By the time Axel, the VIP readers, and I return to the hotel near midnight, I’m crashing from the wonderful, but long day.

  The Book Besties invite me for a drink in the lobby, but my yawn wards them off before I can even answer.

  Jackie holds up a stop-sign hand as I close my mouth. “Nope. I take it back. No drinks for you,” she says, going all mama hen.

  “But can we have breakfast?” I ask. These ladies are so fun. Their friend energy is goals. I want to inhale it for a little longer.

  “Of course,” Jackie says, sounding thrilled. “There’s a cute boulangerie around the corner.”

  “Let’s do it,” I say, then she shepherds me to the elevator. I don’t bother to resist. I don’t look back, either, to see if Axel is coming now or later. I have faith I’ll see him.

  “Night, Jackie,” I say. “See you in the morning.”

  “Get some rest, hon. Tomorrow’s another busy day.”

  “It is,” I say, then I head up to the sixth floor.

  When I shut the door to my room, breathing in the silence and enjoying it this time for much-needed replenishment, my phone buzzes.

  I slide it open right away. Maybe it’s Axel telling me he’ll meet me here any minute. I guess that means I don’t need a break from him at all. But I don’t entirely want to contemplate what that means as I read his text.

  Axel: Try not to be shocked. Steven the Nikon Man has corralled me into a drink. He wants to talk shop some more.

  Hazel: Talk shop but don’t get whiskey dick.

  Axel: As if I could get whiskey dick.

  Hazel: Anyone can get whiskey dick.

  Axel: Not this guy.

  Hazel: You’re immune to it?

  Axel: Yes.

  Hazel: I guess you’ll have to prove it.

  Axel: I will, Hazel Horny-All-The-Time Valentine.

  Hazel: Did you just rhyme?

  Axel: I believe I did. Do not hold it against me.

  Hazel: I will absolutely hold it against you.

  Axel: I’ll hold you against me and my iron dick.

  I laugh, then set the phone down on the table by the door, kick off my shoes, and head to the bathroom. After I wash my face, brush my teeth, and change into a tank top and undies, I slide into bed.

  I finished that celebrity memoir on the train, so I download Saanvi’s new romance about a cop and a firefighter fighting their burning feelings for each other. It’s scorching and emotional from the get-go, but the day is catching up with me, and by the time jeans are being unzipped on my e-reader, my eyelids are fluttering.

  A boat floats by. I see a woman laughing, a man smiling. A warm, hazy feeling wraps around me as I slip away.

  A faint knock tugs on my blurry mind. Then, it grows louder. I bolt up. What time is it?

  I squint at the clock. It’s after one. Bleary-eyed, I hop out of bed and head to the door, where I peer into the peephole.

  My chest squeezes when I see a guy in glasses, dragging one hand through his hair, holding a tumbler of amber liquid in the other.

  I open the door, careful to stay out of sight just in case readers linger in the hall on the way to their rooms.

  Axel marches in wearing a satisfied grin.

  Making a show of it, he takes a swallow of the liquor, then sets down the glass with panache. He points to his pelvis. The outline of his erection is visible, and I crack up.

  “Told you. That’s a fucking iron dick, right there.”

  I squeeze it, assessing the goods. “I’d say granite.”

  He thrusts both arms in the air. “Granite, iron, steel. You name it, my dick can imitate it.”

  After he toes off his shoes, he glances down at his clothes. “Dammit. I didn’t bring my jammies.”

  “Aww,” I say, frowning. “Whatever will you do?”

  “No idea.” He whips off his shirt, shimmies off his jeans. Wearing only boxer briefs, he scoops me up and carries me the few feet to the bed.

  He sets me down on it, then takes off his glasses and gets under the covers with me. I settle back on the mattress too, and the pillow feels awfully comfortable.

  So does this duvet.

  I sigh contentedly and then yawn contentedly too. It’s nice being in bed like this, the faint sounds of the Parisian streets floating through the half-open window, the moonlight streaking across the duvet, the fading notes of his forest scent tickling my nose.

  It makes me want to…just kiss him.

