“So, gimme some tips. You know public appearances are not my favorite thing,” I say.

  “It’s hard to live down the broody, grumpy, stick-up-your-ass image you’ve created for years, isn’t it?”

  “Damn straight it is,” I say, proudly. That image has served me well. It’s safe. It protects me.

  The reality is my job comes with public appearances. Sure, readers don’t seem to mind if I’m a little salty.

  But there’s salt and then there are bitter lemons. I prefer to be the first.

  “Well, have you read her latest book?” Carter asks.

  “Of course,” I say, incredulous. “Read it the night it came out. I even read it on my phone because the paperback wouldn’t arrive till the next day.”

  Carter laughs.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “You hate her, and you read her book?”

  I huff. “I used to write with her. Obviously, I think she can write. It’s a good book. She’s a good writer. Plus, one should know their enemy.”

  “Right. Sounds like that’s why you read it. Anyway, just pick two to three things about her story to compliment. And when the desire to throw rocks at her like she’s Johnny the Jackass from next door who called you a twerpy nerd overcomes you, remember—”

  “The pen is mightier than the sword, and you can always make him your villain,” I say smugly.

  And I did. Johnny the Jackal was my first villain. And it felt gooood to use his name, though like any good writer I varied it a touch.

  “Also, Axel?”

  “Yes?”

  “Just smile,” Carter adds. “It takes less muscles to smile than to frown.”

  “Actually a study debunked that,” I say. “Several leading plastic surgeons found it takes more but—”

  “But men who smile get laid more often. And on that note, smile. Just fucking smile.”

  That kid gives damn good advice. “All right. If you insist.”

  “Nice! You sound like less of an asshole already.”

  Twenty-four hours later, I’ve kept it up.

  I’ve been smiling in the shower, smiling on the street, smiling as I do yoga with my buddy Bridger who lives in my building.

  “Yoga makes you that happy, man?” he asks as we leave, mats on shoulders.

  “The happiest,” I say with a grin. Practice makes perfect after all.

  I refuse to lose this who’s nicer battle with Hazel.

  I smile as I walk into the hotel, as I head to the auditorium, as I enter the greenroom backstage.

  I smile as I say hi to Kennedy and Mateo and Saanvi, mingling by the coffee urn. Then I smile wider to TJ, who’s chilling on the gray couch next to the redhead I’m going to vanquish.

  Hazel looks sharp in a red twin-set cardigan with black buttons, and a stylish pair of jeans and boots. Damn. She’s mastered the pretty-but-approachable-and-quirky look so damn well.

  I glance down at my black polo and dark jeans, paired with my black glasses. Well, black is easy to match.

  But I’m a romantic thriller writer, so I’m allowed to look dark.

  Except today, I’m going to be dark and smiling. “Hello, Hazel. Lovely to see you,” I say.

  With a laugh, she just shakes her head. “Nice to see you, Axel,” she says, then turns her focus back to TJ.

  A few minutes later, Luciana strides in. She’s one of the publicists for the Romance Reader Expo. The olive-skinned brunette waggles her phone triumphantly, flashing gleaming white teeth. “The auditorium of the Luxe Hotel is packed with more than one thousand fans,” she tells the six of us.

  Huh. That seems impossible to believe. That’s just…too many. “Are there really a thousand people here?” I ask.

  Hazel whips her gaze to me, and I swear she’s holding back an epic eye roll.

  Maybe I sounded like I’m in a courtroom. “It’s just a lot,” I explain, since I don’t want to look like I’m contradicting Luciana. But I guess I sound like I’m questioning her.

  You can take the lawyer out of the law practice. But you can’t take the cross-examiner out of the lawyer.

  But I didn’t mean it like I doubt her. I’m more than four co-written books and eight solo books into my career, and I still haven’t wrapped my head around the fact that I have readers. That people choose to read, or listen, to my words.

  It’s surreal.

  I'm convinced someone is going to jump out from behind the curtain at any second and say they're punking me.

