My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(5)

He winces. “Apologies. Our chief forager canceled the dish. The mushrooms made him mad. We have chicken with kale picked from our rooftop garden though.”

“She doesn’t eat meat,” Axel cuts in. “What do you have for vegetarians?”

The man’s eyes pop. “Um…I could bring you the kale and some pistachios on the side?”

Gee, that sounds filling. But I can eat edamame at home later. “I’ll just have the drink. Thanks.”

Another cringe. “Sorry. We can’t let you sit here with just a drink.”

I blink. “Really?”

“Truly. It’s a rule,” he says, apologetic, even though he’s likely the one who made that punitive rule.

But even though he and his chief forager ran out of beets and pea shoots, I’m not going to bolt. I won’t let Axel have the satisfaction. I’m about to ask the owner to bring me the kale when Axel says, “Can’t you make her something with vegetables? You don’t want to be one of those places that discriminates against someone for their beliefs, do you?”

The restaurateur gulps. “No, of course not, sir,” he says, then scurries off.

I look at Axel, begrudgingly appreciative. “Beliefs? Are we allowed to do that?”

“Sweetheart, it’s a fucking pretentious restaurant. And the lawyer in me could argue it’s a belief with full conviction.”

The lawyer in him could argue anything.

But is his vegetable defense an argument for an argument’s sake? Or does he want me to sit here with him? That would make no sense. I study Axel, trying to figure him out. “All right. What’s your deal, Huxley? Why are you trying to get me to stay? That was a perfect chance for you to let me walk away and have the table all to yourself.”

“Ah, but what fun would that be? Especially when I have to see you on Sunday. This is like a little unexpected dress rehearsal.”

Ah yes, I’m a game. Got it. “Thanks for the reminder. I’d tried to erase that from my head.”

“Same here. But the more you shoot arrows at me, the tougher my villain will be.”

This time I don’t walk into the comment. I march straight through it. “And that’ll make it more satisfying when your hero kills her.”

He grins, slow and devilish. “He won’t kill her. He’ll just tie her up and turn her in to the authorities.”

I lean back in the chair. Yup. I’m not leaving.



An hour later, the meal is mercifully over. I leave the city’s most pretentious new restaurant, with Axel holding open the door.

Wish I could say that was fun and inspiring, but mostly it was like a boxing ring. One I escaped from not entirely unbruised.

“Tell me something, Hazel,” he says to my back. “Who’s Kendall or Avery or Bethany going to meet at the seated-with-strangers restaurant? A cocky chef who smells like cedar and snow? A grumpy professor with a beard that’s just so...rub-able? A single dad with a heart of gold and a big dick?”

I grit my teeth as I toss a glance at the man with the heart of onyx. Then I let go of the annoyance bubbling inside me, doing my best to seem unaffected. “I’ve decided to write romantic thrillers too. At the dinner with a stranger, she’ll meet the guy she’s about to double cross. And he won’t even see it coming.”

Axel rolls his eyes. “Good night, Hazel. I’m sure no one will be able to tell how you really feel on Sunday.” With that, he turns and walks down the block.

Wait.

What?

Am I that obvious? And are we that obvious?

Of course we are. We spent the whole evening throwing darts at each other.

But I can’t be obvious in front of an audience on Sunday. The Romance Reader Expo chose six romance authors from across the genre for a VIP Reader Q and A. If Axel and I act like little shits onstage, we’ll steal the spotlight from our colleagues. That’s tacky and gross, not to mention rude to the readers.

I stare at his silhouette retreating into the New York night, wishing I didn’t have to do this but having no other choice. I shove the past aside. Time for a temporary olive branch. “Axel,” I call out.

He turns back and waits. “Yes?”

I have to go to him. What a shock.

With my shoes clicking loudly, I cover the twenty feet between us, drawing a fueling breath as I go. When I reach him, I’m painfully blunt. “On Sunday, we can’t let on we feel this way,” I say seriously, reinforcing his throwaway comment about hiding how we feel. We simply have to.

He’s quiet for a beat, maybe weighing the public stakes of our feud. “True. No one likes spoiled brats,” he says, begrudgingly.

“And we can’t do that to TJ, Kennedy, Mateo, and Saanvi,” I add, naming the other authors who’ll be onstage with us.

“Right, right, of course.” He sighs in resignation, but nods. “We’ll have to fake liking each other.”

I’m relieved he’s willing to play nice. “Exactly. We’ll pretend we get along. Like we used to,” I say, and that’s what hurts the most. We used to get along famously.

“No one will know,” he says.

No one has known since we split. That’s purposeful, keeping the details on the down-low. I don’t like to air my dirty laundry to the world. Hell, I can barely stand my own dirty laundry.