  But he’ll probably want to have sex. Guys always do. They never want to just kiss. If you kiss them, they always think sex is coming.

  Not that I’d object. I really like sex with him. But I also like kissing him. I’m also so tired.

  And…oh…that feels nice too.

  He’s stroking my hair. Gently. Taking his time. Running his fingers over the strands. I snuggle a little closer to him. Maybe it’s his tender touch or maybe it’s this new trust we’re building, but I’m curious about something, and I hope he’ll answer. “Why don’t the characters ever just make out in books? Is it because men don’t like to make out?”

  “They don’t?” he asks, like that’s a ridiculous question.

  “Seems that way to me. And, sometimes I just want to kiss for a long, long time. Even if it doesn’t lead to sex, but men…I don’t know…” I say, trailing off.

  He presses a kiss to my hair. “You really pick the wrong men.”

  It’s not an accusation. It’s just the truth from someone who knows my terrible track record. “I do,” I say simply.

  “But I’ve picked the wrong women too.” He doesn’t emphasize picked, but I hear the past tense in his statement.

  I hear what’s unsaid—maybe he’s changing.

  “What if we picked right?” I ask, musing like it’s whether I want to order fries or salad when picking right is the essence of my work. “I don’t even know what that would look like. It’s hard to pick right.”

  He nods against me. “Daddy issues. We have them,” he says into the dark.

  A pang of longing knots in my chest. What am I longing for, though? For a new choice? Perhaps that. “I know. But we can make better choices for our characters.”

  It’s easier to talk about imaginary people. We can test our theories on them, like the one I’ve been noodling on for the last two days.

  I flip around so I can fully face my writing partner. There’s something I want to tell him. Something that may surprise him. It surprised me. I feel incredibly vulnerable, like I’m cracking open a piece of my mind that no one has ever had access to. “I think Lacey should be with Noah.”

  Axel’s eyebrows lift, but it doesn’t take long for him to say, “Yeah?”

  He sounds…delighted.

  “I do.”

  “You think Jackie’s right?” he asks, like he needs to double check my answer.

  But I’m sure. I’ve been sure all day long.

  “I think maybe the one for her has been in front of her all along,” I say. This feels right for our heroine.

  “We’ll need to rewrite a lot of the story.” It’s not a warning. It’s not a no. He sounds open to this new direction for our characters.

  “We’ll probably need to,” I concur.

  “Sounds hard, but it’ll be worth it.”

  I feel bubbly. I’m so glad he agrees. “It’ll be weird writing with you again.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You and your weird.”

  “Hey,” I say playfully. “I did say sex with you was good weird.”

  “So this is good weird too?”

  I set a hand on his chest, playing with his smattering of chest hair. “Writing with you is a good weird, Axel. I’m excited to work with you again.”

  He’s quiet at first, then he sighs, almost resigned. Finally, he says, more upbeat, “Me too.”

  I want to ask why he sounded resigned, but I don’t want to ruin us again. “I want this to work,” I say, seriously.

  “So do I,” he says in the same tone, letting me know he’s on the same page I am. Then, he strokes my cheek, studies me like he wants to say something important. “Can I show you something?”

  My skin tingles even before I know what he’ll say. “Yes.”

  He runs the backs of his fingers along my jaw, making me tremble. “I can’t speak for other men, but this guy can just make out.”

  My heart catches, then thumps faster. “Show me.”

  And he does.

  We kiss forever, and it’s druggy and delicious. It doesn’t lead to sex. It leads to a wonderful night in his arms.

  32

  VODKA AND TONIC TOGETHER AGAIN

  Hazel

  I crunch into a croque madame, hold the ham, the next morning. Cheese oozes over the edge of the toasted bread, but I dart out my tongue to catch it.

  Jackie laughs from across the tiny orange table outside the boulangerie. “You go, Frog Hazel.”

  “I love cheese and I cannot lie,” I say after I finish the bite.

  “Who doesn’t?” Alecia seconds. “When my wife felt well again, she was like bring me all the cheese.”

  “Your wife is smart. Cheese might be the meaning of life,” Maria adds, then takes a bite of her croissant, humming in appreciation. “Can I move to France someday? Well, after I finish my degree and meet a hot billionaire.”

