Page 18 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

TAKE THE PILL

Hazel

Six more nights. I only have to make it through six more nights with this… infection. It’ll pass. It always does.

I’ll take antibiotics in the form of this group of super readers surrounding us.

They’re the cure.

That afternoon, as Axel takes the dozen VIP readers on a tour of five key locations from his books in the center of the city, I make it my mission to own the sidekick role like no one ever has.

I’m the tour guide wing woman, hanging by the back of the group as Axel tells a middle-aged couple with matching Nikons slung around their necks, and some college girls by the front, about the scene in A Lovely Alibi where the hero sneaks into the Pantheon at night to solve a riddle that’ll help him retrieve a lost artifact.

As Axel then guides the group past the famous landmark, I make small talk with Jackie and Alecia. “How did you two meet?” I ask.

“In an online fan group,” Jackie says.

“Then we became book besties,” Alecia adds.

And after five years of recommending books as a team, they finally met when they landed in Rome yesterday.

“That’s so great that this trip brought you together,” I say.

“Book friends are the best friends,” Jackie says.

Alecia slings an arm around her buddy. “Love you, hon.”

It’s heartwarming to see, and it’s good medicine. I’m far away from Axel and fighting off the fever of desire with chitchat. If I can just keep this up, I will survive. The early days of illness are always the hardest.

We visit a few more sites, then finish at the Trevi Fountain. Axel walks them through the climactic scene. “And here is where Jett leapt into the water, jumping over the crowds of tourists.” He gives a sheepish shrug, acknowledging the fiction physics as he adds, “As one does.”

Like he knows you sometimes have to go all Jason Bourne with a thriller hero no matter how unlikely leaping over heads is.

I smile back, feeling a little dopey, a little woozy. I understand him so well. I get him. I truly do.

Stop!

That’s just the infection talking.

I force myself to think about the stone in the fountain, the coins on the floor of it, the water. Anything external instead of these internal hummingbirds.

The reader questions begin, and the Nikon Man shoots up a hand. “But you can’t actually go in the fountain,” he points out.

“That’s true, Steven,” Axel says, and that’s familiar, the way he uses people’s names once he learns them. Because of his first signing, when he forgot the bookstore owner’s name and felt foolish. Now, he repeats names as he speaks to people, to remember them better.

“So how do you deal with that? When Jett jumped in the fountain. Because it’s against the rules,” Steven adds.

Axel nods like he’s considering this quandary for the first time. “Sometimes you have to break the rules,” he says.

His eyes roam the crowd and find mine like he’s searching for a kindred spirit. Or maybe he just needs a little help. He doesn’t always love being the center of attention.

“Catching the hacker was worth the risk,” I add from the back.

“Hmm,” the man says doubtfully and scratches his jaw. “I guess I just wonder why he didn’t go to jail.”

Axel shudders. “Jett would have hated jail.”

Steven the Nikon Man is relentless. “But…why didn’t he take off his boots before he ran through the fountain? He wouldn’t have tripped if he’d just used some common sense. This happens in so many thrillers.”

One of the college gals near me rolls her eyes. “It’s called a trope,” the redhead mutters. “Like how all billionaires magically have huge cocks.”

Jackie and Alecia crack up.

I laugh too.

I don’t look at Axel. I can’t risk another fluttery feeling.

By the time I get back to my room after the tour, I have twenty minutes before I have to check out of the hotel and head to the train station.

Rushing around, I gather my things, but I barely unpacked since I was here only one night.

Once I zip up my suitcase, I FaceTime my sister for some emergency girl talk.

Veronica answers right away. She’s on the balcony of her Greenwich Village apartment, and I spot her big Siamese walking behind her, sniffing the potted plants as she waters them. “Ciao,” she says as she tips her watering can.

“You cursed me!”

She knits her brow. “Sounds cool. Tell me more about this new skill of mine. Because there are others I might like to curse.”

“Axel,” I mutter, annoyed. Then I’m double-annoyed when my stomach flips at the mere mention of him. “You and your sex talk.”

A satisfied grin spreads on her cute face. “You finally admit I’m right.”

“Undo the curse. Now.” I stomp my foot to get my point across.

“Aww. Lust hurts, doesn’t it?”

“It’s the worst,” I whine, effectively admitting she’s right. Or right-ish. “What do I do with this…attraction?”

“Bang it out,” she says, too cheery.

“You are such an enabler. Help me for real, V.”

She sets down the watering can and strokes her big cat. “Look, he’s sexy, and he’s working that whole cocky thing that you love.”

