She arches a brow. “Has it though? There’s no reason you can’t go back there and say you wrote A Lovely Alibi. He’s a fanboy. He’d be excited.”

  My stomach churns, and I wish I knew why.

  But maybe Hazel does, since she sets a gentle hand on my arm, “You think you don’t deserve your success for some reason. But you’ve earned it. Through hard work and talent. The guy likes you. You’d make his day.”

  Would I though? “It’s so presumptuous,” I say, but my argument sounds woefully weak. Like, it’s such a weak argument I’m embarrassed I made it.

  I lean back in the seat, run a hand through my hair. “I just don’t want to come across like…I’m too big for my britches.”

  That’s what my dad did, for all intents and purposes. He hoodwinked people. He pretended he was someone he was not. If I go talk to that guy, am I going to sound like my dad, pumping up my own ego?

  Hazel shakes her head. “You won’t sound too big for your britches.”

  “But maybe I’ll sound like I lied. Better to leave sleeping dogs alone.”

  “It’s not too late. This is your chance to tell him the truth. Just say hey, I’m Axel Huxley, and I’m excited you like my books.”

  Hmm. That doesn’t sound too tough. That doesn’t sound like a con either. Since, well, it’s not.

  And maybe it’d be a con to say nothing.

  Once the food is clear, I stand, shake off the nerves, and head back to the fourth row. The man is deep into Girl In The Hotel.

  I clear my throat.

  He looks up. “Hey?” he says, kind of curious.

  “So, I’m…Axel Huxley. I’m excited you like my books,” I say, giving him the line Hazel fed me. That was weird, like stretching muscles that have never been worked before.

  But when his eyes pop and he says, “No kidding” with utter delight, the stretch is worth it. We spend the next twenty minutes chatting about stories, and it feels incredibly fucking good.

  I don’t feel like a grifter one bit.

  When the plane lands around eleven on Friday morning, I feel like jet lag has nothing on me. I slept a solid six on the flight, barely even rousing for the quick layover in Paris.

  I am raring to go.

  My travel companion is another story. Hazel’s yawning. Again. They’re super-size yawns and they’re unstoppable. “You going for a record? I can call Guinness and see if you’re close?” I ask as we shuffle off the plane.

  Hazel sneers. “Not all of us are world travelers who hop off to Europe at the drop of a hat,” she says.

  “Ouch,” I say. That hit close to home.

  But I deserved that.

  Still, she mutters, “Sorry.”

  This woman is on an apology roll. But the runaway to Europe situation? That’s all on me. I owe her a plateful of sorries, but I’m not ready to dig into my reasons for that matchstick choice.

  And honestly, maybe we’ve tackled enough of the past. Hazel seems keen on moving forward. “No apologies needed. But you can apologize for falling asleep on me on the car ride to the hotel.”

  “I’m not going to sleep on you, Axel. I’m going to sleep on my fabulous king-size bed in my hotel room overlooking the Spanish Steps,” she declares as we reach the gate, weaving past other travelers.

  “Question. If you’re asleep, how are you enjoying the view?”

  That earns me another sneer. “Who cares? I have a date with my mattress in about an hour,” she says as another yawn takes her hostage.

  Oh man, I hate to break this to her, but someone has to do it. “Actually, Hazel, if you crash now, you’re going to be a mess the whole trip.”

  She turns to me with no snark or sneer, just confused alarm. “What do you mean?”

  There’s no mincing words when it comes to jet lag. “You’ll never get on track for the trip if you crash this afternoon.”

  Her plaintive whine sounds ripped from her soul. “But napping is supposed to be good for you.”

  “Not on the first day on another continent,” I say, as we head through the bustling concourse on the way to customs and immigration. “The best thing you can do is get out, see the sights, kick around town. You need light—natural light—then go to bed early. That’ll help you get on the schedule here in this time zone. You’ll enjoy the trip much more with your sleep cycle in sync. Trust me.”

