His gifs from our last exchange still cackle at me. Fitting. I tap out a reply.

  Hazel: I adulted so damn well that Axel and I are writing together again. Do I get cheese now?

  TJ: Whaaaaat???? Don’t make me get out of bed to call you, girl.

  Hazel: Wild, right?

  I SparkNotes him on the entire Axel situation, minus the sex. We can talk about the sex another time. Mostly, I don’t want TJ to hear about Lacey rising from the dead from the whisper network. I want him to hear it from me, so I finish with one more text.

  Hazel: You were right. I missed him and I missed writing with him. When we wrote together, I wasn’t in my head all the time, wondering if I was any good, if my story worked, if anyone would like it. I relished having someone to create with, someone to nurture a story with, then see it into the world. I liked having a partner in crime. (Well, you know what it’s like from our book!)

  TJ and I wrote a rom-com together last year. We had a blast, but that was a one-off, and we haven’t made plans to write together again. I suppose for a mostly solitary, primarily feline-like creature, I crave companionship now and then.

  Or more than now and then. Axel was my greatest companion, and we navigated the dark and dangerous waters of art and passion together. I can’t wait to do it again with him.

  TJ: I do get it. I get it completely. Second chances are kind of my thing. Well, third chances, so I understand wanting to reconnect with someone you care about.

  TJ and his husband met years ago in London, then met again, then finally, after one more time, got it right. I don’t think Axel and I are headed down that path, but it’s good to know TJ understands all my reasons. That’s another thing I love about our friendship. There’s an emotional shorthand we have, perhaps from mining so much emotion on our keyboards all day long.

  Hazel: Thanks, friend.

  TJ: Go have some fromage. I’m going back to sleep with my third chance.

  Hazel: Show-off 🙂

  I say goodbye and set the phone down, returning to my screen, but all I manage are the words She tastes like plums, and I’m thinking of kisses again, and tastes again, and Axel again. Is he penning a daring escape on a boat tour? Or has Brooks met the woman of his dreams? Does he kiss her passionately on the deck, her hair blowing in the breeze before he has to cover her, saving her from a hitman’s gunfire from across the riverbank?

  I shiver, excited at the thought.

  But thinking of his story isn’t helping my fictional sommelier and his heroine. I shake off the thoughts of Axel’s book, but five minutes later, I’m staring at white space.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter.

  I’m in Paris. I have a free afternoon. I want to experience the world, not imagine it. I grab my phone and call him, hoping words come easily this time.

  He answers on the first ring. But it’s loud where he is, and he says above the din, “Hey there. Hold on one second.” Then he says to someone else, “Oui. Un billet, s’il vous plait.”

  My heart speeds up. I know what he’s doing. But I wait patiently for Axel to finish. When he returns to me, he says, “I don’t normally pick up while I’m talking to someone, but what’s going on?”

  He sounds concerned about me, but also hopeful. I’m hopeful too, since he’s not writing about a boat tour. He’s buying a ticket—un billet—to take one.

  “Can you get deux billets? If you’re near the hotel, I can be there in twenty minutes.”

  29

  HOLD THE TUNA

  Hazel

  I lean against the railing, the summer breeze fluttering my hair, the boat slowly curling along the Seine. “And to think I was going to spend the day in the vineyards,” I say with a contented sigh as I drink in the view.

  We’re motoring toward Notre Dame, passing under a bridge, the cathedral in the distance.

  He lifts a brow in a question, and I answer, “My current book. He owns several vineyards.”

  “Please tell me they fuck among the sweet raccoon wine grapes.”

  “The barrels, babe. He bends her over the barrels. You just can’t hold on to vines with the way he fucks her.”

  Axel doffs an imaginary top hat. “You win.”

  “Oh, were we playing?” I rub my palms. “I don’t think you misused a word, but hey, I’ll happily take another lunch.”

