“Tacos are holy,” he adds.

  “Look, he’s not wrong,” Saanvi contributes, and for a few seconds the audience turns into a congregation singing the praises of tacos.

  When the Q and A ends, my sister texts me to come find her in the greenroom. Thank god Veronica’s here. I know she came for the signing we’re doing next—she loves Kennedy’s books. I feel a little exposed after that Q and A, hoping the attendees couldn’t see through Axel and me. I need a safe space for a few minutes, and that’s my sister.

  She’s waiting for me by the greenroom, leaning against the doorframe, wearing a red polka-dot top, with brown wisps of hair framing her face. When our eyes meet, she waves me over, grabbing my wrist when I reach her.

  “Why didn’t I know about the sex dictation? We’re sisters in mortification now.”

  I smile, loving that she can laugh about her own snafu. A year ago she accidentally sent her anonymous sex column to her entire company and lost her job. But it was kind of her cat’s fault. Quirky pets can be so dastardly.

  “Because no one should ever have to hear me dictate a sex scene. Ever.”

  “Try me. Do one right now as we head to the signing,” she says, and we walk in that direction.

  “No way.”

  She pokes my side. “C’mon.”

  “Fine, fine.” I clear my throat and adopt the most monotone tone ever. “He unzipped his jeans, comma, his thick cock springing free, period, my mouth watered, comma, and I said, open quote, your dick is a delicious summer sausage, close quote.”

  She laughs. “You’re right. You’re exempt from ever dictating sex scenes in front of me again.”

  “Thank you. Anyway, was I okay?” I ask nervously. “I felt extra sweaty today.”

  She pretends to sniff me. “You don’t smell sweaty.”

  “I’m being serious. Did I sound like a bitch? A know-it-all? A ding-dong?”

  Her brow knits. “What? None of those. Why?”

  “I always worry.”

  “You were great. And I’m sure no one could tell you secretly want to bang Axel.”

  I roll my eyes harder. She’s harped on this before. “News flash. You’re still wrong.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “No, we will not see,” I answer, drawing a clear line in the sand.

  She smiles wickedly at me, then mouths I’m right. She’s such a stinker, but I’m still glad she’s here. “Thanks for coming. I know you came to see Kennedy. But I appreciate it nonetheless.”

  “I’m here for you too. Let’s grab a drink after? Meet me at Gin Joint later?”

  “I’ll be there,” I say, then I head into the signing room, energized from seeing readers and my sister, even though she’s still so dead wrong about me wanting to bang my archnemesis.

  Later that night, when the signing ends, I grab my purse and leave the hotel solo, ready to head to Chelsea to meet my sister. When I reach the revolving door, I spot Axel standing outside, leaning against the glass facade of the hotel, looking cool and broody.

  Well, at least from the backside.

  Is he waiting for me?

  I might have reached my weekend dose of faking it with the enemy. I don’t know if I can handle another run-in with the man. But as I walk outside, I steal a glance at him. He’s chatting with someone. I tense, wondering if that’s his agent. But a better look shows a tall, older man with a thick beard, a shiny bald head, and tortoise-shell glasses, and I sigh in relief.

  His editor, not his agent.

  “And we’ll have that lunch with Stein later this week,” Linus is telling Axel.

  “Looking forward to it,” Axel replies. They’re focused on each other. Excellent. All I have to do is walk past, smile vaguely, and head downtown.

  Wait. I don’t even have to do that.

  I turn the other way, but as I wheel around, Axel calls out, “Hazel.”

  I groan but turn back. “Yes?”

  Axel motions to Linus that he’ll be a second. The editor waves to me, and I give a professional grin and a nod. It’s a small world, after all. Then Axel heads over to me, the corner of his lips curving up. “Tacos?”

  It comes out curious but approving. For a second there, I thought he’d be annoyed I made up the taco thing.

  “I improvised. Don’t tell me you hate tacos too?”

  He laughs. “Who hates tacos?”

  “No one,” I say. I expect him to say something cutting and leave, but he stands looking at me, silent.

  My brow knits. “What is it, Huxley?”

  He sighs, as if dreading what he’s about to say. “You win,” he mutters. “You were nicer.”