  She trudges beside me toward the immigration sign in the distance. “But my bed,” she whimpers as we pass a souvenir shop selling sweatshirts with sayings like Grab Life By The Meatballs and Less Drama More Pasta. She cups her ear. “Can’t you hear it?”

  “What’s it saying?”

  “It says: Hazel, come to me, be my love.” For a second, she brightens, full of energy. “I want to marry a bed. That’s what I want. A big, fluffy king-size bed. What better groom for a romance writer than a bed?”

  I shake my head, amused by her slide into the land of the over-tired. “You are seriously exhausted. Did you sleep on the plane?”

  She winces. “A little. But in my defense, I was reading a really good book. This memoir of a child actor. It’s so wild, the things she went through. It’s giving me all sorts of ideas for new emotional wounds.”

  “So you worked the whole time?” I chide.

  “I read,” she says, insisting.

  “It gave me ideas for emotional wounds,” I parrot. I’m not letting her get away with that. “That’s work, sweetheart.”

  “It was pleasure,” she retorts, and it’s fucking adorable how she argues with me. It’s so damn cute how she wants to be right. Shame I’m attracted to women who like to go toe-to-toe.

  But every man has an Achilles’ heel. At least I’m aware of mine.

  “You have no respect for mornings,” I say, tsking her. “Or jet lag. But here’s the thing. You can’t be a tired wreck this trip. Want to know why?”

  “Why?” she asks suspiciously.

  “Because then I’ll be left holding the bag,” I say as we weave through the airport crowds, with Italian accents and phrases floating past us as we pass signs flashing in foreign languages. “While you faceplant in the sleeper car or, worse, on the streets of Nice, I’ll have to play tour guide all by myself.”

  “And that would be unconscionable?” she counters.

  “Yes. Yes, it would,” I say, sternly, holding my ground. Don’t want her to know that jet lag sucks, I don’t want her to feel it, and I don’t want her to miss a single second of what I suspect will be a trip she loves.

  Better for both of us if she thinks I’m still a cold-hearted jerk. If I let down my guard around her more than I already have, I’m bound to let it down more. To reveal secrets that ought to stay locked up.

  This descent into friendship with her is decidedly dangerous to my mental health.

  “Well, far be it from me to make you suffer unconscionably,” she retorts as we near the immigrations checkpoint.

  She’s yawning less. She’s walking faster. Good. My boot camp technique is working.

  “Exactly. And that means you’re going to jet lag school today,” I say, the drill sergeant in me strong.

  She starts to yawn, but she shakes her head vigorously, like she’s exorcizing the demon of yawns from her very soul, wrestling it to the ground, and defeating it.

  “There. I’m better,” she says.

  “Good,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”

  “Since this way no one will know your secret—that you need me as your co-tour-guide,” she says, with a deliberately haughty lift of her chin.

  “Yep. That’s exactly what I need.”

  An hour later we make it past the checkpoint, then head down to baggage claim. Once I find my bag and grab it, she spots hers bumping along the conveyor belt. She heads its way, but I catch up, reaching for it.

  Fine, I may not be a nice guy. But I’m still going to grab her luggage.

  “Thanks, Axel,” she says, then in a whisper, she adds, “And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you were nice enough to grab my bag.”

  It’s scary how easily she can read me.

  Let that be a reminder. “It was there,” I say, gruff. Deliberately gruff.

  She gives me a long, overdone nod as she says, “Right.”

  “Don’t make a thing of it, Valentine,” I say as I pop up the handle on her bag so she can wheel it.

  “I won’t, Huxley. Or should I call you Mr. Alexander Hendrix-Blythe when we travel?” she asks, using my legal name, the one I changed to when I went to college, ditching Dad’s surname at last, and taking on a new last name—my stepdad’s and my mom’s.

  “Not all of us were born with pen names,” I counter, handing her the checked bag.

  “I’ll be sure to send Daddy a thank you note for mine,” she fires back as she takes the handle. “And hey, you scored a pretty decent writer’s name too, even though you don’t use it. Hendrix is cool. Rugged. Mysterious. Tough.”

  “Aww, you think I’m rugged, mysterious, and tough,” I tease.