“I don’t love cocky men,” I hiss.

She snort-laughs. “You so do. He’s like a jackass cat. And you love jackass cats. You always put them in your books.”

I stare at her like she’s gone mad. “I do not always put them in my books.”

Except, hold on. I did have a jackass cat in Sweet Spot . And in Plays Well With Others. Dammit. Axel was right about that too, when he said I like quirky pets in my stories. But, to be fair, all cats are kind of jackasses. It’s endemic.

“Axel is also intensely verbal, and so are you,” Veronica adds. “And the two of you talk like it’s foreplay. So, um, good luck.”

“You were supposed to be helping me,” I say.

“I’m dissecting why you’re attracted to him. Maybe if you understand it, you won’t be so captivated by it. He’s all the things you think you don’t like but you do. Plus, he’s smart. So, just know that’s your downfall and focus on other things, like the trip.”

She makes a good point. I can’t give in to this lust. I can’t act on it. I’m here for work. Not to act out a sex scene. “Right. Focus on the trip, the readers, the purpose,” I say, reinforcing her very good advice. “Thank you.”

“You can do it, Hazel,” she says, then swings her gaze to the door. “Milo’s home. I love you. And my jackass cat loves you too.”

“Have fun with your guy,” I say. “And your jackass cat. And thanks. That was helpful.”

“Anytime.”

I say goodbye then leave the hotel, thinking about books and work—the reasons why I’m here.

They really should do the trick.

The Roma Termini railway station is like a pill, and I swallow it dry that evening because I’m damn eager for the medicine. This station is not romantic at all.

The city’s largest train station is like a space hub.

Digital signs flash arrivals and departures in bright orange overhead, while silver columns and sleek walls scream modern .

Thank the goddess.

Plus, there are crowds. Oh yes, the massive crowds. No one can feel flutters when they’re surrounded by scurrying passengers and harried travelers.

At least, I’m trying not to.

Amy, the PR professional organizing the tour, escorts Axel and me through the station. “The platform we’re departing from is less busy. It’s everything JHB envisioned when he designed this luxury train. A hearkening back to another era of travel,” she says.

No. That’s bad.

Early train travel is romantic.

But how romantic can a reclusive billionaire train mogul really be?

I decide the train won’t be that romantic after all.

I listen intently as Amy shares more about the tour’s agenda.

Amy Chandler is outgoing, welcoming, and capable.

We met her at the hotel earlier today—she runs her own PR firm in Los Angeles and one of her specialties is book tours.

But I already know of her. Through TJ, I met and became close friends with some of his friends who play for the San Francisco Hawks, including the receiver, Nate Chandler.

Amy’s his sister and Nate adores her. As one should do with big sisters.

“We’ll meet up with your readers in the dining car once you’re all settled on the train. You’ll have some time to freshen up, put your things away, and all that good stuff,” she says, guiding us to a quieter section of the station, around the corner and back in time.

This platform is quaint. The crowds have thinned.

Classical music plays overhead, mingling with the sound effect of an old-time steam engine.

The train itself sits proudly on the tracks.

It’s modern, I’m told, but the outside of it is straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, with an old-fashioned blue and cream facade and JHB Travel in calligraphy along the side of the cars.

“That’s a helluva train,” Axel says with a low whistle of admiration.

Amy smiles and gestures to the platform-edge doors.

“We have two cars reserved for our group. And we have dinner tonight with everyone, a little on the late side, but that’s what makes it fun.

We’ll do the nine o’clock seating. We have a stop in Florence after that to pick up some more passengers, and then the trip to Nice should be peaceful overnight.

Perfect for sleeping,” Amy says, then checks her watch.

“We’ll arrive early in the morning, but you don’t have to rush off the train. Take your time.”

As we board, Amy says, “You two will be all the way at the end of this car with me, so there’s a little buffer between you and the readers. I’ll show you,” she says, but then a train attendant in a blue suit flags her.

“Ms. Chandler. A minute, please?”

“Of course,” she says, joining the Italian man. “I’ll be right back,” she says to us.

As she chats with him, Axel shoots me a daring look, then whispers, “Let’s be scofflaws and check out the sleeper compartments. My heroes never get to enjoy a sleeper compartment.”

“Let’s go,” I say, cheery, and this attitude will get me through the sickness too.

I follow him toward the back of the car, the signs for sleeping compartment our guide. When we reach the compartments, I see two doors. I swing my gaze from one that has a sign with Ms. Chandler written on it.

The other one has a sign that reads: Mr. & Mrs. Huxley.