My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(68)

At breakfast, the last-day-of-vacation mood blankets the group. Everyone moves with a little melancholy, a little wistfulness as we grab plates and pour coffees.

I don’t sit with Hazel, but when Bettencourt strides through the car, beelining for Amy, who looks his way with a trying to wipe the sex glow smile off her face, I can’t resist a glance at the fiery redhead I adore. Hazel gives me an I know what they did last night look. And I return it.

That gives me one more idea for how to make it through the next thirty minutes till we arrive in Copenhagen.



After we return from breakfast, we zip up bags, gather phones and books. We’re twenty minutes from Copenhagen, and I know how to make my wish come true.

We’ll talk about work the entire rest of the trip.

Just work. That is all.

Once she closes her suitcase and brushes one hand against the other like she’s saying that’s done, I beckon her with my finger.

I’m sitting on the tiny love seat by the window. It’s hard as stone, but I don’t care. The view is unbeatable as we roll toward the Danish capital. The view will keep me rooted in my cause.

“But the couch,” she says, a little whiny.

“Come here anyway.”

I figure she’ll sit next to me, but she surprises me and sits on my lap.

And that fries my brain. I catch the scent of her wildflower shampoo, and I’m done. I don’t want distance. I want to savor every last second with her.

I wrap my arms around her, nuzzle her neck, like a lovestruck fool taking his last hits. Then I let go, look out the window, and try to resist the too-fast, too-painful speed of my heart. I try so damn hard to talk about work, only work. “I had this fantasy the other night,” I begin.

She lifts a brow seductively. “You and your iron dick are insatiable.”

I laugh softly, but then kill the laughter. “Shockingly, it’s not about sex. Ninety-five percent of my thoughts are, but not this one.”

“I like your anti-sex thoughts too. Tell me.”

“I am never anti-sex,” I say. I can’t have her thinking that.

She rolls her eyes. “I know, Axel. I know you.”

My heart clutches. I fight like hell to ignore the tight squeeze in my chest. And I try, dear god, I fucking try to focus. “I pictured a man and a woman who meet on a train,” I begin. “At first, I thought she was feisty, and he had a chip on his shoulder. But then, what if she’s the single mom PR woman, and he’s the reclusive billionaire who’s captivated by her?”

There. Amy and Bettencourt will get me through.

She gasps. “Oh my god.”

“I mean, it’s sort of obvious, I know,” I say. “But maybe we could write it someday.”

What in the holy fuck am I doing? I’m trying to be tough, but I’m talking about the thing that makes me most vulnerable.

My passion.

My love of stories.

My burning need to tell them.

She holds my face. “I’ve always wanted to write a train romance too.”

“Yeah?” I ask, my dumb heart flipping. I can’t catch a break with her.

She lowers her voice like she’s sharing a deep, precious secret. “Confession: when my publishers first told me about the trip, I imagined an elegant train romance. Velvet gowns, a dapper man, and long, lingering glances as the train sped across the coast.”

Like it has for the last few nights.

“We should write one,” I say. Because when I try to resist her, I do the opposite.

“We should. A broody billionaire with secrets. And a single mom with a wounded heart,” she says.

“He’s determined to win her over,” I add, and that’s not me, that’s not us. Though, perhaps it is.

“She tries to resist,” she says, and yeah, maybe it is us after all. Maybe we’ve been writing ourselves this whole damn time.

“But she’s helpless to his charms,” I say, then run my fingers up her arm, into her hair.

“She wanted to resist,” Hazel says, locking those green eyes with mine.

“But he wore her down,” I counter, my voice low, my heart thudding painfully. I’m aware I’m speaking in the past tense now. I’m definitely no longer brainstorming Amy’s romance.

I’m retelling this one.

Wanting to give it a new ending.

“He did,” she says, and her voice is soft and sad at the same time.

I’m such a fool. I pull her close, kiss her lips, and then…fuck it.

I can’t keep swallowing my feelings anymore. When I break the kiss, I say, rough and full of emotion, “Hazel.”

Her breath hitches. “Yes?”

I gear up to speak my heart to her, right here, right now. I part my lips, the words forming to say I’m so in love with you—when there’s a rap on the door.

I blink, suddenly unsure what to do. I clear my throat, ready to speak my truth anyway, but the other person is faster.

“Hello! We’d love to do a group photo as we pull into our final stop.”

It’s Amy, bright and cheery.

Breaking the moment.

“Of course,” I call out, my voice rusty. It hardly sounds like my own. “Be right out.”

Then Hazel turns to me with expectant eyes, a soft mouth.