  Then take my career away.

  “Actually,” TJ cuts in, deadpan, as is his MO, “It’s probably one thousand and five. That’s what the auditorium seats. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one charges you, Huxley.”

  “Thanks, appreciate it,” I say, dryly. “Anyway,” I say, recalling Carter’s words as I fasten on a smile, sending it Luciana’s way. “It’s all good.”

  With a nod that says the size of the auditorium convo is closed, she walks us through the event. “I’ll do a quick intro. Then it’s showtime. The focus is on the readers. They’re here to ask questions. But I’ll moderate and make sure the questions are acceptable. You’ve all sent me your list of off-limits topics, so we should be good to go.” She looks around, checks her watch. “Shall we head backstage and mic you up?”

  “Sounds great,” I say with a smile.

  See? This old dog can learn new tricks.

  We leave and head to the wings. The crowd is buzzing with chatter. The noise and hubbub drift back here, and it’s heady.

  And still hard to believe.

  I peer around the wings at the packed room. There’s no way they’re here for me. Maybe everyone else. But not me. Not the guy who’s shitty with names. Not the guy who embarrassed himself at his first signing when he got the name of the bookstore owner wrong.

  It’s one hour. Then you’ll see your friends, play some pinball, and grab a beer with the guys.

  I head onstage, and Luciana introduces us, then points to the woman queued up at the front of the question line in the audience.

  Ah, shit. She’s wearing a Ten Park Avenue shirt. She leans into the mic. “I’m dying to know what happens to the next couple at Ten Park Avenue. Will you and Hazel ever finish Lacey’s book?”

  You don’t even want to know how painful that last story was to try to write. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

  But Carter’s words flash before me.

  Smile. Just smile.

  My father’s snide comments flicker as they sometimes do. Have you ever considered, I don’t know, trying a little harder to help me pull this off?

  And I smile, and I try. “We’re both really busy. Have you read Hazel’s latest sexy romantic comedy? The antics of sunshine Kelsey and broody Brayden when they’re stuck sharing a flat on a non-refundable trip in The I Do Redo, are so terrific,” I say, deflecting.

  And multitasking too, as I heap on the praise.

  Score one for the guy who’s picturing how the woman with the Ten Park Avenue shirt takes her coffee as she strips naked to screw some dude.

  And just like that, no one will know who I really am.

  5

  HE LIKES TACOS

  Hazel

  Warring thoughts rush through my head as I sit straight and tall on the emerald-green dais in the middle of the stage, Axel on one side, TJ on the other.

  Wistful ones like, I was dying to finish writing Lacey’s story. That plucky doctor had some bad luck in her past and needed some good loving.

  Then, badass babe ones along the lines of Two can play at this praise game, Huxley.

  And finally, kick-myself-in-the-pants ones such as, Why didn’t I put our previous writing partnership that went up in spectacular flames on my no-fly list?

  Well, because I didn’t want to signal to my publisher, any of the publicists, or the entire Romance Reader Expo organizers, that it’s still a sore spot.

  I try to erase Axel from my thoughts, but it’s hard with him so close. Harder still after he made that kind and witty comment about my new book.

  I fight my own mind as audience members line up to ask questions about inspiration, writer’s block, and whether “you’ve ever gotten so turned on while writing a sexy scene that you had to take care of business?”

  Dodged a bullet with that last one—the questioner addresses it to Kennedy. My fellow rom-com author, who looks the part with the artfully messy bun and red cat-eye glasses, blows out a long breath, then says, “That’s an occupational hazard of writers working in coffee shops, let me tell you.”

  The crowd laughs.

  Whew. Axel’s tactic worked. We aren’t stealing the spotlight with our private war spilling onto a public front.

  When Kennedy finishes, Luciana fields a new question from a woman near the front. She’s sporting a T-shirt that says I claim all the book boyfriends. I like her already.

  “Hi. I’m Melissa,” the woman says as an expo crowd runner hands her a mic.

