But I wished on a fountain that I would make it through this trip without telling her the truth of how I feel.

  The truth would ruin us all over again. I’m only now getting her back as a friend. I can’t lose her again.

  I didn’t even realize how much I needed her in my life until a few days ago. Not gonna fuck up this repair job by blurting, You’re the one.

  With that decided, I cease kissing, flopping back on the pillow so I can just enjoy being with her like this. “In addition to being opposed to cuddling, I’m not a cover hog, and I don’t snore.”

  “I don’t steal sheets or saw logs either,” she says, chin up.

  I laugh, shaking my head. “You are so competitive.”

  She nudges me with her elbow. “It’s not a competition. It’s the truth.”

  “You’re a competitive monster, Hazel Valentine.”

  “So are you, Alexander Hendrix-Blythe, Esquire.” She’d call me that when we were writing and hit a scene that needed legal background, like an annulment or a contract issue. It’s nice to hear the nickname again.

  “Want me to draw up a contract outlining the terms and conditions of sharing a bed?” I ask.

  She laughs and then turns to me, her eyes sleepy but amused. “Do you ever wish you practiced law?”

  “Not one bit.” Using my law degree for character research rather than a career was one of the best decisions I ever made. “Dad wanted me to be a lawyer. I never did. Didn’t realize it, though, till I had that JD in hand. Then bam. One of those moments of enlightenment where the heavens open and you get a message.”

  “From a higher power?” she asks curiously.

  “Nah. More like from the gut, know what I mean?”

  “I do.”

  “I just knew I wasn’t going to practice. Super useful thing to realize after paying tuition for three years,” I say. But that’s what work is for—to pay off your past mistakes and prepare for future ones.

  “So you joined the ranks of lawyers-turned-writers. It’s good company, at least,” she says, delivering the silver lining and a sympathetic smile. She knows I used our joint royalties to pay off my last loan. Good thing I went to a state school for that degree I never used.

  “Now I can just use my JD to argue about important things.” I lean in, plant a hot kiss on her neck, then travel to her ear to whisper, “Like who’s a better bedmate?”

  She scoffs. “I will win that contest.”

  “You’re on. My bed skills will stun you.”

  “So, you’re good in bed in all the ways,” she says with a wink.

  And…maybe I puff out my chest. Maybe I beam a little. “I’d be happy to wake you up with my face between your thighs if you require more proof.”

  “Generous,” she says on a yawn.

  “Damn. Sex wore you out.”

  She yawns one more time, bigger and deeper. “I’ve never been tired like this. I didn’t realize good sex would make me so tired.”

  Wait. What did she just say? I prop my head into my hand. “You’ve never had good sex before?” That doesn’t add up.

  She shifts too, turning to meet my eyes. The moonlight from the window spills across the bed, illuminating her bright green eyes and those kissable freckles on her nose.

  “It’s been good enough.” She seems earnest but resigned to her lackluster bedroom life. “But not like that. Not book sex.”

  I preen inside. I crow. But outside, I keep my cool since I have to go fishing for more intel. “So, all those hot scenes in your books? The go-down-on-her-on-the-desk scene in Sweet Spot? Not to mention the elevator, the stairwell, and the kitchen scenes in our first, second, and third books. Those were just…?”

  “From my imagination?” she asks dryly.

  “Well, were they?” Because I figured they were real.

  She shoots me a challenging look. “Did you once sew up a wound on your shoulder with fishing wire? Chase a hacker into the Trevi Fountain? Hitch a ride on a zip line to apprehend the evil mastermind behind a sinister plot?”

  Damn. She’d make a good lawyer. But she’s missing the point. The point is, tell me how happy my dick makes you.

  “No, but the ones in—”

  I cut myself off before I mention Lacey’s story, the unfinished Ten Park Avenue romance. Before I tell her that while we were writing that, I was sure she was modeling the hero after Max and it was killing me to hear about it. How I was positive, too, that she was about to write a soul-shattering sex scene inspired by that cheating prick.