  And I would love it. Truly, I want another lunch with Axel. Maybe today. Maybe tomorrow too.

  “I meant you win for the new game. We’re playing…devise dirty scene scenarios on the fly,” he says.

  “And you let me win already?” I ask, offended, utterly offended, he’d give in so easily. So offended I slug his shoulder. Maybe to touch him a little more.

  “Fine. You don’t win. I take it back.” Then boom, he says, all rat-a-tat-tat, “A rooftop garden. He bends her over the railing.” Axel points to a pretty building on the Left Bank, wrought-iron balconies hugging the windows.

  My turn. “In the Rodin Museum. Behind The Thinker. A fingerbang.”

  He gives an approving nod, then tips his forehead toward the Left Bank too. “The Tuileries. At night. Behind the flower bushes. She sucks him off.”

  “That would work in a public park, so points for realism,” I say. He smiles devilishly, and I toss him another one. “At a brasserie in the Latin Quarter. Under the table.”

  Axel furrows his brow. “We already listed a fingerbang.”

  My lips curve up. “This time…” I pause, slide closer, then tiptoe my fingers down his shirt. “…she fingers herself while they wait for the salade niçoise, hold the tuna. She’s quiet, concentrating fiercely, and he watches her every move with avid eyes.” I say, painting a delicious scenario.

  Axel’s irises flicker with sudden heat, a burner turned to high.

  “She lets him lick it off when she’s finished,” I continue.

  He swallows, breathes out hard. He looks like he can barely speak. It’s a good look. Then he rasps out, “What are you doing for lunch?”

  “I think you’re taking me out,” I say.

  “You definitely won.”

  “It was the hold the tuna bit, right?”

  He laughs, then drops a quick, possessive kiss to my lips. “It was definitely for the hold the tuna bit.”

  At lunch, I’m feeling as risqué as expected. But also safe, as a red tablecloth hangs low enough to cover my lap, both the corner and the cloth giving us some privacy.

  Only some.

  But I don’t need much.

  In two minutes, I’m close, so close I’m pursing my lips, swallowing my moans. Axel’s fingers roam up and down the back of my neck, and his soft, feathery touch is nearly as erotic as my fingers tripping the light fantastic.

  “Don’t say a word, baby,” he commands, low and powerful.

  I rein in a whimper as pleasure whips through me, fast and fierce.

  “You dirty fucking woman,” he praises me.

  I tense as that familiar, electric pull pulses through me. I’m almost there.

  “Bet you look maddeningly sexy when you come in public,” he whispers, and that does it.

  I’m there, cresting, crashing, coming.

  And I can barely hold back.

  Right when I think I’m going to embarrass myself in public with a loud cry of pleasure, his lips slam onto mine, and he swallows my sounds.

  When he ends it, he utters one word: “Mine.”

  I shudder.

  I don’t know if he’s claiming ownership of me or my climax, but right now, he can have both.

  He reaches for my hand and licks my fingers, staring hotly at me with each deliberate suck. Then he lets go. “I won too.”

  What a game indeed.

  The server swings by. “Your salad niçoise. Hold the tuna.”

  A little later, we walk along the Seine, this time admiring the river cruises from the banks.

  “Admit it,” I say. “Brooks is going to make out with some gorgeous beauty on a boat, and then he’ll save her.”

  I tell him what I pictured a few hours ago in my room. His eyes blaze with amusement. “I have one question for you. Did you come up with that scenario so I’d kiss you on a boat?”

  Busted and I love it. “Maybe I did,” I say, feeling daring. Maybe the fingerbang gave me courage to say the things that have been welling up in my chest. “I wanted to see you on the boat.”

  I say it without guile. Without teasing. Only truth.

  His smile grows bigger. He seems happier in ways I’ve never seen before. I’m happy too.

  He glances around, gesturing to the water, then the land where we are. “But we’re not on a boat now, Hazel,” he says.

  I exaggerate a sigh. “Such a shame.”

