“Are you excited to start working on Lacey’s book with Axel Huxley?” a French reader asks.

  No matter what he says when I show him my new idea, I’m outrageously excited to work with him. And I know, too, that we’ll find a way to honor our contract, and, I hope, our hearts. “I can’t wait,” I say. In fact, I wrote a scene today for his eyes only. A brand-new one with a heroine who steals the covers, and likes to play word games, but then is terribly vulnerable when she asks the hero if he’ll give her another chance, and also to hold the tuna. It needs polishing, but I can do that on the flight home tomorrow. “We have lots of ideas for where to take the characters.”

  “Next question.” The bookstore manager points to someone in the back of the event area.

  I can’t see who it is, at first, but then a familiar blonde sidles into the aisle, wearing a Book Besties shirt.

  “Hi there! Just wondering what you’d think of a romance where the hero has been in love with the heroine for a long time?” A smirk tilts Jackie’s lips.

  That’s a random question, but I answer honestly. “Sure. It’s always nice when he falls first.”

  Then Alecia appears, grabbing the mic from Jackie. “And maybe they’ve known each other for a while. And even worked together?”

  We’re getting more specific, but I don’t know where we’re going. “I’m open to that,” I say cautiously, curiously.

  Maria’s there too, and she grabs the mic. “And then he finally gets the cojones to tell her his feelings in front of everyone.”

  This feels…scripted.

  My heart speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. I’m not sure if I should connect all the dots, but I want to.

  “And then he tells her.”

  That’s…him. He’s somewhere in the crowd. That raspy, sexy voice is an arrow straight to my heart.

  “What is he going to tell her?” I ask, barely able to breathe as I hunt for him.

  Axel steps forward and Maria thrusts the mic to him.

  Is he really here? In Paris? At a bookstore? Striding toward me in front of all these people?

  Yes, yes, yes, yes.

  “He’s going to tell you his wish,” Axel says, his deep blue eyes locked on mine.

  My heart beats in my throat. Emotions spill over inside me. I’m one giant nerve of hope. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine. Because it came true,” I say.

  “Here goes,” he says as he reaches me at the table, never taking his gaze off me. “I made a wish to make it through this trip without telling you how I felt about you, and I did make it. Well, mostly. But I’m going to break it right now. I love you. I fell in love with you years ago, and then I fell in love with you all over again this week. And maybe I’m breaking all the rules of wishes, and maybe this means mine won’t come true—”

  I pop up, stretch across the table, and grab his face. “I’m in love with you too.”

  His smile spreads like wildfire. “You are?”

  “I’m so in love with you I wrote you a story.”

  “I’m so in love with you I told a whole bookstore,” he says, the fucking show-off.

  “I’m so in love with you I planned to tell you in New York tomorrow.”

  “I’m so in love with you I caught a last-minute plane to Paris to tell you today.”

  And I don’t need to play competitive-monster games anymore. I’m too happy. “You win.”

  But when I scurry around the table and kiss his fantastic lips, I’m pretty sure we both win. Everyone claps and cheers as we kiss in a bookstore in front of a crowd.

  When he breaks the kiss, he brings his lips to my ear and whispers, “Can I stay in your room tonight?”

  I’m so ludicrously happy that I kiss him again. “As if I’d let you stay anyplace else, you sexy jerk.”

  He smiles stupidly and runs the back of his fingers across my cheek. “What was your wish, sweetheart?”

  Axel says it in a whole new way this time, full of love and tenderness. I want to hear that affectionate nickname over and over. “To have a good trip with you. And I did.”

  “I guess some wishes come true,” he says.

  “They sure do.”

  Then I finish the event, and I leave with the hero of my love story.

  41

  VEX ME

  Hazel

  We race to the hotel. I want to be alone with him so badly.

  Well, big gestures make a gal frisky. Obviously. But it’s hard to walk fast when I just want to kiss him.

