After we return from breakfast, we zip up bags, gather phones and books. We’re twenty minutes from Copenhagen, and I know how to make my wish come true.

  We’ll talk about work the entire rest of the trip.

  Just work. That is all.

  Once she closes her suitcase and brushes one hand against the other like she’s saying that’s done, I beckon her with my finger.

  I’m sitting on the tiny love seat by the window. It’s hard as stone, but I don’t care. The view is unbeatable as we roll toward the Danish capital. The view will keep me rooted in my cause.

  “But the couch,” she says, a little whiny.

  “Come here anyway.”

  I figure she’ll sit next to me, but she surprises me and sits on my lap.

  And that fries my brain. I catch the scent of her wildflower shampoo, and I’m done. I don’t want distance. I want to savor every last second with her.

  I wrap my arms around her, nuzzle her neck, like a lovestruck fool taking his last hits. Then I let go, look out the window, and try to resist the too-fast, too-painful speed of my heart. I try so damn hard to talk about work, only work. “I had this fantasy the other night,” I begin.

  She lifts a brow seductively. “You and your iron dick are insatiable.”

  I laugh softly, but then kill the laughter. “Shockingly, it’s not about sex. Ninety-five percent of my thoughts are, but not this one.”

  “I like your anti-sex thoughts too. Tell me.”

  “I am never anti-sex,” I say. I can’t have her thinking that.

  She rolls her eyes. “I know, Axel. I know you.”

  My heart clutches. I fight like hell to ignore the tight squeeze in my chest. And I try, dear god, I fucking try to focus. “I pictured a man and a woman who meet on a train,” I begin. “At first, I thought she was feisty, and he had a chip on his shoulder. But then, what if she’s the single mom PR woman, and he’s the reclusive billionaire who’s captivated by her?”

  There. Amy and Bettencourt will get me through.

  She gasps. “Oh my god.”

  “I mean, it’s sort of obvious, I know,” I say. “But maybe we could write it someday.”

  What in the holy fuck am I doing? I’m trying to be tough, but I’m talking about the thing that makes me most vulnerable.

  My passion.

  My love of stories.

  My burning need to tell them.

  She holds my face. “I’ve always wanted to write a train romance too.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my dumb heart flipping. I can’t catch a break with her.

  She lowers her voice like she’s sharing a deep, precious secret. “Confession: when my publishers first told me about the trip, I imagined an elegant train romance. Velvet gowns, a dapper man, and long, lingering glances as the train sped across the coast.”

  Like it has for the last few nights.

  “We should write one,” I say. Because when I try to resist her, I do the opposite.

  “We should. A broody billionaire with secrets. And a single mom with a wounded heart,” she says.

  “He’s determined to win her over,” I add, and that’s not me, that’s not us. Though, perhaps it is.

  “She tries to resist,” she says, and yeah, maybe it is us after all. Maybe we’ve been writing ourselves this whole damn time.

  “But she’s helpless to his charms,” I say, then run my fingers up her arm, into her hair.

  “She wanted to resist,” Hazel says, locking those green eyes with mine.

  “But he wore her down,” I counter, my voice low, my heart thudding painfully. I’m aware I’m speaking in the past tense now. I’m definitely no longer brainstorming Amy’s romance.

  I’m retelling this one.

  Wanting to give it a new ending.

  “He did,” she says, and her voice is soft and sad at the same time.

  I’m such a fool. I pull her close, kiss her lips, and then…fuck it.

  I can’t keep swallowing my feelings anymore. When I break the kiss, I say, rough and full of emotion, “Hazel.”

  Her breath hitches. “Yes?”

  I gear up to speak my heart to her, right here, right now. I part my lips, the words forming to say I’m so in love with you—when there’s a rap on the door.

  I blink, suddenly unsure what to do. I clear my throat, ready to speak my truth anyway, but the other person is faster.

  “Hello! We’d love to do a group photo as we pull into our final stop.”

  It’s Amy, bright and cheery.

  Breaking the moment.