  She adopts an evil grin as we wheel our bags past the other carousels, heading toward the exit. “Did I say you were those things?”

  I sigh heavily. “Why did I help you with the bag?” It’s a rhetorical question.

  But she jumps on it, the speed demon. “Aha! So you admit you did help with the bag? It was deliberate? Not just because”—she stops to sketch air quotes as she deepens her voice—“the bag was there.”

  Damn. She sounded just like me when she said that. That’s scary, how well she can imitate me, intonation and all.

  What’s scarier though is that she’s too damn good at turning my words all the way around and against me. Note to self: watch the fuck out with Hazel. She’s a virtuoso villain when wielding your favorite weapons—words. “You should have been an attorney,” I say, begrudgingly.

  “Thanks. That’s high praise from you,” she says with a proud lift of her chin. Then, she stage-whispers, “And fine. You’re a little rugged.” She holds up her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Like, a tidge.”

  “I’ll have Dunbar and Loraine put that on my next dust jacket. He’s a tidge rugged.”

  We leave the baggage carousel, pass through customs for the bag check, then enter the zoo of any airport—the waiting area where drivers and runners and handlers and friends and relatives wait for travelers.

  I scan the sea of people holding placards or brandishing tablets, looking for Huxley and Valentine. But I blink when I spot a screen reading: Mr. and Mrs. Huxley.

  Oh, fuck.

  Hazel’s going to flip a table. Maybe I can get in front of the screen while she’s fighting off the latest yawn attack.

  No such luck.

  Hazel spots the curly-haired woman holding the offending sign, then points at the names.

  “Why doesn’t it say Mr. and Mrs. Valentine?”

  This woman. She kills me. “That’s my feminist,” I say, laughing.

  Fueled by her righteous rage, she marches to the woman. I’m not worried she’ll make a scene—that’s not her style. Instead, she says, warm and kind, “Hi. I’m Hazel Valentine.” She pats my shoulder when I catch up a second later. “He’s Axel Huxley. We’re not married, but if we were, he’d take my name.”

  I stifle a laugh, then say dryly, “She’s marrying a bed anyway.”

  Hazel laughs.

  The woman stares at us like we’re bananas.

  Well, we’re writers, so…Yeah, that shoe fits.

  On the drive to the hotel, I point out a few sights as we pass. She’s never been to Rome, so she stares with wide, eager eyes, taking it all in. But somewhere around Vatican City, her eyelids start to flutter and her head begins to bob. Then, she’s drifting off, her cheek introducing itself to my shoulder.

  I close my eyes, squeezing them shut, balling my fists. I should say something. I should do something. Move her. Gently wake her.

  But I don’t.

  Instead, when she slides further and further into the land of nod and closer and closer to my lap, I just let her.

  Jet lag be damned.

  She’s asleep, her head in my lap, her red hair spilled across my legs. I’m careful not to rouse her as I take out my phone to text my brother, telling him I’m going to win an award for being nice.

  Carter: What did you do? Hold the door for a little old lady? That’s baseline nice, dude.

  Axel: O ye of little faith. I am next-leveling it. I am being nice to Hazel.

  Carter: I don’t believe this is you. Say something Axel would say.

  Axel: I hate people.

  Carter: It’s you, brother! It’s really you!

  We text some more as Hazel sleeps. It’s only another fifteen minutes to the hotel. Letting her doze is the nice thing to do.

  Except, I’m not doing it to be nice.

  When we reach the hotel, she wakes up with a jolt. Straightens. Blinks. Then mutters a thanks when we step out of the car, like her face wasn’t just in my lap.

  12

  GRAB LIFE BY THE MEATBALLS

  Axel

  After dropping off our luggage, Hazel and I trek to the Piazza Navona and snag a table at a sunny sidewalk café with a view of La Fontana dei Quattro Fiumi. The afternoon sun paints the fountain with a rosy hue.

  Hazel breathes it all in with a blissful expression.

  “No wonder you have fountains in your books,” she says, appreciatively. “They’re gorgeous.”