  Oh, right. The Be Nicer contest. We didn’t even establish stakes though. “What were we playing for?”

  He glances at the cabs streaking by on the street, then back at me. “I don’t know. Except, I guess, keeping things private still. So, um, thanks.”

  He extends a hand once more. I take it and shake. Only this time, I hold his hand for a second or two longer. Maybe five.

  But then I let go. What’s the point in lingering?

  We’re just former friends, former partners, former confidantes.

  We are former.

  We’re dead to each other now.

  There’s no prize for behaving like an adult.

  “Maybe the prize is we won’t have to see each other again,” I offer. That’s probably for the best—playing to keep the status quo and staying far, far away from each other.

  That’s easiest.

  He purses his lips and then nods. “Good night, then,” he says, and it sounds like we both agree on something.

  I turn around and head to meet Veronica at Gin Joint. Too bad I don’t feel like I won anything today.

  6

  WINEDAY

  Hazel

  The next morning in the shower, the muses of opening chapters deliver my next hero’s profession. Because all good book ideas originate when you’re naked and wet.

  The winner is—wine guy.

  My hero will own several vineyards.

  Which means wine’s now a write-off for me.

  Once I’m not naked and wet, but not fully dressed either—because why be fully dressed at home?—I reach out to one of the city’s top sommeliers and schedule a time to see him next week.

  I might be counting down the days.

  When next Wineday—I mean Monday—rolls around, I leave my apartment, texting my friend Rachel in San Francisco as I take the subway uptown. She’s a wine lover, so I’m required to make her jealous.

  Hazel: Guess where I’m off to…Hugo’s!

  Rachel: I hate you. Also, steal me a bottle of his best cab.

  Hazel: I’ll stuff it down my jeans.

  Rachel: Don’t get me excited while I’m heading to work.

  Hazel: Speaking of, how’s the new jewelry shop going?

  Rachel: It’s day by day but I’m hopeful. I’m heading to Paris next month to check out some artists to possibly carry!

  Hazel: Ooh, la la! (That’s, um, the extent of my French).

  I’m almost at Hugo’s, so I wish her well then head into the fancy restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue, where I soak up the ins and outs of different grapes from the wine expert named owner.

  The lumberjack of a man offers me a cab. “And this one is from my favorite region in California. The grapes are big and fierce,” Hugo says without a hint of snoot in his voice. He’s the wine everyman.

  I lean in and draw a hearty inhale of the glass of red. Makes my senses tingle. “Mmm. Smells rich,” I say.

  “The grapes were harvested at just the right time,” he says, patting the label on the bottle next to him like he’s praising the winemaker.

  “Hugo, I have a very important question.”

  “Ask me anything,” he says with a warm smile.

  “Would you ever harvest grapes under a full moon?”

  “Why?” It has five syllables.

  “That’s exactly what I was wondering. Whyyyyy?”

  I tell him the story of the full-moon wine. Hugo shakes his head the whole time, amusingly perturbed. “Everyone has a gimmick. Before you know it, someone will market sweet raccoon wine.”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  “Not really, but one of the ways you can tell grapes are ripe is when birds, raccoons, or bears show up. They like the grapes when they’re sweet,” he explains.

  That just makes wine even more delightful. “I must find a way to put Sweet Raccoon Wine in my next book,” I say.

  “I agree. You must,” he says.

  When I leave a little later—without a bottle in my jeans, sorry Rachel—I’m dying to tell someone about the raccoon wine. As I hit the bustling sidewalk, I open my phone to text TJ, but annoyingly, my brain whispers someone else’s name.

  Axel.

  Tell Axel.

  I scoff at myself. As if I’d tell Axel, I argue back.

  But he was there for the full-moon wine harvest.

  So what? TJ will still get it.

  But you know you’re dying to tell Axel you dispelled the Tides of Wine theory with him.

  Enough! Just enough!

  As I weave through the afternoon crowds on a spring day, I write to my bestie. Once I hit send, my phone trills. The number is the main line at my publisher, Lancaster Abel.