  He steps closer, getting in my space. “Ask for it,” he says in a low but demanding tone. A hero’s voice.

  “Kiss me,” I say, eager for more of him.

  He inches closer, cups my cheek, then brushes his lips against mine. It’s better than the kiss I imagined in my room. Maybe because there’s no hitman hellbent on killing me. But mostly because I like kissing Axel so much.

  I like talking to him.

  I like spending time with him.

  I want to sleep with him, and I want to fall asleep with him.

  When he stops kissing me, I ask, “Want to sleep in my room tonight?”

  His smile is both genuine and soft when he says yes.

  30

  ADULTING REWARD

  Hazel

  Rachel waits for me on the corner of a quiet street, a red silk scarf tied around her neck, gold-framed sunglasses covering her eyes. Her chestnut waves curl over her shoulders. She’s the picture of sophistication, and it’s been too long since I’ve seen her.

  Picking up my pace, I walk toward her on the narrow sidewalks in Île Saint-Louis. The green shutters on the windows and iron lattice-work balconies give this Parisian neighborhood a quieter, back-in-time feel. It’s an island in the middle of the Seine, and it’s as if the city slows down in this place.

  She whips off the shades, flashing me a bright smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “You’re one to talk about fancy,” I say, pointing to the scarf. “You look très chic. I love it.”

  She flicks her hair off her neck, bobbing a confident shoulder. “Divorce. It’s been good to me.”

  That’s reassuring to hear, even though I know it hasn’t been easy. I wrap an arm around her, squeezing her, glad she’s doing better. “You mean it?”

  I talk to her every week, text her often. But I haven’t seen her since I was in California visiting my friend Ellie and helping my sister host a party for the businesses on Rachel’s block in Venice Beach. Since then, she’s moved to San Francisco and expanded her jewelry shop there.

  She nods crisply. “Yes,” she says, then gestures to the sidewalk, and we walk. “Mostly.”

  I laugh, but it’s sympathetic. “Mostly is good.” I pause, then add, “It’s a lot.” The end of her marriage blindsided her in ways no one could have expected. The secrets her ex-husband was keeping were book-worthy—no, saga-worthy. Her ex is the poster child for shocking behavior from ex-husbands.

  “It is, but what can you do except…” She pauses to finger the end of her scarf and lifts her chin, defying the gods of divorce. “…be fabulous.”

  “Words to live by.” We pass a Mediterranean café; the scents of hummus and falafel drift from the open-front restaurant. I’d love to go back there later, have a lingering meal, watch the people go by. But right now, I’m exactly where I want to be. “However, I think you’ve always been fabulous. Now, are you taking me to this jewelry extravaganza?”

  She tosses her head back and laughs. “It’s hardly an extravaganza. More like an artists’ fair.”

  “Even better,” I say as we walk past buildings that seem to tilt from age. I wonder about the love affairs these buildings have witnessed, the kisses they’ve seen under streetlamps and on rain-dappled corners. “So tell me how your new life is in San Francisco.”

  She shakes her head. “Nope. Don’t distract me. You go first. I want to hear all about this trip with your…nemesis.”

  Oh, shit. That’s right.

  Everyone knows Axel and I are enemies.

  Were.

  But mere hours ago, we were under-the-table lovers. We aren’t even enemies who fuck. We’re not hate-banging. We’re just…

  What are we?

  I don’t know, but my stomach flips, and my brain gets loopy as I think about him. The clip of my heart speeds up, and I set a hand on my chest to settle it down.

  “You said this time today would be your reward for adulting. Have you? Adulted?” Rachel adds, prompting me.

  Right. I told her what TJ and I had decided the day I took off on this trip. That was five days ago.

  Feels like a lifetime.

  And I’m astonished by what I’m about to say. I haven’t told anyone the whole truth. “We’re not enemies anymore.”

  I whisper like I’m testing the idea.