  I give in to the impulse because I can. As we near a streetlamp across from the river, I tug his hand, stopping his pace under the glow. “This is what it’s like. That moment in a story. I feel all…floaty,” I say, in awe that this is my life.

  He shakes his head appreciatively. “Who knew the romance writer was a total sap?”

  I slap his chest. “Shut up. You better feel this way too.”

  He covers my mouth with his, kissing me slow and deep in the Paris night, as if he’s making sure I know he feels the same. When he breaks the kiss, he murmurs, “I do, Hazel. I really do.”

  “Good. Now stop distracting me with your kisses and get me naked.”

  He plucks at my blouse. “So, it’s the Tuileries for ten points? You want to bang in a park?”

  My eyes widen. “We get points in our game?”

  He scoffs, then runs a finger over the curve of my right breast. “Yes. We get points, you competitive monster. I’m making up the rules as we go. And if you want it in a park, you’ll get it in a park. You’ll get it on a boat. You’ll get it in the bathroom of”—he stops, surveys the scene, then tips his forehead to a busy bar down the block—“that bar. Hard and up against the wall.”

  I shiver, loving that he’s still the same. He’s everything I fell for. He never stops challenging me, and that’s what I want.

  I wrap a hand around the back of his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. He needs a haircut, and I like that too. It’s so him. A little messy and rough around the edges. “Can we play that game when we return to New York? That seems like something they’d do in a book.”

  He presses his forehead to mine. “You and your incessant need for book sex.”

  “Your fault. You introduced me to it,” I taunt, then I flash him a sexy smile. “So, can we?”

  “We can play that game every day. But there’s something we need to do in the room tonight,” he says, his voice rumbly, dominant.

  I tremble. I’m already excited and he hasn’t even told me what we’re doing. “Name it.”

  “How about I show you?”

  I grab his hand and I run.

  Yes, I fucking run.

  “Show me now,” I tell him the second the door closes.

  He grabs my face, hauls me in for a greedy kiss. It’s passionate and possessive, and also…romantic.

  His hands cup my cheeks tenderly as his lips devour me hungrily. It’s so very Axel—he’s rough and demanding, but passionate and sensitive too.

  When he breaks the kiss, his lips quirk into a vulnerable grin. “I want you to show me something, actually.”

  “Yes?” I say, already breathless.

  “How you look riding my cock.” His words are filthy, but his tone is thick with longing. “I’ve been fantasizing about this for so long. I need you on top of me. Need to watch you climb on me, straddle me, and take me fucking deep.”

  I go up in flames.

  A few minutes later, I’m close, so damn close. I’m riding Axel, and he’s gripping my hips, and not taking his eyes off me.

  “Beautiful,” he praises, and that word strikes me as…almost odd.

  “You’ve never called me beautiful before,” I say as I rise up, then down, a burst of pleasure radiating through me.

  He grabs me harder, fucks me deeper. “I know,” he grunts.

  It’s purposeful. His word choice. Everything he says is intentional. It means something. But then pleasure spins higher in me, and I can’t think anymore.

  I can only feel these intense sparks.

  “Play with your tits for me,” he demands.

  As I ride him I comply, fondling my breasts while he stares at me savagely, his gaze pinned to my hands on my tits.

  He’s breathing so hard, almost feral. And there’s something wild in his eyes. Something I haven’t seen the other times we’ve slept together.

  “You look so fucking sexy. You feel so fucking good,” he says in a mad rush, then it’s like he can’t stop. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Craved this so many times. Fucking needed you.”

  His words ignite a storm of bliss inside me. Then he reaches between my thighs, strokes my clit, and sends me soaring.

  My world blurs. I’m groaning, panting, crying out as I crest.

  Then, when the orgasm starts to ebb, he flips me over in one rough move, pushing me down on the bed, hiking my legs onto his shoulders. He slides back into me, and he’s unleashed. Unlocked. He’s fucking me ferociously. “I swear, Hazel,” he mutters. “Need you so much. Want you so much.”

  And on that naked admission, he shudders, then stills.