  “Oh,” I say to no one. A familiar mix of nerves and excitement pings through me. Usually it’s good news when the publisher calls, but you never know. What if someone canceled me online while I was visiting Hugo? Worse, what if my publisher is dropping me because I’ve been canceled? Have I done something to get canceled? I’m not a dick. I don’t say stupid things. But oh god, I hope I didn’t fuck up.

  I swipe answer so fast.

  “Hey there, it’s Hazel,” I say as I duck down Eighty-Second Street, where it’s a touch quieter than the avenue.

  “We know it’s Hazel!” the twin voices of Aaron and Cady, Lancaster Abel’s publicists, chime in. “We called you!”

  Like most good publicists, they speak in exclamation points.

  “What are you doing?” Cady asks next. She’s the peppier of the two, which is saying something since Aaron ranks a ten out of ten on the cheer scale.

  “Just leaving Hugo’s Wine Bar. Research for my new book,” I say, hoping to impress them, because I’m always hoping to impress everyone at Lancaster Abel since I need them to love me forever and ever and then some.

  “Oh my god. So fun. I can’t wait to hear all about it,” Aaron says, then clucks his tongue. “Sooooo…”

  I brace myself. Doom is coming. “Yes?”

  “We had the best idea,” Cady tag-teams, just as a furniture truck rumbles down the block. She says something more about this best idea, but I can barely hear her.

  “What did you say?” I ask, covering my other ear.

  “Wait. Hugo’s. You’re at Hugo’s? Why didn’t you tell us? The office is five blocks away,” Aaron says.

  Sure, I know that. But why would I tell them? I don’t want to be clingy. “I didn’t realize you’d want to see me,” I say, honestly.

  “We always do,” Cady says. “Wait! New idea! Can you come by? It was someone’s birthday today. We have cake.”

  “Oh my god, girl. Don’t offer her someone else’s cake,” Aaron says, mortified. “Hazel, hon. You deserve your own cake.”

  I blink, trying to make sense of these two. “So, you want me to come in for cake?”

  “Cake and news,” Aaron adds. “Cady, we need to get Hazel some cake. Like, now. Go to that shop—”

  “Actually, you don’t have to get me cake.” They don’t need to roll out the red carpet. “I’m happy to come by cake-free. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  We say goodbye, and as I march toward their building, I text TJ, trying to figure out why they want me to visit.

  TJ: Maybe the hot guy on the cover of your last book wants to show off how he grew his six-pack into an eight-pack.

  Hazel: And the answer is no cheese and no fun.

  TJ: I believe in cheese and abs.

  Hazel: And I have a time-share in the sea to sell you.

  Soon, I arrive at the skyscraper, giving my name to security. Up I go to the twelfth floor, and the second the elevator doors open, Cady and Aaron squeal. Aaron’s blond. Cady’s blonder. They escort me into a conference room, pawing at me the whole time, asking about Hugo, my favorite wine, how my day is going.

  I love their enthusiasm, but I don’t want to be touched this much. I don’t say a word, though, except great, everything is great.

  Once I take a seat in the room, my editor, Ramona, pops in the doorway, tucking her stick-straight brown hair behind her ears as she beams at me. “They told me you were coming by. Are you excited?”

  “Um, sure. I love coming by,” I say, even more confused.

  Ramona shoots the publicity twins a seriously look. “You didn’t tell Hazel on the phone?”

  Cady has the good sense to look chagrined. “She was around the corner. We wanted to tell her in person. You tell her!”

  Ramona tuts at them then turns to me. “It’s every writer’s dream. We want to send you on a special book tour. If you’re amenable,” she adds, a diplomat in a way the publicist pair is not.

  Tour the country, meet with readers, sign books, and chat about stories? That is the ultimate fantasy. “Amenable? Of course I’m amenable,” I say. Inside, I’m elated. I haven’t been canceled. I’ve been…continued. “Whatever is involved, I’m game,” I say, but wait. That’s not true. “Unless it’s a bungee jumping tour. Or, say, one of those tours where you have to walk across rickety bridges with roaring rapids one thousand feet below.”

  Cady’s jaw drops. “There are tours like that?”

  “People like to be scared, hon,” Aaron says, sagely.