  “Of course,” I call out, my voice rusty. It hardly sounds like my own. “Be right out.”

  Then Hazel turns to me with expectant eyes, a soft mouth.

  And I search through my mind for a beautiful lie. “I just wanted to say…we should write that book.”

  Her expression is blank, confused. But then there’s a smile. It’s slow and a little uncomfortable as she says, “We should.”

  A few minutes later, we assemble for the photo, then step off the train for good.

  35

  DATE NIGHT

  Hazel

  As Axel and I lead the readers on the final activity of the final day of the tour—an hour-long bike tour around the city—I’m thinking about our date tonight when the tour ends.

  We’re going to the Tivoli Gardens, the amusement park in the center of town. I can’t wait to ride The Demon and its three ridiculous vertical loops.

  Bring on the adrenaline.

  I’ll use it as fuel to say, What did you really want to tell me on the train?

  I don’t think he was talking about books. I think—I hope—he was hinting at something more, something better.

  Like, maybe we can try dating when we finish writing Lacey’s book at the end of the year. As I pump the pedals, riding past a fountain by the harbor, I picture that scenario down the road.

  We could go back to New York. Meet up for our writing sessions. Finish the story we promised, and the second we write The End we can explore bougie coffee shops in Brooklyn and mock their ridiculous pour-overs, go to art galleries and figure out how to sneak into them late at night to steal things back (for research of course), then take a tango lesson together because we could both incorporate tango into our stories—him for subterfuge, me for sexual tension.

  And all of that, every second, would be foreplay.

  The bickering, the bantering.

  We could crash into each other at night.

  I glance at my phone in the phone holder on the handlebars. Ten more minutes and the tour will be over. We’ll arrive at the hotel in the center of town.

  We’ll say our goodbyes to Jackie, Alecia, Maria, Uma, Steven, and all the others. Amy and Jay too.

  Then we’ll run off for our date. It’ll be one last night, but maybe a promise of what’s to come.

  As I pedal, I practice the words. Want to date me in a few months?

  Tonight, under the twinkling lights of the adorably Scandinavian amusement park, will be the perfect time for me to take a chance.

  But something nags at me as we cover the final blocks.

  What if I’m asking for too much? What if this was just a vacation fling after all? What if I scare him away for good?

  When we reach the hotel and lock up our bikes, I can’t shake this doubt. But I shove those thoughts aside since it’s time for goodbyes.

  Axel works his way around the group, shaking hands, giving hugs. I do the same until I reach Jackie. “I’ll miss you most of all, Scarecrow,” I tell her softly.

  Her eyes shine. “Thank you for everything.”

  My throat tightens, but I clear away my own emotions then tell her, “You better email me and tell me how the deal went for the dog bandanas.”

  She crosses her fingers. “I hope it goes well.”

  “I know it will,” I tell her, then I hug her once more as my breath hitches. This was a special week in so many ways. It rejuvenated me. It reminded me that I might be the woman who works through her issues with words, but at least those words are reaching people, touching people.

  Including myself.

  The Book Besties head into a different hotel—I’m glad we have separate ones—and then I walk to Axel, more nervous than I’d thought I’d be. There are no more buffers. It’s just us for one more night.

  Will I be brave?

  I watch him, still talking intensely to Steven, still giving the guy all his attention, and I decide it’s time for me to change.

  To choose better.

  Axel’s the best choice I have ever made. I just know it.

  There. That’s settled. My pulse evens like a boat lolling on peaceful waves.

  But as I wait for him to finish, my phone trills. I grab it. Oh, I know this number. It’s the one that brings a cocktail of nerves and excitement.

  My publisher.

  Did something happen with the contract? What if they don’t want the book anymore? What if they want ten more books with Axel and me for one million dollars?

  “Hello,” I say as I answer, and my voice is rusty.

  “Hazel!” It’s Aaron, the publicist.

  “Hazel Valentine,” Cady chimes.

  “That’s me,” I say, stepping away from the hotel entrance and stopping at the quaint street corner.

  “We have news,” Cady practically sings.