  “Welcome, Melissa,” Luciana says, then eyes the reader’s shirt. “And we might have to keep a schedule of book boyfriends, because I’ve got some claims to make too. But go ahead. What’s your question?”

  Melissa dives in, gesturing to all six authors onstage. “First, I’ve read all your books, every single one, and I have a question for TJ.”

  “Hit me up,” says my bestie. TJ and I write together a few days a week, on our own stories. He’s my work husband and he calls me his work wife.

  “In Manhandled, one of your heroes hates musicals,” Melissa says. “And I know—since I’m a big fan of your books—that you don’t care for them either. I would love to know what other personal traits you give your characters.” Her wide-eyed enthusiasm hints that she’s been dying to ask this question for years. She quickly adds, “And I’d actually love to know that from everyone here today.”

  Oh, the book-boyfriend claimer is clever, sneaking in a question for everyone. I like her even more.

  “Good idea. Let’s go on down the row, and everyone can take a shot.” Luciana looks to TJ. “And you can go first.”

  My friend flashes an easygoing grin. He leans forward, almost conspiratorial, then stage whispers into his mic, “You want to know, Melissa? You really want to know what traits I put into a story?”

  “Yes!”

  “All right. Here you go,” he says, holding up his hands like he’s saying you asked for it. “Some of my heroes have a thing for guys with British accents.” He finishes with a wink.

  I pat his shoulder. “Gee, I always wondered where that came from,” I say dryly. His husband is an Oscar-nommed English actor, and TJ was in love with him from afar for years before they got back together.

  Melissa points to me. “What about you, Hazel?”

  “Of course I love English accents too,” I say, but that’s a chicken’s answer.

  There are so many ways to answer this truthfully. Many of my heroines are terrified of true romance. They’re scared to pieces of getting hurt. They don’t trust love. And they’re convinced they choose badly.

  Well, just look at their track records of terrible exes.

  But no one wants to hear that on a panel. Or, honestly, at all.

  Quickly, I cycle through the details I’d be willing to dole out.

  Do I tell Melissa I like to shop at thrift stores? And that yes, one time I did in fact make out in the dressing room with a hot guy I met at Champagne Taste, inspiring a scene in Sweet Spot? Or that at another time, my phone decided to spill all my secrets when it acted like an asshole and began playing a dictation file of mine while I was on the subway?

  Yeah, that was a good one.

  “Melissa,” I say, leaning closer, even though she’s many feet away, then I reveal a little behind-the-scenes detail. “Remember when Colby’s audiobook started playing at the silent auction?”

  Melissa’s jaw drops, then she closes it to speak, a little awed. “Right during the get on your knees, pretty baby, and take it deep scene in Plays Well With Others?”

  “That’s the one,” I say, then I shrug, owning my foible and the inspiration it provided. “Happened to me while I was on the subway one afternoon. Only it was with the dictation file for a sex scene I had spoken into my phone earlier that day,” I say, giving them a little piece of me—the piece I’m willing to share. The one that makes me seem human. But never too human, never too raw, never too wounded.

  This is just enough, I hope.

  And enough works, since laughter ripples through the crowd, then Luciana chimes in with, “Show of hands. Has that happened to you with your audiobook?”

  Hands fly high.

  A throat clears from right next to me. “Hazel, are you leaving out an important detail?”

  Tension slams into me from Axel’s question. Is he going to dress me down onstage? “What do you mean?” I ask carefully.

  He shoots a c’mon smile. “Tell them the rest of the story.”

  Shit. Fuck. What am I leaving out? Dread crawls along my skin. I part my lips, but I’ve got nothing to say.

  Only, he does. “That happened when you were on the subway at three-thirty, and it was filled with school children.”

  I breathe a thousand and one sighs of relief.

  But I’m also shocked. I’d nearly forgotten that detail.