  “The ones in what?” she presses. Such a bloodhound.

  “Just…all the ones you’ve written.” Even avoiding our book, I’m unable to strip the jealousy from my tone. “They’re good. Hot. And I figured you’d felt that.”

  Her grin widens with anticipation. “Axel, are you jealous of the imaginary sex you think I’ve had?”

  Ah, hell. I might as well just admit something. I’ll burst from all these annoying self-secrets. “Yes,” I grit out.

  “Really?”

  “Like I said, I’ve been getting you naked in my head a lot.”

  There. Covered it up again. Yup. This guy can wriggle out of any plot twist.

  “Let me assure you, sex has always been better in my imagination.” Taking an important beat, she locks eyes with me before she adds, “Until tonight.”

  Ohhh.

  Holy fuck.

  I preen visibly this time. Rock star indeed.

  Plus, I’m learning something fantastic. Max was bad in bed.

  That should not make me so happy, but it does. Oh yes, it does.

  “Good. You deserve lots of orgasms,” I tell her. “In fact, I bet I could give you two more before you’ve even eaten breakfast.”

  Her eyebrows shoot high. “You’re on.” She sticks out a hand above the covers and shakes mine, then drops a kiss onto my lips. “Like a hero in a book would do,” she whispers. A yawn cuts off the last word, and she lies back on the pillow, her eyes fluttering.

  “I’ll have my breakfast in bed, thank you very much,” I say, wishing it were morning already.

  Another laugh, and I’ll take that too. Bet Max didn’t make her laugh like I do.

  “And listen,” she adds, her words getting slurry. “Since we’re doing the only-one-bed-in-the-room trope, this seems like the time for the lay-out-the-ground-rules scene.”

  Right. Rules. Friends with benefits need sex rules. “Like how long we do this? Whether it’s a trip-only trope?” I ask.

  “Yes. Ticking clock and all. But I’m too tired. Morning?”

  “Morning,” I agree.

  I’m not looking forward to that conversation. But it’s better we have it. It’s better if we adult.

  Seconds later, she’s snoring. The little liar. She does too snore.

  Then she’s tugging all the covers off me and wrapping herself into them like a little cover piggy.

  Ha. She fibbed about that as well.

  I don’t fall asleep right away. I don’t even try. Instead, I just stare out the window, and imagine a new story unfolding.

  A feisty woman and a smart-aleck man. He’s got a chip on his shoulder. She’s been hurt.

  They meet on a train, and somewhere, sometime after midnight, he uncovers another solution to his plot problem.

  If he can win her over in bed, maybe, just maybe, he can subtly, so artfully she won’t even know it’s happening, get her to fall in love with him, day by day, until she’s as smitten as he is.

  But when I settle back into bed with the anti-cuddler, she’s turned the other way, wrapped up in the covers and her own sleepy world, and I take that as a sign that the story will be better if the hero stops reaching for the stars.

  She’s told him, for all intents and purposes, that she wants to be friends again.

  Friendship will have to be enough.

  24

  THE TRUTH ABOUT SIXTY-NINE

  Axel

  But I can’t have that ground-rules talk when I wake up—my mouth is rightfully occupied.

  Soon, I can barely breathe, but I’m not stopping. I’ll scuba dive without oxygen until she comes.

  It’s early in the morning, she’s grabbing my head in a vise grip, squeezing my face with her thighs, fucking my mouth with her pussy.

  There is no air, but who cares if I go blue? Best way to die.

  Hazel is seconds away from coming on my mouth as I devour her sweet, hot center. Then, with several concentrated, devoted flicks of my tongue, I elicit a glorious Oh god, yes, as she shudders and cries out.

  Somehow, she grips my face even tighter as she climaxes. But book heroes are undeterred by little obstacles like insufficient oxygen. I lick her till she gently pushes me away.

  “Damn, woman, were you trying to kill me through cunnilingus?” I ask, as I move up next to her.

