Without acknowledging my comment, he asks, “So you’re leaving then?” His gaze drifts toward the door. He looks so hopeful.

  Boo-fucking-hoo. I lean forward. “As if I’d give you the satisfaction.”

  He laughs. “You’re going to stay just to vex me? You’ll willingly irritate yourself just to irritate me?”

  I stare at him, pot-kettle style. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  He shoots me a well-played nod. “Fair enough. Then, may the most irritating one win.” He picks up the frame, then looks back at me, gaze shrewd. “Or do you have more arrows in that quiver of yours to shoot my way?” He sits up straighter, almost spreading out his stupidly firm chest. “Go ahead. Hit me with it. I can handle it. Get out all your anger, sweetheart.”

  I clench my jaw, inhaling sharply.

  This man.

  I can’t believe he used to be my confidante. My close friend. My writing partner.

  But I won’t let him see my hurt. I have to do better. It’s only a meal and maybe it’ll be good practice for the reader expo we’re scheduled to helm this weekend.

  “I’m all good,” I say as lightly as I can. “And yes, let’s order.”

  I grab my phone, scan the code, then check out the menu, grateful for something else to focus on besides him.

  He does the same, scoffing a few seconds later. Haughtily scoffing.

  I take the bait. “Don’t see anything you like?”

  His eyes dart around the restaurant, then he lasers in on me, lowering his voice. “No. I just wish I didn’t have to use my phone to order,” he grumbles. “I already have to use it for everything else.”

  I get that. I’m a little phone-weary at the end of the day too. “Why can’t a menu just be a menu?” I ask, without any vitriol or irritation, just a little same page-ness that surprises me.

  “Is it so much to ask to have my phone off during a meal? But nope. They make us use it.”

  “Evidently it’s too much to ask,” I say, agreeing as I read the dinner options. They’re limited, but surprisingly…inventive. “I didn’t think a place like Menu would have roasted beets with pistachios on a bed of pea shoots.”

  “Did you think it would be steak and potatoes?” he asks, a little derisively.

  And…that detente didn’t last long at all.

  “No, obviously I wasn’t expecting that, Axel,” I say, overemphasizing his name, like he does to me. “I just thought it would be minimalist food too. And as stark as the decor.”

  “Or the company?” he asks, but it’s not biting. He sounds truly curious.

  I don’t give in though. “Your words,” I point out.

  “They are indeed.”

  He flips his phone so the screen’s facedown, pushing it to the side of the table. I tuck mine into my purse as a man in a tailored shirt and sports coat swings by, flashing a barely there smile.

  “Welcome to Menu. I’m the restaurateur. We hope you enjoy the experience of dining here and making new friends just as much as we intend to enjoy serving you,” he says, like a robot. “Can I start you out with some wine? We have a Shiraz from Uruguay. The grapes are harvested under a full moon.”

  I blink. Is he for real? Also, who says restaurateur?

  “I’ll have a beer, please,” Axel says.

  “A martini for me,” I say. “Thanks.”

  The man’s brow furrows. We’ve flummoxed him. “Are you sure? I mean, the full moon.”

  Axel smiles. “And what does the full moon do for the wine?”

  I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist asking. Truth be told, I was gearing up to inquire too.

  “It’s how the grapes are harvested,” the owner answers, speaking in a circle. “And what about food?”

  “Is it harvested under a full moon?” Axel asks, and I snort, wanting to kick him to shut him up but wanting him to keep going too.

  “No. It’s foraged. My chief forager does it himself.”

  “Ah, of course,” Axel says, then looks to me. “Ladies first.”

  I wait for Axel to pull the rug of the comment out from under me with a barb about how I’m no lady. But he doesn’t, so I give the owner my order—the beets and the mushroom risotto, while Axel opts for seared salmon with rosemary and asparagus.

  “Thank you. And may I wish you the best interaction with the real world.”

  He turns and goes.

  I cock my head, watching him, trying to get a read on the guy.

  Axel stares too, then turns back to me. “Do you get the sense they’re trying too hard?”

  “Just a little bit. I mean, foraged food?”

  “And restaurateur?” he asks with an eye roll.

