My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(53)

In Barcelona, I don’t need to play mental tricks like I did in high school, or like I did at the reader expo back in New York. I’ve spent countless hours researching for the novels I’ve set in this city. Here, my knowledge is my trick.

But as I show the group around Casa Milà detailing how my hero slipped into an apartment in the private residence at night using the physics of the undulating walls of the building itself, an unexpected, new idea taps on my brain.

It won’t let go. Like at the podium back in high school English class, I’m in two places at once. I’m speaking while I’m picturing something else.

I’m talking to the group about how my hero climbed up the side of the building while I’m thinking about another guy.

Someone back in New York.

Someone I just can’t get out of my head.





26





A COMPETITIVE MONSTER


Axel

I’m close, so damn close, to putting all the pieces of the puzzle together, but I can’t snag a private moment to tell Hazel as we traipse all over the city with the group. We eventually stop in the Sarrià-Sant Gervasi neighborhood for dinner, eating charred artichokes and drinking wine at a sidewalk café.

Hazel lifts a glass of her rioja red. “Because it’s Wineday.”

“May every day be Wineday,” I second, then take a hearty swallow of a wine that tastes like plums. I sit across from her, but there’s no chance to talk at the table. We aren’t boarding the train until late in the evening, but maybe I’ll grab some quiet time with her on the way back to the station.

At the end of the meal, Amy clinks her fork against her wine glass, then says, “We have a surprise for Axel and Hazel.”

I tense.

A surprise is usually something that blindsides you. Like your dad saying Surprise, we're going to Atlantic City for the weekend so you can work on some short cons.

Or, when you discover your love is cheating thanks to a social media post, like what happened to Hazel with Max. She mentioned it this morning, and I wince over that too, and my role in it. That’s another reason I need time alone with her. I have to tell her.

“Since our train ride to Paris is a short one,” Amy continues at the head of the table, “I put together a scavenger hunt for you two.”

Well, shit.

Welcome to my Hunger Games.



I don’t actually mind scavenger hunts. Carter dragged me on one when he visited me in Vienna in the off-season. My brother loves escape rooms, riddles, treasure hunts, and all that stuff. “Don’t care if I win,” he’d said. “Okay, that’s a lie. I love winning, but this is no-pressure winning, unlike, say, my Sundays.”

Made perfect sense. On Sundays, he plays pro football.

Scavenger hunts are fun for him because they aren’t part of his job.

But they feel like part of mine. Like I’m supposed to be good at them. That’s why they aren’t my thing. At least, not like this. With a group.

As we leave the restaurant, heading toward a nearby square, I try to develop a game plan for clues I don’t even yet know. That’s how badly I feel pressured to win.

Looking concerned, Hazel tugs on my shirt, pulls me aside on the street.

“You okay?”

Her concern feels good. “Was it obvious?”

She points at my face. “The sour look gave you away.”

I go blank, stony. “Better?”

“That’s good. But seriously, what’s wrong? You hate scavenger hunts?”

I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”

“Any reason?”

I hate that she’s so caring, but I love that she’s so caring. “There’s no way to say this without sounding like a dick,” I mutter.

“It’s okay,” she says, gently, a little playfully. “I know you're a jerk, and I don’t mind.”

I love that too. That she knows me, all of me. That she’s not afraid to call me a jerk, because it’s different to call your friend a jerk than it is your enemy. I can hear the softness in her tone. I welcome it.

And maybe today is one for confessions. I told Steven about the reviews. I can say this to Hazel. “I hate doing them in front of people. Because everyone expects me to be the best,” I admit with a sneer. The sneer is for me—I do sound like a big dick.

She nods. “Because you’re a former lawyer, because you’re a thriller writer, because you plot for a living.” Of course she gets it.

“Yep.”

She pats my arm with affection. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”

All your secrets, especially if they’re about me. “Yes,” I say.

“It’s okay if you don’t win. Other people like to win too. Just play for fun. You’ll be on my team.”

“Where’s my competitive monster?” I ask, pretending to hunt around for her.

An impish shrug is Hazel’s only answer. “Sometimes my competitive monster likes to have a glass of rioja and take the night off. Yours can join her at the café drinking wine while you and I scavenge.” She drapes an arm around my shoulder, squeezes. “Hey! That reminds me of sweet raccoon wine.”

As we head along the street toward the nearby square, I arch a dubious brow. “That sounds like a clue in a scavenger hunt, or something the chief forager was peddling.”