  “Such good news. You know how well The I Do Redo is selling?”

  “Like, everywhere,” Cady tag teams. “The U.S. and the world, and France and just everywhere.”

  Everywhere is indeed everywhere. “I’ve heard. Michelle said the same. I’m so glad.”

  “Oh, good. So you’ll go?”

  Did I miss something? “Go where?”

  Aaron tuts. “Cady, you didn’t even tell her.”

  “Ack! My bad,” Cady says. “I got ahead of myself. Hazel, An Open Book wants you to do a special signing tomorrow.”

  “In New York? When I return?”

  I can hear Aaron roll his eyes. “I got this, Cady,” he says to her, then to me. “No, sweetie. In Paris. The store wants you to do a solo event tomorrow, a reader Q and A, and to sign both the French and English editions. Since you’re already there, we thought, easy-peasy. We’ll tack it onto the end. If you can just grab a flight to Paris tonight, you can do it tomorrow and leave from Charles de Gaulle. We’ll handle everything.”

  That’s…incredible and awful. I turn toward Axel, unsuspecting as he chats with Steven. Axel glances at me, a dirty look in his eyes, like he can’t wait to get me alone.

  I have to look away and confirm I heard right. “You want me to leave tonight?”

  “Well, sort of. More like in the next two hours. I’ve got my Google Flights open and we can get you on the next flight out of Copenhagen to go to Paris for the event tomorrow. Lancaster Abel would be so happy if you could do this.”

  My heart hurts. I want so badly to stay here, to have one wild and free night with Axel. To talk.

  But I don’t want to disappoint my publisher or my readers. “Of course,” I say, sounding hollow. Feeling hollow.

  They rattle off details, including that a car is coming for me in fifteen minutes.

  When I hang up, Steven has taken off. It’s just Axel and me outside the hotel on the Danish street.

  I must be frowning because his expression shifts as he walks to my side. His sly smile burns off, replaced by question marks. When he reaches me, he looks…guarded. “What’s going on?”

  My throat is too tight to speak. I feel sick. This is so dumb. I should not feel this emotional. “I have to leave. I’m going to Paris in…” I croak the next words. “Fifteen minutes.”

  He blinks, startled. His eyes flicker with surprise, maybe even hurt. “You do?”

  I quickly explain, finishing with, “I’m sorry.”

  But that sounds so weak. Except I don’t know what else to say. I was going to ask to maybe date you in a few months, but hey, gotta go.

  I can’t say that before I take off. I can’t ask him what I haven’t truly figured out myself.

  Especially when a black town car pulls up to the curb ahead of schedule. A driver hops out, holds up a sign.

  Valentine.

  No Huxley.

  Just me.

  There isn’t even time for goodbye. I need to grab my bag from the bell desk. I rush inside, snagging my stuff, then return to the sidewalk, right outside the entrance. Axel’s still here, but he no longer looks shell-shocked.

  He seems cool. In control. He’s sporting his nothing bothers me face as he leans against the hotel facade.

  “Sorry about tonight,” I say, but that barely covers it.

  He waves a dismissive hand. “No big deal.”

  But it’s a huge deal, I want to scream. Only he seems like the Axel of before, and I don’t know what to make of it.

  I manage a confused, “I’ll see you in New York.”

  Then, like a confident, aloof hero in a romance novel, he cups my jaw and presses a quick, final kiss to my lips.

  Final. It feels final.

  “This was fun. And we’ll get back to work in New York,” he says, and that’s that. “Like we planned.”

  The only-for-the-trip trope is over. And so are we.

  I slide into the car, feeling rattled and thrown. The vehicle pulls onto the road to head to the airport.

  I turn my face to the window, looking back, but Axel is already walking away.

  36

  ROMANCE FUCK-UP

  Hazel

  I need to revise my prior statement.

  You can never go wrong with a night in Paris…unless you’re sitting stupidly on your hotel bed, staring blankly out the window at the Seine.

  Feeling empty. Sad. And utterly confused.

  What the hell is going on?