  I grip his ass hard, holding him tight to me, feeling all his…pent-up emotions as he comes.

  That’s what was in his eyes.

  Love and passion. Lust and years of longing.

  It’s so surreal, and so wonderful at the same time.

  After we separate and clean up, we return to bed.

  “That was…different,” I say.

  “A Hazel weird different?” His eyebrow arches in question.

  “Weird good,” I say, setting my palm on his chest, savoring the slick warmth of his skin.

  He meets my gaze, unapologetically. “I was a little…overwhelmed.”

  “I noticed.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I liked it,” I add.

  “Did you now?”

  “You were very intense. It was like a whole new level of sex. Were you holding back before?”

  With a sigh, he nods. “I was. I had to. I didn’t want to let on. I didn’t want to blurt out I fucking love you during sex.”

  I furrow my brow, unsure if I want to hear that during sex. But if he wants to say it, I think I’d be okay with it. “Will you say it now?”

  He scoffs. “No. It’s cheesy. I’m not cheesy. Also, it was a metaphor, Hazel.”

  I roll my eyes, slug his arm. “I know that. I was able to identify the metaphor from the context clues. But then I wasn’t sure if you were hiding the truth inside a metaphor.”

  He laughs, then runs his fingers through my hair. “It’s the truth of how I feel. And I just…had to hold back.” His laughter ceases. His eyes turn intensely serious. “I don’t want to hold back now.”

  My heart pounds harder for him. “Don’t hold back anymore.”

  “I won’t,” he says, then he exhales hard, a long sigh of relief, like he’s been waiting to sigh forever. It’s humbling to be the one he feels all those things for. I want to deserve all these emotions. I want to keep earning this…adoration.

  “I won’t hold back either,” I say, then I snuggle against him. But I’m not ready to crash. Something else tugs at my mind. “You called me beautiful for the first time. I don’t think you’ve ever called me pretty or beautiful.”

  It’s not an accusation. It’s a question.

  “Because that’s not why I fell in love with you,” he says simply. “I fell in love with you for who you are, not what you look like.”

  My heart clutches. It’s all soft and squishy. “You’re making this really hard,” I mutter.

  “Making what hard?”

  “To keep up the bickering,” I mumble.

  He laughs. “Sweetheart, I intend to vex you for a very long time.”

  “Is that a threat?” I taunt.

  “It’s a promise. Prepare to be vexed, flummoxed, irritated, and driven mad. Also to be fucked very well and thoroughly.”

  I thread my fingers through his hair. “You know how I said I won’t hold back?”

  A line digs into his forehead. “Yeah?”

  He sounds so concerned, but I can make that worry go away. I run a finger down that line. “I don’t hate cuddling,” I say in a confession.

  And Axel Huxley cracks up. He laughs so hard the Left Bank can hear. “That is so very you.”

  I flip around so my back is to his chest. “Cuddle me.”

  “If I have to,” he says, then wraps his arms around me, and holds me tight.

  In the morning we’re sitting at a sidewalk café, downing coffees. I’m watching the city roll by as Parisians march to work, or to fun, or to school.

  Axel’s head is down, bent over his phone. He’s reading the scene I wrote.

  I’m not nervous. I’m just grateful he’s here. Happy I can show it to him. It’s not long—just a thousand words or so.

  He’s done quickly, and when he looks up, he’s a little dumbfounded.

  Oh, shit. Was I too sappy? “You didn’t like it?”

  He parts his lips to speak, but nothing comes.

  Oh, god. Axel is never speechless. What’s wrong with my words? Maybe it needs a little editing, but when the feisty, bossy, chatty heroine says to the grumpy, talky, sarcastic hero that the guy for her has been in front of her all along, and she wants to try, doesn’t he get it? Oh, no. “It’s too cheesy and you hate cheese?” I ask, wincing. “Is it the hold the tuna bit?”

  He dips his head, smiling, maybe embarrassed. Then he raises his face. “I just love it so much I don’t even know what to say.”