  Aesthetics aren’t the reason, but no need to unpack the real motivation. I’d rather eat, then eat up the rest of the day so we’re ready for tomorrow.

  “I like fountains,” I say in an understatement.

  “Me too,” she says. Maybe sleepiness softens her up, since she’s warmer with me than she’s been on the trip so far.

  Or maybe it was the car nap.

  As we settle in at the table, she opens the menu with a flourish, spreading it across the red and white checkered tablecloth. “It’s my nemeses lunch,” she declares.

  “Enjoy it, sweetheart. Because it’ll be the last time it happens,” I say.

  “Everyone trips on their words sometimes,” she points out.

  “I don’t,” I say smugly.

  “I can’t wait for your next fumble,” she says, then stabs the menu. “And I already know I want my next lunch here. Check out the pastas. Trenette al pesto, pasta alla norma, mushroom ravioli, pasta puttanesca.” She looks up, her green eyes glittering with culinary lust. “No wonder you spent so much time here researching books over the years. I’d have stayed in Italy just for the pasta.”

  For a few seconds, I brace myself for a dig about my escape to Europe. But it doesn’t come. Now that I think about it, I’m not even sure she was referencing my pants-on-fire departure to Europe when she made that comment at the airport about some of us jetting off to Europe on a whim. She might have just been talking about the fact that I’ve visited Europe a lot for story research. Her sorry then was probably just about the general comment and her worries of how it might have come across, not because it was a low blow. Since it wasn’t a low blow.

  I relax my shoulders.

  She salivates over the options for another minute then snaps the menu closed. “It’s official. Nemeses has earned me two lunches.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. One lunch only.”

  “Maybe I’ll order two dishes then,” she says, always wanting the last word.

  But when the server arrives, she orders only the puttanesca. I choose a pizza, because…when in Rome. Then I ask for two espressos.

  After he leaves, she lifts a questioning brow.

  “I have to caffeinate you,” I explain.

  She taps the veins on the inside of her wrist. “Just inject it right here please.” Then she takes a deep breath and looks around the piazza, bustling with tourists snapping pictures throughout the square. “So why’d you drag me a mile away instead of someplace closer to the hotel?”

  All part of my plan to keep her busy. To enjoy some vitamin D. “I figured if we were outside in public, you wouldn’t dare fall asleep on me again,” I say, then grin.

  She narrows her eyes, and I gird myself for an arrow dipped in poison. But instead, like she’s blameless, she says, “Look, you have a nice lap. It’s soft.”

  I roll my eyes. “Great. Just great. I want to be known for my soft lap.”

  Her lips twitch. “I won’t tell a soul it’s like a pillow.”

  “I’m so glad I’m helping you fight jet lag,” I say dryly. The server swings by with the espressos. I ask for one more with the pizza.

  “Of course,” he says.

  After he leaves, she lifts her little cup in a toast. “To staying awake by the fountains.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  We clink and down our espressos.

  She sets her cup on the table and nods toward the fountain attracting flocks of tourists. “Since you’ve plied me with espressos and sunshine, maybe we can take a quick tour of all the piazzas and fountains today?” She sounds so hopeful, and it tugs on my locked-up heart. “That one is gorgeous.”

  “That’s called the Fountain of the Four Rivers. Designed by Bernini. Commissioned by Pope Innocent X,” I say as she gazes at the baroque beauty in the middle of the square. I can’t help it. I love history.

  Hazel turns to me. “Seriously. I’ve never been to Rome. Can we fit in a few?”

  I smile. “Eat fast, sweetheart.”

  The first fountain I take her to is located in an alley only a few steps away from the Piazza Navona. The Fontana dei Libri, or Fountain of Books, is a smaller fountain, carved into a brick wall. A stone deer head rests in the center, flanked by huge stone books that spurt water.

  I tell her the story of the fountain that pays homage to the universities in Rome, then the deer head with its religious origins. “But mostly I think the point is knowledge flows from books,” I say, gesturing to the water pouring from the stone pages.