Page 37 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

THE FINESSER

Axel

This is dangerous. I’m too damn close to slipping. As she sleeps next to me, an arm flung across my chest, her red hair spilling onto my shoulder, I vow to do better tomorrow.

There’s only one more day to survive, really. Once we leave Europe, the spell will be broken. We’ll return to New York. I’ll refill my salty supplies, slap on my armor, and do my goddamn job.

Come morning, all I have to do is make it through twenty-four more hours without telling her I fell in love with her once.

And, over the last few days, I’ve fallen in love with her again.

The sunrise brings a bright idea.

To survive the next day with her, I need to go back to the way we were. To arrows and barbs.

When Hazel’s brushing her teeth, I don’t come up behind her and dust a kiss onto her neck like I want to.

Instead, I pull back the bow, meeting her gaze in the mirror as she saws her toothbrush across her teeth. “Have you added one yet to your next rom-com?”

Her eyes become question marks.

“A quirky pet,” I clarify. The conversation at our unexpected dinner seems longer than a little over a month ago.

She nods sagely, then speaks through a mouthful of mint. “Do snakes count?”

Damn.

She wastes no time.

I try again, grabbing another arrow from the quiver, tossing a glance at the bed beyond the door. The duvet is tangled on her side of the mattress. “I’m kind of amazed I survived the cover ambush the last few nights.”

She spits then shoots me a curious look. “Want a T-shirt that says I Shared a Bed With Hazel Valentine And All I Got Was This T-Shirt Since She’s a Cover Hog?”

Well, fuck. Someone is sharper than I am. She returns to brushing her teeth. Or rather, attacking them with a toothbrush.

“Careful now. That toothbrush might file a restraining order against you,” I say.

I grab my toothbrush as she shoots me a narrow-eyed stare in the mirror, then spits in the sink. “I’ll have you know I do some great thinking while I’m destroying toothbrushes,” she says.

I can’t keep up with her, so I go for the low blow. “Then by all means, attack it again… sweetheart .”

She stops brushing on that word. Like it’s dirty.

Because it is.

I probably shouldn’t have said that.

I definitely shouldn’t have said it. She knows it was a weapon.

But she doesn’t call me on it. Instead, she lifts the brush again, then, meeting my gaze in the mirror like a cat refusing to look away, says coolly, “I will, Axel. Or should I call you my nemesis again?”

Ah, hell.

I should have known better. She’s too sharp, too clever, too perfectly matched.

“That or…jerk,” I say, apologetically.

With a roll of her eyes she mutters, “Sexy jerk.”

And like that, I’m forgiven.

And like that, I fall a little more.

And all I want to do is tell her how I feel. Words well up inside me, threatening to burst free. I’m in love with you and it sucks.

I really need to keep my mouth busy today.

Maybe this toothbrush will save me. I jam it in my mouth and imitate her. Attacking my teeth as I brush so damn hard.

This is not us.

This is not real.

We don’t brush our teeth together in the morning and bicker as foreplay.

That’s it. I know how to stay the course and survive. But it’ll require some finesse. Good thing I’m an expert finesser.

Once she leaves the tiny bathroom and roots around in her suitcase, which I relocated to my room last night, I come up behind her, sliding a hand up her back just the way she likes, slow and seductive.

She shivers, then murmurs.

Over the last few days, I’ve learned some of the things she likes.

I wish I could learn more. I wish I could help her discover new things she likes too.

And, conversely, I wish I could unlearn so many things about her as well—that she wishes on fountains, that she hogs the bed, that she wants to choose better, that she loves to explore and lift up others, and to tell stories all day and into the night.

And that she supports me, encourages me, and sees through me.

I don’t know what to do with this Hazel knowledge. All these facts and details are overflowing in my head, and there’s hardly room for them, yet I want to fill my brain with more, more, more.

I bring my lips to her ear, flick my tongue against the lobe. “I was a jerk just then,” I whisper. I need to apologize but it’ll also help my shut-my-mouth cause.

“You were, but you don’t scare me, Axel Huxley.”

My heart spins faster. I am so fucked.

“I shouldn’t have called you sweetheart,” I continue, and this time the nickname comes out tender, full of all the feelings for her.

She leans back against me, warm and eager. “Or say it like that instead,” she urges.

I need to escalate. Right fucking now. I shift gears, full speed ahead with dirty talk. “I don’t want to make out. I want to fuck you again.” I take a beat, then add, low and smoky, “With my tongue.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath, then she drops the blouse she just picked up. She leans back against me. “And you think I want that?”

She’s so fucking good at our games too, whether it’s bickering or banter, whether it’s one-upmanship or word play. She’s the perfect partner in crime, in games, in…everything.

“You do. So sit on my face, Hazel.”

A minute later, I’m lying on the bed, and she’s not hovering; she’s sitting, pressing, pushing. I love that she grinds against me shamelessly. My mouth is thoroughly occupied as I make her come hard.

Too bad it defeats my purpose.

