My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(58)

TJ: Whaaaaat???? Don’t make me get out of bed to call you, girl.





Hazel: Wild, right?



I SparkNotes him on the entire Axel situation, minus the sex. We can talk about the sex another time. Mostly, I don’t want TJ to hear about Lacey rising from the dead from the whisper network. I want him to hear it from me, so I finish with one more text.

Hazel: You were right. I missed him and I missed writing with him. When we wrote together, I wasn’t in my head all the time, wondering if I was any good, if my story worked, if anyone would like it. I relished having someone to create with, someone to nurture a story with, then see it into the world. I liked having a partner in crime. (Well, you know what it’s like from our book!)



TJ and I wrote a rom-com together last year. We had a blast, but that was a one-off, and we haven’t made plans to write together again. I suppose for a mostly solitary, primarily feline-like creature, I crave companionship now and then.

Or more than now and then. Axel was my greatest companion, and we navigated the dark and dangerous waters of art and passion together. I can’t wait to do it again with him.

TJ: I do get it. I get it completely. Second chances are kind of my thing. Well, third chances, so I understand wanting to reconnect with someone you care about.





TJ and his husband met years ago in London, then met again, then finally, after one more time, got it right. I don’t think Axel and I are headed down that path, but it’s good to know TJ understands all my reasons. That’s another thing I love about our friendship. There’s an emotional shorthand we have, perhaps from mining so much emotion on our keyboards all day long.

Hazel: Thanks, friend.



TJ: Go have some fromage. I’m going back to sleep with my third chance.





Hazel: Show-off ?



I say goodbye and set the phone down, returning to my screen, but all I manage are the words She tastes like plums, and I’m thinking of kisses again, and tastes again, and Axel again. Is he penning a daring escape on a boat tour? Or has Brooks met the woman of his dreams? Does he kiss her passionately on the deck, her hair blowing in the breeze before he has to cover her, saving her from a hitman’s gunfire from across the riverbank?

I shiver, excited at the thought.

But thinking of his story isn’t helping my fictional sommelier and his heroine. I shake off the thoughts of Axel’s book, but five minutes later, I’m staring at white space.

“Fuck it,” I mutter.

I’m in Paris. I have a free afternoon. I want to experience the world, not imagine it. I grab my phone and call him, hoping words come easily this time.

He answers on the first ring. But it’s loud where he is, and he says above the din, “Hey there. Hold on one second.” Then he says to someone else, “Oui. Un billet, s’il vous plait.”

My heart speeds up. I know what he’s doing. But I wait patiently for Axel to finish. When he returns to me, he says, “I don’t normally pick up while I’m talking to someone, but what’s going on?”

He sounds concerned about me, but also hopeful. I’m hopeful too, since he’s not writing about a boat tour. He’s buying a ticket—un billet—to take one.

“Can you get deux billets? If you’re near the hotel, I can be there in twenty minutes.”





29





HOLD THE TUNA


Hazel

I lean against the railing, the summer breeze fluttering my hair, the boat slowly curling along the Seine. “And to think I was going to spend the day in the vineyards,” I say with a contented sigh as I drink in the view.

We’re motoring toward Notre Dame, passing under a bridge, the cathedral in the distance.

He lifts a brow in a question, and I answer, “My current book. He owns several vineyards.”

“Please tell me they fuck among the sweet raccoon wine grapes.”

“The barrels, babe. He bends her over the barrels. You just can’t hold on to vines with the way he fucks her.”

Axel doffs an imaginary top hat. “You win.”

“Oh, were we playing?” I rub my palms. “I don’t think you misused a word, but hey, I’ll happily take another lunch.”

And I would love it. Truly, I want another lunch with Axel. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow too.

“I meant you win for the new game. We’re playing…devise dirty scene scenarios on the fly,” he says.

“And you let me win already?” I ask, offended, utterly offended, he’d give in so easily. So offended I slug his shoulder. Maybe to touch him a little more.

“Fine. You don’t win. I take it back.” Then boom, he says, all rat-a-tat-tat, “A rooftop garden. He bends her over the railing.” Axel points to a pretty building on the Left Bank, wrought-iron balconies hugging the windows.

My turn. “In the Rodin Museum. Behind The Thinker. A fingerbang.”

He gives an approving nod, then tips his forehead toward the Left Bank too. “The Tuileries. At night. Behind the flower bushes. She sucks him off.”

“That would work in a public park, so points for realism,” I say. He smiles devilishly, and I toss him another one. “At a brasserie in the Latin Quarter. Under the table.”