  She stops outside a boho boutique that peddles purses and scarves, and tilts her head my way. “You’re not? That’s good. Right?”

  “It is good.”

  A smile spreads on her face, a proud-friend smile. I feel lucky to be its recipient. “So you two worked through some of your issues? Put them behind you?” she asks.

  Ha. Something like that.

  For a few silent seconds, I feel trapped in a lie. Because I could shrug, smile, say something vague.

  But I desperately want to tell a friend about this strange and weirdly wonderful thing that’s happening to me. “We did, and we’ve also been spending our nights together.”

  I offer a what can you do smile. Rachel’s expression shifts like the gears of a sports car, from shock, to are you serious, then to tell me everything. “You. Are?”

  I feel a little incredulous myself. “We are. Who would have thought?”

  “I need details. Time, place, position, etc. Also, number of orgasms, and possibly how high your fever is.”

  I crack up as we stroll leisurely past cafés and ice cream shops toward the fair. “Number of Os? Too high to count.”

  “I hate you,” she mutters. “From your wine write-offs to your hot sex. Hey, can you write off sex now because you write romance?”

  I grin, like I’m imbibing this whole damn beautiful blue-sky day. “I can write off sex toys, I can write off dates, I can write off anything and everything. Every single thing I do is research.”

  She shakes her head, annoyed, but not really. “This is not fair. You’re getting laid and saving money.” We turn down a street where a bustling fair full of tents and vendors awaits us. Rachel slows her pace again, setting a hand on my arm. “Wait. Is this more than sex?”

  That’s the question, isn’t it? “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like it is. Which is hard to wrap my head around. But the thing is,” I say, my heart an anchor now, weighing me down, “we decided to write together again. So I can’t let any of these sex feelings distract me from our new partnership.”

  She hums thoughtfully. “That’s a lot too,” she adds, using my words.

  “I guess we both have things going on.” Something nags at me. “Hey, are we failing the Bechdel test?”

  “The one that says women shouldn’t talk only about men?”

  “Yup.”

  “But we’re not talking about men. We’re talking about what we want in life. Our hopes and dreams.”

  I chew on that as we near the fair. Lilting French music drifts from a tent, and it’s surely about love and longing.

  “We are.” Writing isn’t just my daily reality. It’s still my hope. It’s still my dream.

  Writing romance has helped me make sense of a messy world. It’s my heart and soul. It’s how I’ve found a way through the storm of emotions inside me, the leftover feelings from being raised by a controlling, angry man who wanted to put women in their place.

  My feelings, too, about how my mother handled things then and how she handled them better later on.

  I’ve poured those complicated feelings into all of my books.

  My books I write alone.

  The ones I write with Axel.

  My stories have given me this life, this freedom, this chance to write off wine, to travel to Paris, and to live on my own terms.

  Independently from anyone else.

  From any controlling man.

  As we wander through the fair, focusing on jewelry, studying pretty baubles and bling for Rachel, she asks me more about the tour. I tell her about the Book Besties—their big hearts, their goals, their careers, and their passions. “Most of all, they’re so supportive, even though they hardly see each other.”

  “Like us,” she says, with a happy but vulnerable look. One I return in kind—I’m grateful to have a friend like her.

  “Just like us.”

  We talk more about Rachel’s business, then it’s time to go. I catch the Metro so I won’t be late for our evening signing, and as the train rumbles along, my mind drifts to another friendship—the one I’m rekindling with Axel.

  I replay earlier this afternoon with him, then I imagine later tonight.

  I badly want to see him again, and I fear my feelings are only getting messier and a lot less friendly.

  31

  IRON DICK

  Hazel

  Show me a writer who’s an extrovert and I’ll show you a liar. I feel like I have jet lag again after the evening’s signing at a bookstore in the Latin Quarter, followed by a tasting at a chocolate shop—one that was the inspiration for the chocolate shop in The I Do Redo.