Because when she flops next to me, running her fingers down my chest, I want to get closer. I want to tell her that she can come over every night in New York. Or I’ll go to her place. I don’t care where we are. I just want to be with her.

And on that never-going-to-happen thought, I need to get some coffee and eggs really fucking soon to shut me up for the next day.

At breakfast, the last-day-of-vacation mood blankets the group. Everyone moves with a little melancholy, a little wistfulness as we grab plates and pour coffees.

I don’t sit with Hazel, but when Bettencourt strides through the car, beelining for Amy, who looks his way with a trying to wipe the sex glow smile off her face, I can’t resist a glance at the fiery redhead I adore. Hazel gives me an I know what they did last night look. And I return it.

That gives me one more idea for how to make it through the next thirty minutes till we arrive in Copenhagen.

After we return from breakfast, we zip up bags, gather phones and books. We’re twenty minutes from Copenhagen, and I know how to make my wish come true.

We’ll talk about work the entire rest of the trip.

Just work. That is all.

Once she closes her suitcase and brushes one hand against the other like she’s saying that’s done, I beckon her with my finger.

I’m sitting on the tiny love seat by the window. It’s hard as stone, but I don’t care. The view is unbeatable as we roll toward the Danish capital. The view will keep me rooted in my cause.

“But the couch,” she says, a little whiny.

“Come here anyway.”

I figure she’ll sit next to me, but she surprises me and sits on my lap.

And that fries my brain. I catch the scent of her wildflower shampoo, and I’m done. I don’t want distance. I want to savor every last second with her.

I wrap my arms around her, nuzzle her neck, like a lovestruck fool taking his last hits. Then I let go, look out the window, and try to resist the too-fast, too-painful speed of my heart. I try so damn hard to talk about work, only work. “I had this fantasy the other night,” I begin.

She lifts a brow seductively. “You and your iron dick are insatiable.”

I laugh softly, but then kill the laughter. “Shockingly, it’s not about sex. Ninety-five percent of my thoughts are, but not this one.”

“I like your anti-sex thoughts too. Tell me.”

“I am never anti-sex,” I say. I can’t have her thinking that.

She rolls her eyes. “I know, Axel. I know you.”

My heart clutches. I fight like hell to ignore the tight squeeze in my chest. And I try, dear god, I fucking try to focus.

“I pictured a man and a woman who meet on a train,” I begin.

“At first, I thought she was feisty, and he had a chip on his shoulder. But then, what if she’s the single mom PR woman, and he’s the reclusive billionaire who’s captivated by her? ”

There. Amy and Bettencourt will get me through.

She gasps. “Oh my god.”

“I mean, it’s sort of obvious, I know,” I say. “But maybe we could write it someday.”

What in the holy fuck am I doing? I’m trying to be tough, but I’m talking about the thing that makes me most vulnerable.

My passion.

My love of stories.

My burning need to tell them.

She holds my face. “I’ve always wanted to write a train romance too.”

“Yeah?” I ask, my dumb heart flipping. I can’t catch a break with her.

She lowers her voice like she’s sharing a deep, precious secret. “Confession: when my publishers first told me about the trip, I imagined an elegant train romance. Velvet gowns, a dapper man, and long, lingering glances as the train sped across the coast.”

Like it has for the last few nights.

“We should write one,” I say. Because when I try to resist her, I do the opposite.

“We should. A broody billionaire with secrets. And a single mom with a wounded heart,” she says.

“He’s determined to win her over,” I add, and that’s not me, that’s not us. Though, perhaps it is.

“She tries to resist,” she says, and yeah, maybe it is us after all. Maybe we’ve been writing ourselves this whole damn time.

“But she’s helpless to his charms,” I say, then run my fingers up her arm, into her hair.

“She wanted to resist,” Hazel says, locking those green eyes with mine.

“But he wore her down,” I counter, my voice low, my heart thudding painfully. I’m aware I’m speaking in the past tense now. I’m definitely no longer brainstorming Amy’s romance.

I’m retelling this one.

Wanting to give it a new ending.

“He did,” she says, and her voice is soft and sad at the same time.

I’m such a fool. I pull her close, kiss her lips, and then…fuck it.

I can’t keep swallowing my feelings anymore. When I break the kiss, I say, rough and full of emotion, “Hazel.”

Her breath hitches. “Yes?”

I gear up to speak my heart to her, right here, right now. I part my lips, the words forming to say I’m so in love with you —when there’s a rap on the door.

I blink, suddenly unsure what to do. I clear my throat, ready to speak my truth anyway, but the other person is faster.

“Hello! We’d love to do a group photo as we pull into our final stop.”

It’s Amy, bright and cheery.

Breaking the moment.

“Of course,” I call out, my voice rusty. It hardly sounds like my own. “Be right out.”

Then Hazel turns to me with expectant eyes, a soft mouth.

And I search through my mind for a beautiful lie. “I just wanted to say…we should write that book.”

Her expression is blank, confused. But then there’s a smile. It’s slow and a little uncomfortable as she says, “We should.”

A few minutes later, we assemble for the photo, then step off the train for good.