  “Not to mention full moon grapes.”

  “Also, does this restaurant not know what the other hand is doing?”

  “Right?” I say, enthused he keyed in on that too. “On the one hand, it’s all let’s be digital and read the menu online, and on the other hand, it’s let’s go forage and experience people.”

  “It wants you to love its quirks, even though they make no sense. I knew this was going to be a mistake.” Axel leans back in his chair, huffing, but also giving me a view of his annoyingly handsome face.

  Why are jerks so hot?

  Seriously? Who decided that sexy jerks could ever be good-looking? With freshly fucked hair, and undress-me eyes, and those goddamn black glasses that get me every time, Axel Huxley is the sexiest jerk of all.

  The worst part? When I see hints of the man I used to know in his clever remarks, his sly observations.

  The way we once got along.

  But I won’t be fooled again. Hurt me once, shame on you.

  Hurt me twice, and I’m going to write my own damn name in Sharpie at the top of my whiteboard list of people who’ve pissed me off that week.

  I’ve made my own shit list plenty of times.

  I put my self-protection back on, so I’m not fooled by the banter. “So, what’s the story with you kicking the tires here tonight, Huxley? Is this how the Nefarious Ned hires a hitman to take down Brooks Dean?”

  The corner of his lips curves into a grin. “You know my new hero’s name.”

  I roll my eyes. “Obviously I know who Brooks Dean is.” Only the former-lawyer-turned-avenging-bounty-hunter-for-hire who traipses around Europe, solving heists and retrieving precious stolen goods as he falls in love. “You did mention twenty million times he’d be your next hero,” I remind him.

  “If you say so,” he says.

  “Oh my god, what do you think I do? Read your publisher’s blurbs that far in advance before the book comes out?”

  He smirks, then points at me. “Don’t you? You can’t resist keeping tabs on me.”

  I scoff. “You wish.”

  “But Nefarious Ned? C’mon, Hazel. Give me credit. My villains have better names than that.”

  I wiggle my fingers. “All right. Serve it up. Your next villain. What’s his name?”

  Axel’s grin turns wicked. More wicked than I’ve ever seen from him. “Hazel. Her name is Hazel.”

  Damn it. I walked right into that one.

  But I’m saved by the restaurateur. The man in the sports coat returns with our drinks, depositing the beer in front of Axel, and the martini in front of me. Then he frowns. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We’re all out of beets tonight. Pea shoots too.”

  Bummer. I do love a good pea shoot dish. “No big deal. I’ll skip the apps. Just mushroom risotto then?”

  He winces. “Apologies. Our chief forager canceled the dish. The mushrooms made him mad. We have chicken with kale picked from our rooftop garden though.”

  “She doesn’t eat meat,” Axel cuts in. “What do you have for vegetarians?”

  The man’s eyes pop. “Um…I could bring you the kale and some pistachios on the side?”

  Gee, that sounds filling. But I can eat edamame at home later. “I’ll just have the drink. Thanks.”

  Another cringe. “Sorry. We can’t let you sit here with just a drink.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  “Truly. It’s a rule,” he says, apologetic, even though he’s likely the one who made that punitive rule.

  But even though he and his chief forager ran out of beets and pea shoots, I’m not going to bolt. I won’t let Axel have the satisfaction. I’m about to ask the owner to bring me the kale when Axel says, “Can’t you make her something with vegetables? You don’t want to be one of those places that discriminates against someone for their beliefs, do you?”

  The restaurateur gulps. “No, of course not, sir,” he says, then scurries off.

  I look at Axel, begrudgingly appreciative. “Beliefs? Are we allowed to do that?”

  “Sweetheart, it’s a fucking pretentious restaurant. And the lawyer in me could argue it’s a belief with full conviction.”

  The lawyer in him could argue anything.

  But is his vegetable defense an argument for an argument’s sake? Or does he want me to sit here with him? That would make no sense. I study Axel, trying to figure him out. “All right. What’s your deal, Huxley? Why are you trying to get me to stay? That was a perfect chance for you to let me walk away and have the table all to yourself.”