  Ramona cuts in. “We won’t be sending you bungee jumping. But we had this great idea that, since The I Do Redo is set in France, we’d send you on a week-long luxury train tour across Europe with several lucky VIP readers. You’ll stop in various cities and do signings and events along the way, and you can show readers some of the locations from the book. How does that sound?”

  Like a premise for another book. Like fodder for a train romance. Like…gah.

  I can picture it now, all elegant and Orient Express-like. Maybe they even want me to dress up in a velvet evening gown, with jewels and satin gloves, and offer toasts to old-fashioned luxury as we rattle along the coast. Then when I go back to my sleeper car at night, I’ll plot a swoony story where our heroine meets a handsome stranger on the train, perhaps somewhere in the French Alps.

  No, wait. He’ll be a billionaire from a small French village. He’ll step on the train wearing a tuxedo, and his dark gaze will be full of dangerous secrets. When he seduces her, they’ll have the kind of sex I’ve never quite experienced but want to—book sex.

  Well, it’s the best kind. The lady always Os. Usually two or three times. I’m seriously jealous of my heroines.

  “I can leave this weekend,” I say.

  Cady and Aaron chuckle, then clap. “I knew she’d say yes,” Cady says.

  Ramona laughs briefly then gets down to business. “Great. There’s a brand-new luxury train service that just launched. We’ll be partnering with them. JHB Travel,” she begins.

  “Oh! I heard of that endeavor. It’s owned by some reclusive billionaire who made his money in green energy,” I say. Perhaps Mr. B will be the billionaire I meet on the train. Yes, life imitating art, indeed.

  “Exactly,” says Ramona. “It’s perfect for VIP tour groups and such. We want to start in Rome, have you make a stop in Spain, then a few stops in France. Paris, of course because of The I Do Redo.” Immediately, I hope the trip aligns with Rachel’s, “And then we’ll finish in Copenhagen.”

  Copenhagen isn’t a common setting in romance, but I do love a Viking hero too, so…yay. “I’ll get to check Denmark off my bucket list,” I say.

  “We need to get everything set up, but we’d like to send you in a month. If you’d like any basic lessons in any of the languages, we can arrange for that too.”

  “That sounds great.” Like pinch-me level great. I can say a few French words, including bonjour, though, like Belle in Beauty and the Beast, I usually sing it. I can’t say anything in Danish. And I can only say ciao in Italian.

  “Perfect,” Ramona says, then takes a beat before she adds, “Oh, and there are a few other authors doing this too. It’ll be a group tour.”

  Makes sense. That’s expected these days. Maybe TJ has been asked. He’s written a few books set in London. We’d have the best time.

  Only, he has a different publisher. Lancaster Abel probably wants to send someone from the same house.

  “We’ll send Kennedy too,” Ramona says. “You two comp so well.”

  I brighten. She’s always up for adventure. Can this day get any better? “Pretty sure she’s my long-lost twin,” I say. “Plus, her last book has the Danish hero. So, Copenhagen makes even more sense now.”

  “That’s what we were thinking too,” Ramona adds.

  Aaron squees. “I knew we had to tell you in person, Hazel,” he says, then grabs Cady’s shoulder. “Right?”

  “So right,” Cady seconds.

  “And,” Ramona continues, “Axel Huxley will be on the trip.”

  My world grinds to a halt. “Axel?” I croak out.

  Ramona’s gaze turns serious. She doesn’t know the details of our split, but she knows we didn’t finish our last book. Well, everyone knows that.

  She tactfully explains their thinking rather than addressing the elephant in the room. “Most of his romantic thrillers are set in Europe.”

  Damn my overeager brain. How did I miss that city in Spain hint? That was an anvil-sized clue that Axel would be a travel companion. His heroes have traipsed all over Barcelona and Madrid, not to mention Italy. The hero of The Perfect Lie—Jett—foiled the villain’s plot to hack into an international bank in Rome then captured the bad guy in the Trevi Fountain itself, tackling him in the water. Of course Axel will be going on a trip to Europe. Axel loves Europe. He took off for the fucking continent the day he walked out of the coffee shop when our partnership fell apart.