  I’ve played those last two minutes in front of the hotel in Copenhagen over and over. I replayed them on the short flight to Paris. I replayed them in the car on the way to the hotel. I replayed them when I ate dinner with the bookstore manager from An Open Book and she prepped me for tomorrow.

  But alone again, as moonlight streams across the city, I still don’t get it.

  Axel was so…Axel 1.0.

  With a heavy sigh, I pick up my phone, checking the screen in case he’s called or texted or sent, I don’t know, a gift certificate for a lifetime supply of coffee. Or maybe a note that says he’ll always hold the tuna for me. Instead, my messages are empty except for a note from my mom.

  Mama Valentine: You must really be having a wonderful time on your trip if I haven’t gotten a single note.

  I’m a bad daughter. I didn’t reach out to her while I was traveling. But she ends her note with a smiley face, so I know she’s not really mad at me.

  Maybe she knows I need her. Mother’s intuition. It’s late in Paris, creeping toward midnight. But it’s early evening in Connecticut, and she’s probably just starting to close up at the garden shop she owns in Wistful.

  The ache in my chest is too intense to weather alone, so I call her.

  She answers right away. “Hey, are you having an amazing time?”

  My heart sobs. But I swallow the tears and choke out, “Mom, do you think I have a terrible track record in romance?”

  A door squeaks. She must be shutting the door to her office. “Sweetheart. Of course not.”

  What? How can she say that? “Have you seen the string of failed relationships behind me?”

  She laughs softly, sympathetically. “We all have that.”

  True, true. But doesn’t she get that mine is embarrassingly bad, especially given what I do for a living? I pick at unseen lint on the duvet. “But I choose cocky, unavailable men. I choose men who cheat on me. I choose men who care only about themselves.”

  “And from each one, you learn something about what you want and what you don’t want. I certainly have from my string of mistakes.”

  She makes a good point, but I’m not sure I’m ready to listen. “I’m just such a shitty little liar.” I flop dramatically onto the bed, staring at the painting on the ornate ceiling in the hotel room. Women in flouncy dresses swing languidly in gardens. So French. “I peddle happy endings, and look at me.” I feel sad and foolish. “How can I write these books with these fantastic romances when I’m flailing around at dating and love? I thought I was getting better, but I’m clueless.”

  Today was a classic example. I was sure Axel was going to say something so swoony I’d melt, and then the moment shattered, and I couldn’t figure out what to do at the hotel in Copenhagen.

  Did I read everything wrong?

  Probably.

  I got it all wrong with Max.

  But really, it’s for the best. We made a promise on a train not to ruin our resurrected partnership. Does it even matter why I’m bad at love? We agreed we could go only so far, and we reached the last stop.

  “Oh honey. You’re so hard on yourself,” Mom says, gentle and caring. Her voice feels like a hand stroking my hair when I was younger.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears well up in them. Her words hit straight in my bruised heart.

  Someone else was hard on me. Someone else was hard on me my whole freaking life. The man who hurt my mother. The man who put her down. Who controlled her. I squeeze my eyes a little harder as I think of my mean, absent father.

  I’m just like him. But…with me.

  I can’t even speak, but Mom keeps going. “But maybe you shouldn’t be,” she continues, and the tears start to leak.

  “But I don’t know how not to be,” I say, my voice breaking. Judging myself is all I know.

  “I think you do. You’re just letting yourself believe that you have to be as hard on yourself as…” she stops, takes a beat, “As you saw others be.”

  She’s careful not to blame him now. Maybe this is part of her healing. Her moving on. “But you don’t have to be perfect in romance or life,” she adds.

  “I’m not even remotely close to perfect,” I point out.

  “Hazel, you want to win everyone over. You want to make everyone happy—your readers, your friends, the people you date. But especially yourself. It’s the reason you write. Every time you sit down to write a new romance, you recreate the world. You remake it, ultimately, into something wonderful. But you’re not broken. You have to stop telling yourself that you’re broken. That you choose badly. You just choose, and then you learn, and then you move forward.”