  With a long exhale, she says, “That sounds like something that might happen in one of your sex scenes.”

  “Please. The hero would get lockjaw, be unable to argue his way out of a situation with Interpol, and wind up in jail.”

  “But of course,” she says, then sighs again as she runs a hand through her hair, savoring her post-sex high. I’d like to take that sound and bottle it. Take hits of it when I need a shot of adrenaline, a boost of extra confidence.

  “My heroes’ sex injuries always drive the plot.” Like the time the pulled muscle from a shower-bang made it harder for the hero to grab onto the back of a rickety old truck absconding with stolen antiques.

  “Didn’t some reviewer once say your sex scenes are weirdly realistic and somehow still ridiculously hot?”

  I grin, clucking my tongue. “That’s me.”

  She laughs, then she sets a hand on my chest. “But I guess I’m not such a great villain if you’re still alive.”

  “Alive and horny. Also, feel free to kill me anytime with your pussy.”

  “Sorry not sorry. I just kind of got into it.”

  “Kind of?” I ask, arching a brow.

  “You really like teasing me,” she observes, then pushes up on her elbows. “While you were down there not dying, I was almost going to ask you to fuck my face at the same time, but then I remembered something.”

  “That sixty-nine sucks?”

  She beams. “Yes! Sixty-nine is the worst. What is the point?”

  “It’s selfish,” I say, stating the obvious. “Just tap out. Tap in.”

  “Exactly. Oral sex doesn’t need to be multitasked. I don’t write better if you eat me while I write,” she says.

  “Wait. Was that an option? Will you suck my dick while I write? Because I’d be willing to try that,” I offer, like the generous fucker I am.

  Hazel smiles wickedly. “Get out your laptop and see.”

  I shake my head. “You know what I really want to see?”

  She bites the corner of her lip, a sexy, come-hither move. “Me on my knees, taking your cock deep in my throat?”

  I shudder. She is going to kill me with sex appeal. I just know it. She’s everything I’ve craved—a feisty, fiery, smart, relentless woman.

  But I can’t think about how right she is for me.

  I should only think about how right she looks as she slides off the bed, kneels on the floor, and wraps a hand around the base of my cock. Then she licks the head, and I nearly fly off the mattress.

  That’ll do. That’ll definitely keep me in the sex moment.

  “That’s right, baby. Take me deeper,” I urge. I know my girl likes dirty words. She likes a commanding man who understands how busy the freeways are in her head.

  And since she’s in her head all the time, I’m pretty sure that’s why she needs to feel the rawness, the realness of sex.

  That’s what I can give her. “Play with my balls,” I tell her.

  She obliges, cupping them, rolling them in her nimble hands. My skin sizzles.

  “Yes, fucking yes.” I run my fingers through her hair, urging her to take more of my dick. “Open wider, baby.”

  She obeys, lavishing deep, adoring sucks on my shaft. Then she coughs, but she shakes her head to say she won’t stop. She’ll keep going, and she does till my world blurs away, and I lose my mind to her mouth, her hands, her eager tongue.

  Then, on a grunt, I come. It’s mind-bending, but a little less surreal than yesterday. Less surreal because it’s more real.

  More authentic.

  We’re coming together in the sunlight.

  We’re not backing away from the intimacy.

  We’re seeking it again and again.

  That brings a new level of risk to our rekindled friendship. It’s hard to have sex without feelings messing everything up. We’re going to need those ground rules really fucking soon.

  But when she crawls onto my lap, wraps her arms around my neck, and kisses me, I don’t want to talk. I want to enjoy.

  She kisses me, a firm, quick kiss. “Sixty-nine sucks,” she says.

  “We’re on the same page,” I say, then run my fingers along her cheek, enjoying this stolen chance to touch her.

  “We sure are,” she whispers softly.

  I want to believe she’s looking at me and seeing more than just sex. But I know stories only unfold like that in books.

  This is reality, and I can’t get lost in these moments. I take a deep breath, steadying myself for a dose of reality. “Let’s get dressed and then talk,” I say.