  “Ah, but what fun would that be? Especially when I have to see you on Sunday. This is like a little unexpected dress rehearsal.”

  Ah yes, I’m a game. Got it. “Thanks for the reminder. I’d tried to erase that from my head.”

  “Same here. But the more you shoot arrows at me, the tougher my villain will be.”

  This time I don’t walk into the comment. I march straight through it. “And that’ll make it more satisfying when your hero kills her.”

  He grins, slow and devilish. “He won’t kill her. He’ll just tie her up and turn her in to the authorities.”

  I lean back in the chair. Yup. I’m not leaving.

  An hour later, the meal is mercifully over. I leave the city’s most pretentious new restaurant, with Axel holding open the door.

  Wish I could say that was fun and inspiring, but mostly it was like a boxing ring. One I escaped from not entirely unbruised.

  “Tell me something, Hazel,” he says to my back. “Who’s Kendall or Avery or Bethany going to meet at the seated-with-strangers restaurant? A cocky chef who smells like cedar and snow? A grumpy professor with a beard that’s just so...rub-able? A single dad with a heart of gold and a big dick?”

  I grit my teeth as I toss a glance at the man with the heart of onyx. Then I let go of the annoyance bubbling inside me, doing my best to seem unaffected. “I’ve decided to write romantic thrillers too. At the dinner with a stranger, she’ll meet the guy she’s about to double cross. And he won’t even see it coming.”

  Axel rolls his eyes. “Good night, Hazel. I’m sure no one will be able to tell how you really feel on Sunday.” With that, he turns and walks down the block.

  Wait.

  What?

  Am I that obvious? And are we that obvious?

  Of course we are. We spent the whole evening throwing darts at each other.

  But I can’t be obvious in front of an audience on Sunday. The Romance Reader Expo chose six romance authors from across the genre for a VIP Reader Q and A. If Axel and I act like little shits onstage, we’ll steal the spotlight from our colleagues. That’s tacky and gross, not to mention rude to the readers.

  I stare at his silhouette retreating into the New York night, wishing I didn’t have to do this but having no other choice. I shove the past aside. Time for a temporary olive branch. “Axel,” I call out.

  He turns back and waits. “Yes?”

  I have to go to him. What a shock.

  With my shoes clicking loudly, I cover the twenty feet between us, drawing a fueling breath as I go. When I reach him, I’m painfully blunt. “On Sunday, we can’t let on we feel this way,” I say seriously, reinforcing his throwaway comment about hiding how we feel. We simply have to.

  He’s quiet for a beat, maybe weighing the public stakes of our feud. “True. No one likes spoiled brats,” he says, begrudgingly.

  “And we can’t do that to TJ, Kennedy, Mateo, and Saanvi,” I add, naming the other authors who’ll be onstage with us.

  “Right, right, of course.” He sighs in resignation, but nods. “We’ll have to fake liking each other.”

  I’m relieved he’s willing to play nice. “Exactly. We’ll pretend we get along. Like we used to,” I say, and that’s what hurts the most. We used to get along famously.

  “No one will know,” he says.

  No one has known since we split. That’s purposeful, keeping the details on the down-low. I don’t like to air my dirty laundry to the world. Hell, I can barely stand my own dirty laundry.

  Axel takes a step closer and extends a hand. “To faking it on Sunday.”

  “To faking it,” I say as we shake.

  His hand wraps firmly around mine. A strong grip. A warm grip.

  If this were one of my books—or one of his—there’d be a slo-mo spark. A zing as we connect. And all sorts of wild ideas about hands on bodies, hands on skin.

  But life is not a book, so I drop his hand before I can feel a single damn thing.

  With the connection severed, Axel flashes a too-broad smile. “We’ll get on like thieves, Hazel Valentine. Just you wait till you see how nice I can be.”

  Is he one-upping me? Like he can fake it better than I can? “You think you can be nicer than me?”

  He smiles savagely. The eat ’em alive kind. “I do.”

  “Then I can’t wait to see your nice side. I bet I’ll get along so swimmingly with Nice Guy Huxley that we’ll be like copy and paste.”

  “We’ll be a plot and a twist,” he adds.

