My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(64)

As in, we’d better deliver, or our careers are toast.

I look to Axel first. My answer hasn’t changed, but I want to hear him say yes again. I kind of can’t get enough of it. “Thanks, Michelle. That’s a lot, and it’ll let me keep writing,” he says, sounding honest and grateful.

He’s still amazed he gets to do what he loves for a living. I am too. To tell stories is heady and humbling all at once.

I chime in with a cheery, “Send the contract anytime.”

“Great,” she says, and it sounds like she’s about to hang up, but then she adds, “And by the way, The I Do Redo is a bona fide hit in France. The U.S. too, but your French publisher is très, très happy. They called, raving about how it’s selling there. Just wanted to pass that along.”

“Good to hear,” I say, briefly flashing back to Veronica’s advice when I FaceTimed her in Rome—focus on work. In a way, I did focus on work. On being fully present for every moment of the tour, on listening when the readers shared ideas, then on plotting new stories with Axel and revisiting old ones. Somehow, that all worked out, and here I am, lucky enough to still write for a living. Pinch me. Just pinch me.

It’s almost all too good to be true. But somehow, it’s real.

We finish up, and when I end the call, I’m still in a state of shock and wonder over the Axel news. “We’re really doing this,” I say.

“We’re really doing this,” he repeats.

I’ve wanted this reunion badly. But now, I’m also starting to want something else. Something beyond the characters, beyond the coffee shop camaraderie, beyond the partnering in crime.

But my track record sucks. I guess you can’t have everything.



A little later, we arrive at Gare du Nord for the final leg of the train trip. As I roll my luggage along the platform, Amy by my side, I glance at the clock on the station wall. It’s early evening. This is our longest train journey—fourteen hours to Denmark.

Axel’s behind us, chatting with others, while Amy rattles off details of the last night of the tour.

“And I checked and double checked. You’ll be all set with lots of space,” Amy says as we near the car. We’ll have separate compartments on this journey north. That should make me happy, but it doesn’t. I can’t rely on a reservation snafu this time around to bring me closer to Axel. I’ll have to take the step.

“Thanks, Amy,” I say.

I shift the conversation to her, asking about her kids in Los Angeles, if she misses them, if she’s excited to see them. I listen attentively, even though my shoulders feel heavy. Time feels too fast. It’s running out for real.

This is our last night on a train. Then Axel and I will spend tomorrow night in Copenhagen before we leave for the airport to return to New York.

Less than forty-eight hours, and this brief and lovely tryst on a train, in a hotel room, under the table in a brasserie, will end.

But it’s been more than the best days of my so-called sex life. It’s been boat rides and meanderings in foreign cities. It’s been games we love playing and wishes in fountains.

When we return to New York, it’ll be contracts and deadlines. It’ll be keeping the promises we made to our readers. I won’t break those again.

But we made promises to ourselves too—to finish the story. To see our characters all the way through. That’s what we do. We write.

It’s how I understand the world, and I don’t want to break my understanding of myself either. I want to finish what we started.

There’s only one thing to be done.

Once we step onto the train, Bettencourt is there waiting, sporting an expensive suit and an intensity in his gaze. “There you are, Amy,” the billionaire says, and her name contains multitudes. He’s eager to see her, he’s hungry for her, he only has eyes for her.

I wave goodbye to the single mom who looks a little enchanted as she talks to the man waiting for her. I can’t wait to tell Axel about the two of them and how they deserve a train romance.

When I reach my compartment, I flop down on the same bed we shared earlier in the trip, and I call him.

“How’s your compartment?” I ask when he answers.

“You trying to trade, Valentine?”

I smile. “If yours is better, we should sneak into yours tonight.”

I can hear him smile over my boldness, over the way I ask for what I want.

“Get over here now. Act casual, like we need to, I dunno—”

“—plot.”

“Yes. That. Brilliant.”

Seconds later, he’s opening the door to his compartment, and I’m stepping inside so I can ask for something from the guy I couldn’t stand when I shared a table with him in New York more than a month ago.

And it’s not about Amy and the billionaire. It’s about us. I’m eager to wring as much joy as I can from the waning days. “What if we make the most of these last two nights?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, sounding full of hope too.

“We finish the book tour tomorrow afternoon in Copenhagen. But we don’t leave till the next day. Spend it with me. Just me. All day, all night.” I take a beat, gearing up for the real ask. “Like a date.”

His blue eyes twinkle. Then, he lifts a finger, swipes it across my eyelid gently and holds it up. “Eyelash. Make a wish.”