My So-Called Sex Life (How to Date, #1)(77)

It’s not an accusation. It’s a question.

“Because that’s not why I fell in love with you,” he says simply. “I fell in love with you for who you are, not what you look like.”

My heart clutches. It’s all soft and squishy. “You’re making this really hard,” I mutter.

“Making what hard?”

“To keep up the bickering,” I mumble.

He laughs. “Sweetheart, I intend to vex you for a very long time.”

“Is that a threat?” I taunt.

“It’s a promise. Prepare to be vexed, flummoxed, irritated, and driven mad. Also to be fucked very well and thoroughly.”

I thread my fingers through his hair. “You know how I said I won’t hold back?”

A line digs into his forehead. “Yeah?”

He sounds so concerned, but I can make that worry go away. I run a finger down that line. “I don’t hate cuddling,” I say in a confession.

And Axel Huxley cracks up. He laughs so hard the Left Bank can hear. “That is so very you.”

I flip around so my back is to his chest. “Cuddle me.”

“If I have to,” he says, then wraps his arms around me, and holds me tight.



In the morning we’re sitting at a sidewalk café, downing coffees. I’m watching the city roll by as Parisians march to work, or to fun, or to school.

Axel’s head is down, bent over his phone. He’s reading the scene I wrote.

I’m not nervous. I’m just grateful he’s here. Happy I can show it to him. It’s not long—just a thousand words or so.

He’s done quickly, and when he looks up, he’s a little dumbfounded.

Oh, shit. Was I too sappy? “You didn’t like it?”

He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes.

Oh, god. Axel is never speechless. What’s wrong with my words? Maybe it needs a little editing, but when the feisty, bossy, chatty heroine says to the grumpy, talky, sarcastic hero that the guy for her has been in front of her all along, and she wants to try, doesn’t he get it? Oh, no. “It’s too cheesy and you hate cheese?” I ask, wincing. “Is it the hold the tuna bit?”

He dips his head, smiling, maybe embarrassed. Then he raises his face. “I just love it so much I don’t even know what to say.”

I’m swept up with so much happiness that I stand, close the distance between us, and sit on his lap. I wrap my arms around him, and I kiss his stubbly jaw. “I love you.”

He sighs happily as he pulls me close.





42





TEN POINTS


Axel

A week later

I down the last of my coffee then set the mug in the sink amidst an embarrassingly large pile of empty mugs.

But, whatever.

Who’s going to see them? I leave the kitchen, grab my messenger bag, and head for the door.

You dumbass. Hazel will see them.

Don’t want her thinking I live like a pig. Setting down my bag, I double back to the scene of the messy crime and wash the mugs, putting them in the dish rack to dry.

Then I head to the door again, surveying my pad one more time before I take off. Yup. It’s officially acceptable for a lady to see tonight.

Lady?

Fuck that.

She’s not simply a lady. She’s my woman. My girlfriend. My big love.

On that thought, I smile.

The goddamn grin doesn’t leave my face as I head down the hall of my building and step into the elevator. My buddy Bridger’s in the lift, sporting a ruby-red shirt, checking out his phone. He looks up when he must hear me. Then he arches one brow. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“What is wrong with my face?” I ask, lifting a hand, hunting for…coffee residue?

He points at me, his eyes narrowed. “Your mouth is doing something funny. I think…” He peers quizzically. “Is that a smile?”

Asshole. “Yes. They are common in the species of men when they fall ass-over-elbow in love.” Then I grin wider. “Like yours, dickhead.”

He laughs, but now he’s smiling too. He was the first of the two of us to fall, and he and his girlfriend, Harlow, are disgustingly happy together. “Fine, you got me there,” he says, then shoots me a wide-eyed look. “So, who did you hoodwink?”

The elevator slows at the lobby, and as we leave the building together I tell him. “The one and only Hazel Valentine.”

“No kidding? Harlow loves her books.”

“Harlow has good taste.”

“I love her books too. I’ve been trying to acquire them for my company,” he says. Bridger runs a TV production shop.

“Want me to put in a good word? I imagine you’ll need it. Everyone wants Hazel’s stories,” I say, feeling all the pride in the world.

“Sure, but the four of us should have dinner soon too. As friends. Go to a show.”

“I like musicals,” I say as we hit the street.

“You do?”

“I am a man of many mysteries,” I say.

“You are, Huxley. You are,” he says, then claps me on the shoulder. “You wear happiness well.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, then we head in opposite directions, and I make my way to Chelsea to a familiar haunt.