  I stare at him, a little amazed he remembers that. He wasn’t even with me on the train that afternoon a few years ago. Now that he’s mentioned it though, I must have told him the story the next day. Maybe when we were plotting our second forbidden romance in the Ten Park Avenue series. I told him all the little details of my days then—like the woman who walked her German shepherd past my apartment each morning as I was leaving for my run. Soon, she started wearing the same color workout clothes as I wore. We decided she was trying to steal my identity, so we called her The Hacker, and I wrote her nickname on my whiteboard.

  I blink away the fond memory then focus on the here and now. There’s little an audience loves more than an embarrassing tale, so I pick up the conversational baton as smoothly as I can. “And if you think having a sex scene from an audiobook play out loud is bad, imagine if it’s you dictating a rough version of the sex scene,” I say.

  Axel fake coughs. “And it was…very rough.”

  Holy fuck.

  Axel is a fantastic faker. He’s got the whole poke and prod playfully down to an art.

  I better up my game. “That’s what she said,” I add, and the crowd pretty much goes wild.

  But it’s time for the Axel and Hazel show to end. That’s the point, after all—we don’t want to hog the limelight.

  “What about you, Saanvi?” I ask, helping steer the question to the others.

  She answers with a comment about how she’s always been drawn to bad boys, like her heroes and heroines are. After Mateo and Kennedy answer too, Luciana strolls to the edge of the stage, picking a new audience member.

  A question about what everyone’s working on next keeps the focus on the others, and when I steal a glance at the time, I want to pump a fist.

  We only have fifteen minutes left of this Q and A, and we’ve been pulling this off.

  Soon enough the clock winds down, and Luciana wraps up the session, thanking the audience. “And don’t forget, these authors will be signing books starting in thirty minutes at the publishers’ booths, so get your paperbacks ready.”

  It’s clear the session’s over, but a strong, brash voice pipes up from the front row.

  “But Axel never answered the question,” a woman with purple hair points out. She stands, grabs the nearest audience mic. She looks familiar, and I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her face on my social media feeds. She’s a popular BookToker who’s made a mark for being provocative. “About what part of him he puts into his books.”

  Soft murmurs float through the crowd, a sound loosely translating to I want to know more about the handsome guy with the glasses who never says much about himself.

  Luciana will probably let him off the hook since the time is running out, but she checks her watch then says, “We’ve got thirty seconds left. Axel, can you answer Melissa’s question and help quench Tracy’s need-to-know thirst? Did you ever accidentally play a sexy dictation on the subway or fall for someone with an English accent?”

  He laughs, the kind of laugh that somehow manages to say Oh, Luciana, I never talk about my private life. He squares his shoulders and faces the crowd, squinting through his glasses at the woman who asked the question.

  But before he can answer, Tracy asks another question. “For instance, your last hero was a former lawyer turned vigilante-for-hire. Is he a little of you?”

  Axel narrows his brows and nods thoughtfully. “I can see the similarities, Tracy,” he says. “I definitely look like a badass vigilante that underground associations would hire to retrieve priceless stolen goods. But…sadly, I’ve never rappelled into a museum to retrieve a work of art belonging to someone else.”

  It’s a good answer, but I can tell that won’t be enough for Tracy. She likes to push buttons. She wants a real answer. Everyone else gave one, but Axel isn’t offering any nibbles.

  “But the law school bit? The reason he didn’t practice? Was that based on you?” She presses, digging deeper into the character’s psyche, trying to draw comparisons.

  Axel’s face goes blank, and he’s quiet for a few seconds.

  I look to Luciana. Shouldn’t she be stepping in? But a stagehand is whispering something to the moderator, so Luciana’s not available for swooping.

  Ah, hell. I don’t want to save him, yet I hate to see anyone backed against a wall. Also, I do want the points. So, I jump on the grenade. “His heroes like tacos,” I add with an I’m sharing a secret smile. “And this guy’s addicted to them,” I say, pointing my thumb at Axel.

  A flash of relief passes across his blue eyes. Then he’s sharp again, confident again, when he says, “She’s right. I’m a taco lover.”

  I cup the side of my mouth. “Taco Tuesday is a religion for him.”