I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to admit that it helps keep her at a distance. That I can say it with a curl in my tongue. I started it months ago when I had to face her for the first time after. It had bite. I needed that bite.

I sigh heavily, saying nothing.

But when she shoots me a sad look, it’s clear my sigh said enough.

“Does it bother you?” I ask, a little concerned now. I don’t want to backtrack with her now that I’ve gotten something right with her today—the plotting game.

She shrugs.

I wiggle my fingers. “C’mon. You’ve never been one to hold back. Just lay it on me, sweetheart,” I say before I realize what I’m doing—falling into old habits completely.

Calling her that name again.

She wheels around, fire in her green eyes as she stares sharply at me. “Fine. Yes, Axel. It bothers me because you say it like an insult. And I don’t want to be insulted.”

Oh, shit. Oh, hell.

I’ve been such a dick.

She’s dead right. “I won’t call you that anymore,” I say, honestly, looking her square in the eyes. “I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for telling me I was being a dick.”

“You were a smidge of a dick,” she says.

I laugh. “Better to be a smidge of a dick than…”

But I trail off since sexual innuendo is a bad idea. But also because it hurts to be this close to her, this aware of how much I want to push her up against the wall and call her maddeningly beautiful, since she is. She fucking is. So I grab the tool of sarcasm to jimmy my way out of this situation. “Besides, I need to get used to calling you Hazel the Hungry.”

“That’s my villain name?” she asks dubiously as we resume walking.

“You don’t like it? But you like lunch,” I point out, so helpfully.

She scoffs. “I would think something like Hazel the Horrible.”

I shake my head. “Nah, too on the nose. How about Hazel the Harried?”

“Because I’m too…busy to be a good villain?”

“Hmm,” I say, tapping my chin as I consider other options. “What about Hazel the Hot-Blooded?”

She nods a few times, digging it. “Works for me.”

“Then I’m definitely not using it,” I say, as we reach the end of the alley. It lets us into the main drag.

She draws a deep inhale as she looks around, smiling as her eyes travel across the view. “It’s good to be here again.”

“So you and your mom had a nice trip to Nice?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “She always wanted to travel here. My dad never did, so I finally took her to France when I graduated from college. I wasn’t sure I wanted to travel with her, but I’m glad I did.”

“Why weren’t you sure?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds before she answers. “I was frustrated with her when I was younger. Even though it wasn’t her fault, I was still annoyed with my parents' relationship. I didn’t like how she let my dad treat her, but then she went to a codependent anonymous type group when I was a teenager, and I did the same, and I think I understood her more. Why she let him control her but also how she wanted to change.”

“That’s great,” I say, genuinely glad she sought the help she needed, and that her mom did too. While she’s told me before about her complicated relationship with her father, and how strict he was with everyone, I wasn’t aware of how that impacted her connection with her mother. “That you went, that she did, that it helped.”

“I’m glad I went too. I think it made it possible for us to be close again. Know what I mean?” She holds my gaze for an important beat.

She’s not talking about her mom. She’s talking about us, and us is terrifying. “Sure,” I say, sinking back into my protective shell.

We walk in silence for a block, then she turns to me again at a street corner. “This is nice, Axel,” she says.

Her remark sends a jolt of warmth through me. Maybe of wistfulness too. I know what she means. Talking. Sharing. And I can’t be entirely monosyllabic in my replies. “It is,” I say, admitting that much. “It’s nice to talk to you again.”