My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(6)

Axel takes a step closer and extends a hand. “To faking it on Sunday.”

“To faking it,” I say as we shake.

His hand wraps firmly around mine. A strong grip. A warm grip.

If this were one of my books—or one of his—there’d be a slo-mo spark. A zing as we connect. And all sorts of wild ideas about hands on bodies, hands on skin.

But life is not a book, so I drop his hand before I can feel a single damn thing.

With the connection severed, Axel flashes a too-broad smile. “We’ll get on like thieves, Hazel Valentine. Just you wait till you see how nice I can be.”

Is he one-upping me? Like he can fake it better than I can? “You think you can be nicer than me?”

He smiles savagely. The eat ’em alive kind. “I do.”

“Then I can’t wait to see your nice side. I bet I’ll get along so swimmingly with Nice Guy Huxley that we’ll be like copy and paste.”

“We’ll be a plot and a twist,” he adds.

Damn. That was good. I’ve got nothing, so I’m going to need to let him have that last-word victory. “See you Sunday, Mister Nice Guy,” I say, then I walk away first, wishing it didn’t hurt to see him.

I don’t like to hurt. I leave that to my characters.

Me? I need all the protection from pain I can get.





4





MISTER NICE GUY


Axel

The thing is, I’m not known for being a nice guy.

So I might need a little help for the Q and A.

Fortunately, I happen to know a certified nice guy very well. My little brother. The next day, after Brooks Dean evades capture in Vienna then saunters into a nightclub and asks the brilliant and sexy owner to make it a double, I save the scene I’m writing in my next book, and hunt around my apartment for my phone.

Now that I’ve hit my word count, I can’t put off dealing with how to face Hazel any longer.

Where is that stupid device?

It’s not on my writing couch, under pillows, or on top of the piles of notebooks stuffed with ideas. Or on my living room table, which is stacked with research books.

I march into the kitchen. Nope. It’s not here on the counter next to the unwashed coffee mugs.

Fuck. Why can’t coffee be self-cleaning? Why can’t kitchens be self-cleaning, for that matter?

I stalk through my apartment, heading to the bedroom. It’s pristine in here because who wants a messy bedroom? That’s rude to me and to anyone else who might see it.

I spot the phone right away. Perched on the nightstand. I grab the device from where I charged it overnight. I haven’t looked at it for a while since phones are usually messengers of doom.

When I open the screen, there’s a note from Max blinking up at me. I bristle when I see his name—Max at Astor Agency—but I’ve bristled for a while when Max has reached out. A quick scan tells me it’s a report on sales for A Perfect Lie, and he’s using exclamation points, so that’s good. I barely skim it. If I get caught up in sales, I won’t write, and if I don’t write, I can’t pay the bills.

I also won’t pay the bills if I don’t help promote my books.

Which is where Carter comes in. As I leave the bedroom, I dial my brother in San Francisco.

He answers on the second ring. “You do know that text messages exist?” he says by way of greeting. Pulse-pounding pop music plays in the background, accompanied by the sound of machines grinding. Carter’s at the gym. Naturally.

I scoff. “You still want me to text you before I call? I refuse to do that,” I say, returning to my living room. But I don’t flop down on the couch. I just…walk.

I need a game plan for tomorrow. And I won’t find it sitting down.

“Of course you refuse. But a lot of people do it. You know, in case the other person can’t pick up but wants to talk soon. It’s a courtesy, you know. It’s a thing,” he adds.

“A thing I won’t do,” I say. “Because the phone has a built-in device for letting someone know you’re calling. The ring. And a built-in way to avoid calls. The old-fashioned ‘don’t answer’ trick.”

“God, I miss you,” he says sarcastically. “Anyway, what’s cooking?”

Dragging a hand through my hair, I pace back and forth. “I have to do this thing tomorrow. A Q and A. With a bunch of authors and…” I take a deep breath. “Hazel.”

Her name is a raw scrape in my throat.

“Ohhhhh,” Carter says, full of insight. “That should be interesting.”

I swallow roughly. A little uncomfortably. “But I can’t let on that we…have a history.”

“Euphemism,” he coughs out the word.

“Exactly.” I knew Carter would understand the spot I’m in. “I need to be nice to her onstage. How do you do it?”

My brother cracks up. “Oh, Axel. How much time do you have?”

I roll my eyes as I reach the window, then stare out at the streets of Gramercy Park ten floors below. It’s a Saturday, so young families pushing strollers crisscross the block, alongside joggers with dogs. “Look, I’m sure a lot of natural charm has to do with the fact that your dad’s not a flaming liar.”