Page 22 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

THE PLOTTING GAME

Axel

As she traipses down a cobbled alley, Hazel smacks a weathered yellow building with her palm. “This is where Brooks will chase Nefarious Ned,” she declares, upbeat, excited. “He’ll slam his shoulder against the brick, taking the corner at full speed. On foot.”

“Of course he’s on foot. He’s a badass. But he’ll keep going,” I improvise, as I assess the damage the four-story building will do to my hero. “It’s only a bruise after all.”

“Can it draw blood, please?”

“Damn, you want to make it hurt, don’t you?”

“I really do.” She mimes grabbing a knife and carving up Brooks’s insides. I only know that’s what this gesture means since it’s a Hazel thing. She does it while plotting, always saying our job is to make it hurt, like a knife through the stomach.

She’s vicious. It’s the best.

“Fine. I’ll make him bleed,” I say, like I’m acquiescing, as though I like to torture imaginary people too.

She pumps a fist as we walk past apartment buildings with white shutters and flower planters. “But then Brooks will lose the chase in the rubble.”

“I’ll be sure to let Brooks know you want him to lose,” I say.

“Of course. Because he has to lose before he wins,” she says. “That’s how books work.”

“I know, Hazel, I know,” I say dryly, but I’m glad, too, that we said yes to this hour.

We’re resetting to something like friendship by plotting a book.

And as we plot, I don’t have to face the aftermath of that kiss.

Hell, we don’t have to talk any more about how quiet I was earlier today. We’ve tackled it. We’re done.

If I’m lucky, I’ll get my fountain of books’ wish—I won’t have to excavate any feelings for her on this trip.

Maybe we can skip over that day and just return to something I can handle—book talk. I’ve fucking missed it. “Did I tell you Brooks meets his heroine at a nightclub in Vienna? He’s very smooth when he picks her up.”

She shoots me a mischievous look. “Of course he is. I’d expect nothing less.” Then she doubles down on the twinkle in her eyes. “And I fully expect him to break a toe or something while he’s banging her over the bathroom sink in their luxury hotel room.”

That’s a thing in my books. My heroes always get it on with their ladies, but nothing goes perfectly. Someone usually stubs a toe, or hurts his back, or winds up with rug burn.

Sex is messy. But it’s still worth it.

“And he doesn’t regret a damn thing about his broken toe the next day,” I add.

“Of course not,” she says, then stops at a terracotta building at the corner of an even narrower alley.

She tips her forehead down the shadowy passage.

“Even when that stubbed toe makes it harder for him to commandeer a motorcycle to chase the bad guy down these alleys as he tries to outwit the…evil banker.”

I laugh. “Did I tell you Nefarious Ned was a banker?”

She smacks my shoulder playfully. But it’s friendly, like two former writing partners should be. It’s not romantic, like it could be between two people who got lost in a kiss on the train after dark.

Or, really, one person.

“Hey! You promised you’d make me a villain. I’m holding you to it,” she says, sternly, shaking a finger.

“Be careful what you wish for, sweetheart,” I say as we wander deeper into the maze of alleys in Old Town.

We’re still side by side, but it’s a tight squeeze as we walk. After a beat, she says, “Axel?”

I brace myself. “Yes?”

“Why do you call me sweetheart? You started it… after ,” she says cautiously, as she busts me.

I don’t want to tell her. I don’t want to admit that it helps keep her at a distance. That I can say it with a curl in my tongue. I started it months ago when I had to face her for the first time after. It had bite. I needed that bite.

I sigh heavily, saying nothing.

But when she shoots me a sad look, it’s clear my sigh said enough.

“Does it bother you?” I ask, a little concerned now. I don’t want to backtrack with her now that I’ve gotten something right with her today—the plotting game.

She shrugs.

I wiggle my fingers. “C’mon. You’ve never been one to hold back. Just lay it on me, sweetheart,” I say before I realize what I’m doing—falling into old habits completely.

Calling her that name again.

She wheels around, fire in her green eyes as she stares sharply at me. “Fine. Yes, Axel. It bothers me because you say it like an insult. And I don’t want to be insulted.”

Oh, shit. Oh, hell.

I’ve been such a dick.

She’s dead right. “I won’t call you that anymore,” I say, honestly, looking her square in the eyes. “I promise.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you for telling me I was being a dick.”

“You were a smidge of a dick,” she says.

I laugh. “Better to be a smidge of a dick than…”

But I trail off since sexual innuendo is a bad idea.

But also because it hurts to be this close to her, this aware of how much I want to push her up against the wall and call her maddeningly beautiful , since she is.

She fucking is. So I grab the tool of sarcasm to jimmy my way out of this situation.

“Besides, I need to get used to calling you Hazel the Hungry.”

“That’s my villain name?” she asks dubiously as we resume walking.

“You don’t like it? But you like lunch,” I point out, so helpfully.

She scoffs. “I would think something like Hazel the Horrible.”

I shake my head. “Nah, too on the nose. How about Hazel the Harried?”

“Because I’m too… busy to be a good villain?”

“Hmm,” I say, tapping my chin as I consider other options. “What about Hazel the Hot-Blooded?”

She nods a few times, digging it. “Works for me.”

“Then I’m definitely not using it,” I say, as we reach the end of the alley. It lets us into the main drag.

She draws a deep inhale as she looks around, smiling as her eyes travel across the view. “It’s good to be here again.”

“So you and your mom had a nice trip to Nice?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says. “She always wanted to travel here. My dad never did, so I finally took her to France when I graduated from college. I wasn’t sure I wanted to travel with her, but I’m glad I did.”

“Why weren’t you sure?”

She’s quiet for a few seconds before she answers.

“I was frustrated with her when I was younger. Even though it wasn’t her fault, I was still annoyed with my parents' relationship. I didn’t like how she let my dad treat her, but then she went to a codependent anonymous type group when I was a teenager, and I did the same, and I think I understood her more.

Why she let him control her but also how she wanted to change. ”

“That’s great,” I say, genuinely glad she sought the help she needed, and that her mom did too.

While she’s told me before about her complicated relationship with her father, and how strict he was with everyone, I wasn’t aware of how that impacted her connection with her mother.

“That you went, that she did, that it helped.”

“I’m glad I went too. I think it made it possible for us to be close again. Know what I mean?” She holds my gaze for an important beat.

She’s not talking about her mom. She’s talking about us , and us is terrifying. “Sure,” I say, sinking back into my protective shell.

We walk in silence for a block, then she turns to me again at a street corner. “This is nice, Axel,” she says.

Her remark sends a jolt of warmth through me. Maybe of wistfulness too. I know what she means. Talking. Sharing . And I can’t be entirely monosyllabic in my replies. “It is,” I say, admitting that much. “It’s nice to talk to you again.”

Please let that be enough, Hazel.

Please don’t ask me for more.

I don’t want to tell her how deeply I’ve missed her, how hard the last year has been, how awful I felt when I left.

“Axel,” she continues, her tone vulnerable. “I was so mad the day you left me. I still don’t think I understand it.”

Nope. No way am I going down that path. I made myself a promise at a fountain. “Hazel. Let’s just have a nice day together,” I say, fixing on a smile, hoping it smooths over my blockade.

She drops her face, frowning, resigned.

And once again, I’ve said the wrong thing.