  Alecia nods knowingly. “May we all either meet them or become them. Speaking of, I think Amy and JHB have a little something-something going on.” She whips her gaze to me. “You should write about them.”

  I’ve already thought about that. But I don’t want to let on any secrets about future story ideas. So I shift gears to the ladies. “Maybe I’ll write about someone who becomes a billionaire making dog bandanas.”

  Jackie laughs, clearly tickled at that idea, but then she sighs. “I really hope the bandana business takes off. I have a chance to partner with a pet supply store, but I don’t know what to say in my proposal. Well, I do know what to say. I just think I’ve said it badly.” She frowns, looking embarrassed. “I haven’t sent it in yet.”

  I put down my coffee cup and seize the opportunity. These ladies have done so much for me. This is one thing I can do for them. “Want me to look at it?”

  Jackie’s eyes pop. “You would?”

  “I’m not too bad with words. I could help if you need it.”

  Alecia slugs Jackie’s shoulder. “Take the help, Jackie. Let five Calgon Take Me Aways help you.”

  “That would be great,” Jackie says, then she fishes out her tablet from her purse. I spend the next thirty minutes fine-tuning her pitch.

  “Thank you,” Jackie says sincerely before we go.

  “It was my pleasure,” I say, and truly, it was. I want her to have all the good things. Then I take them and the rest of the group on a tour of my Paris, and somehow it feels even more special to share this place I love with all of them. The readers who have become friends.

  And that guy too. There at the back, listening intently to every word I say about the curving cobbled street in Montmartre where the hero in The I Do Redo realizes exactly what he wants.

  My stomach swoops annoyingly.

  Or perhaps not too annoyingly.

  The tour is over and I’m wandering with the Book Besties through a map shop in a covered passage when my phone trills with the theme from Jaws.

  Normally, I don’t answer or look at my phone when I’m out with others like this, especially when I’m the host. But that’s Michelle calling with the special ringtone I gave her since, well, she’s a shark when she needs to be.

  “That’s my agent,” I say apologetically to Jackie, Alecia, and Maria, who are checking out a cartoonish map of Europe. “I’ll call her later.”

  Except when I hit ignore, Michelle just rings again a minute later. That’s her shorthand for pick up fucking now.

  I wince, unsure what to do.

  Jackie, though, is certain. She waves at the phone, shooing me out. “Go! Agents must always be answered.”

  “Hi, Michelle,” I say as I head to the door and press the phone to my ear.

  “Hi, cutie-pie,” she says in her Georgia accent. Everyone’s cutie-pie to her. I suspect it makes her shark bite sharper. “Is Axel there? Get that peach too.”

  I catch Axel’s attention. He’s checking out globes with the Nikon Man and his wife. I waggle the phone, and he follows me outside the shop, then around the corner, where he slides in next to me, shoulder to shoulder, as we lean against a pretty yellow column. He’s close, so close I can smell him, a hint of soap, a bit of rain. My new favorite mix.

  Must focus.

  “We’re both here,” I tell Michelle, holding the phone between us.

  “I am calling with delish news,” she says. She’s well trained. I hate being blindsided, even more so after last year, so Michelle knows to preface her calls with whether the news is good, bad, or ugly.

  “I like good news,” I say.

  “Guess who got you two cuties a twenty percent raise?”

  I blink. Axel’s jaw drops. “Wow,” we say in unison.

  “Apparently that disappearing act made your next book even more valuable. Fans are clamoring, and Lancaster Abel wants to put the preorder up soon. So they’re offering to pay you a bigger advance on the book. And they want you to deliver it in four months. What do you think? Can you pull it off? If you do, there will be a bonus on delivery, and the usual bonuses for bestseller lists, which you’ll hit because everyone, and I mean the whole dang Internet, is talking about you two being back on. It’s like vodka and tonic got back together after a terrible year apart.”

  I gulp.

  Holy shit.

  This is real.

  We’re truly doing this.

  I knew that. Of course I knew that. But now everyone knows. And even if Michelle is exaggerating a tidge, this is a reality check.

  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.