  But once we’re dressed, there’s a knock on the door.

  “Hey there. Almost time for the reader brunch before we arrive in Barcelona,” Amy says cheerily.

  Oh, shit.

  We need to go play hosts.

  Ground rules will have to come later.

  25

  THE NUTCRACKER

  Axel

  We power-walk down the train aisle, rushing to the reader brunch like a couple of jerks who keep people waiting.

  “We’ll just say we slept late,” Hazel offers in a rushed whisper.

  “We didn’t oversleep. We over-sexed,” I point out. I mean to be helpful, but she hisses Axel at my back. “Just telling the truth.”

  “If anyone asks,” she says, “it was accidental sex.” We cruise past high-backed chairs filled with passengers drinking coffee, reading news on their phones, staring out the windows as we near Spain.

  Bossy, bossy Hazel. She’s too feisty, too busy, too entertaining.

  I glance back at her, rolling my eyes. “There was nothing accidental about the nutcracker of your legs.”

  Her shoulders shake in laughter, but then she tries to swallow the sound so I don’t notice. “Do you need a cast for your balls, Axel?”

  “Already took care of that, baby. I made one myself.”

  “That better go into your next book.”

  I’m glad she can’t see how I’m smiling over the accidental sex.

  The accidental kiss.

  Maybe tonight we’ll accidentally sleep together again. A man can dream.

  “But seriously,” she continues, “just say we slept late.”

  That’s my Hazel. She never lets up.

  At the end of the car, I stop by the luggage rack, spinning to face her. “Baby,” I say, reassuring her quietly. “No one is going to ask, and the more you say, the more obvious it is you’re covering something up.”

  I should know. That’s what I’ve done, religiously, the last few years, saying zero about my feelings for her. It’s worked well enough.

  “You think so, Axel?” Her question sounds pointed. Specific to me. Like I’d definitely know the answer about covering up stuff.

  “Yeah, but why are you asking?” I ask, half dreading the reply. What if she’s got a microscope into my feelings?

  She shakes her head. “Just something I thought of, but it’s not important.”

  I should leave this alone, but what if it’s about last night? Or tonight? Or ground rules? “What is it?”

  If she wants to cut me off, she can do it now. I don’t want to wait any longer.

  “It was about…” But she stops, annoyed with herself. “It’s just about Max, how I found out he was cheating, but that’s over, so it doesn’t matter.”

  I draw a sharp breath, irritated to hear his name again.

  Or maybe I’m still irritated over how I handled things with Max and her at so many points, including the way she found out. I should have said something sooner, but at least I can say something now. “He didn’t deserve you,” I say firmly. “Don’t give him any real estate in your head.”

  That doesn’t cover everything, but it’s a start.

  She smiles softly. “Thanks.” I’m about to turn around and resume our race to the dining car when she reaches for my arm. It’s a friendly gesture, nothing that could be interpreted as more by anyone watching. But I feel the fondness in it. The heat too. “And I’m really glad your balls aren’t casted. Because,” she says quietly, then checks the scene behind her before she finishes with, “I want you in my bed again tonight.”

  Fuck yes.

  That’s enough of a ground rule for me for now. Another night.

  “I’m there,” I say.

  I might want more than sex, but I’m nothing if not a realist. I’ll take what she’s offering, and I’ll give her another night of the best she’s ever had.

  As an attendant yanks open the door to the dining car for us, I wipe the smile off my face. A man doesn’t smile this hard unless he’s gotten laid, and I’m not going to sandwich-board my sex life for the tour group—my sex life that just earned a sequel.

  I fucking love trains.

  Inside the dining car, a man with an expensive haircut, a strong jaw, and clearly custom-fitted slacks and shirt greets us. “Good morning, Mr. Huxley and Ms. Valentine. We’re thrilled you could join us.”

  This dude has rich motherfucker written all over him. He must be JHB himself. “Thrilled to be here…Mr. Bettencourt?”