  I’m swept up with so much happiness that I stand, close the distance between us, and sit on his lap. I wrap my arms around him, and I kiss his stubbly jaw. “I love you.”

  He sighs happily as he pulls me close.

  42

  TEN POINTS

  Axel

  A week later

  I down the last of my coffee then set the mug in the sink amidst an embarrassingly large pile of empty mugs.

  But, whatever.

  Who’s going to see them? I leave the kitchen, grab my messenger bag, and head for the door.

  You dumbass. Hazel will see them.

  Don’t want her thinking I live like a pig. Setting down my bag, I double back to the scene of the messy crime and wash the mugs, putting them in the dish rack to dry.

  Then I head to the door again, surveying my pad one more time before I take off. Yup. It’s officially acceptable for a lady to see tonight.

  Lady?

  Fuck that.

  She’s not simply a lady. She’s my woman. My girlfriend. My big love.

  On that thought, I smile.

  The goddamn grin doesn’t leave my face as I head down the hall of my building and step into the elevator. My buddy Bridger’s in the lift, sporting a ruby-red shirt, checking out his phone. He looks up when he must hear me. Then he arches one brow. “What’s wrong with your face?”

  “What is wrong with my face?” I ask, lifting a hand, hunting for…coffee residue?

  He points at me, his eyes narrowed. “Your mouth is doing something funny. I think…” He peers quizzically. “Is that a smile?”

  Asshole. “Yes. They are common in the species of men when they fall ass-over-elbow in love.” Then I grin wider. “Like yours, dickhead.”

  He laughs, but now he’s smiling too. He was the first of the two of us to fall, and he and his girlfriend, Harlow, are disgustingly happy together. “Fine, you got me there,” he says, then shoots me a wide-eyed look. “So, who did you hoodwink?”

  The elevator slows at the lobby, and as we leave the building together I tell him. “The one and only Hazel Valentine.”

  “No kidding? Harlow loves her books.”

  “Harlow has good taste.”

  “I love her books too. I’ve been trying to acquire them for my company,” he says. Bridger runs a TV production shop.

  “Want me to put in a good word? I imagine you’ll need it. Everyone wants Hazel’s stories,” I say, feeling all the pride in the world.

  “Sure, but the four of us should have dinner soon too. As friends. Go to a show.”

  “I like musicals,” I say as we hit the street.

  “You do?”

  “I am a man of many mysteries,” I say.

  “You are, Huxley. You are,” he says, then claps me on the shoulder. “You wear happiness well.”

  “Thanks, man,” I say, then we head in opposite directions, and I make my way to Chelsea to a familiar haunt.

  A coffee shop where I once paid rent. Hazel and I spent so much time at Big Cup that we left rent tips. A few twenties a week in the tip jar. Wi-Fi, caffeine, and a place to park your ass is all a writer needs, and I’m eager to pay it again, since I’ll be working with her.

  When I near the familiar shop, my pulse kicks up. I walk a little faster, and once I spot that mane of red hair, I feel both longing and peace. That’s a welcome change—the peace part—from when I’d walk into the shop, twisted and torn over the unrequited feelings that had squatter’s rights in my chest.

  Back then, the pain of wanting someone I couldn’t have, of loving someone in secret, ate me alive. Pushed to the emotional brink, I made terrible decisions I regretted.

  I’d probably have let that regret eat me alive some more too if she hadn’t come back into my life on that trip and insisted—absolutely, relentlessly insisted—on uncovering what went wrong.

  God, I fucking love her for never giving up on us, and on me.

  I grab the handle of the door and head inside, marching straight over to my fiery redhead. She’s biting the corner of her lip, tapping away like a madwoman. She’s lost in words, and it’s a beautiful sight.

  This is how I started to fall in love with her. Fierce and focused, she’s the breathing manifestation of creativity.

  My heart rockets as I close the distance between us, grab the chair, and sit across from her.

  Seconds later, she looks up, then blinks. “Oh, I was—”