  Damn. That was good. I’ve got nothing, so I’m going to need to let him have that last-word victory. “See you Sunday, Mister Nice Guy,” I say, then I walk away first, wishing it didn’t hurt to see him.

  I don’t like to hurt. I leave that to my characters.

  Me? I need all the protection from pain I can get.

  4

  MISTER NICE GUY

  Axel

  The thing is, I’m not known for being a nice guy.

  So I might need a little help for the Q and A.

  Fortunately, I happen to know a certified nice guy very well. My little brother. The next day, after Brooks Dean evades capture in Vienna then saunters into a nightclub and asks the brilliant and sexy owner to make it a double, I save the scene I’m writing in my next book, and hunt around my apartment for my phone.

  Now that I’ve hit my word count, I can’t put off dealing with how to face Hazel any longer.

  Where is that stupid device?

  It’s not on my writing couch, under pillows, or on top of the piles of notebooks stuffed with ideas. Or on my living room table, which is stacked with research books.

  I march into the kitchen. Nope. It’s not here on the counter next to the unwashed coffee mugs.

  Fuck. Why can’t coffee be self-cleaning? Why can’t kitchens be self-cleaning, for that matter?

  I stalk through my apartment, heading to the bedroom. It’s pristine in here because who wants a messy bedroom? That’s rude to me and to anyone else who might see it.

  I spot the phone right away. Perched on the nightstand. I grab the device from where I charged it overnight. I haven’t looked at it for a while since phones are usually messengers of doom.

  When I open the screen, there’s a note from Max blinking up at me. I bristle when I see his name—Max at Astor Agency—but I’ve bristled for a while when Max has reached out. A quick scan tells me it’s a report on sales for A Perfect Lie, and he’s using exclamation points, so that’s good. I barely skim it. If I get caught up in sales, I won’t write, and if I don’t write, I can’t pay the bills.

  I also won’t pay the bills if I don’t help promote my books.

  Which is where Carter comes in. As I leave the bedroom, I dial my brother in San Francisco.

  He answers on the second ring. “You do know that text messages exist?” he says by way of greeting. Pulse-pounding pop music plays in the background, accompanied by the sound of machines grinding. Carter’s at the gym. Naturally.

  I scoff. “You still want me to text you before I call? I refuse to do that,” I say, returning to my living room. But I don’t flop down on the couch. I just…walk.

  I need a game plan for tomorrow. And I won’t find it sitting down.

  “Of course you refuse. But a lot of people do it. You know, in case the other person can’t pick up but wants to talk soon. It’s a courtesy, you know. It’s a thing,” he adds.

  “A thing I won’t do,” I say. “Because the phone has a built-in device for letting someone know you’re calling. The ring. And a built-in way to avoid calls. The old-fashioned ‘don’t answer’ trick.”

  “God, I miss you,” he says sarcastically. “Anyway, what’s cooking?”

  Dragging a hand through my hair, I pace back and forth. “I have to do this thing tomorrow. A Q and A. With a bunch of authors and…” I take a deep breath. “Hazel.”

  Her name is a raw scrape in my throat.

  “Ohhhhh,” Carter says, full of insight. “That should be interesting.”

  I swallow roughly. A little uncomfortably. “But I can’t let on that we…have a history.”

  “Euphemism,” he coughs out the word.

  “Exactly.” I knew Carter would understand the spot I’m in. “I need to be nice to her onstage. How do you do it?”

  My brother cracks up. “Oh, Axel. How much time do you have?”

  I roll my eyes as I reach the window, then stare out at the streets of Gramercy Park ten floors below. It’s a Saturday, so young families pushing strollers crisscross the block, alongside joggers with dogs. “Look, I’m sure a lot of natural charm has to do with the fact that your dad’s not a flaming liar.”

  “That is true,” he acknowledges.

  Carter’s five years younger than I am. We share a mother, a woman who thankfully realized her first husband was a dish made from charm, lies, and fiction.

  I’m glad she got out of that toxic marriage to a grifter. I wish I could have gotten out of having the scam artist as my dad. At least my stepdad’s a good guy. Hence, Carter’s the consummate good guy.