Page 5 of The Friends and Rivals Collection

MISTER NICE GUY

Axel

The thing is, I’m not known for being a nice guy.

So I might need a little help for the Q and A.

Fortunately, I happen to know a certified nice guy very well.

My little brother. The next day, after Brooks Dean evades capture in Vienna then saunters into a nightclub and asks the brilliant and sexy owner to make it a double, I save the scene I’m writing in my next book, and hunt around my apartment for my phone.

Now that I’ve hit my word count, I can’t put off dealing with how to face Hazel any longer.

Where is that stupid device?

It’s not on my writing couch, under pillows, or on top of the piles of notebooks stuffed with ideas. Or on my living room table, which is stacked with research books.

I march into the kitchen. Nope. It’s not here on the counter next to the unwashed coffee mugs.

Fuck. Why can’t coffee be self-cleaning? Why can’t kitchens be self-cleaning, for that matter?

I stalk through my apartment, heading to the bedroom. It’s pristine in here because who wants a messy bedroom? That’s rude to me and to anyone else who might see it.

I spot the phone right away. Perched on the nightstand. I grab the device from where I charged it overnight. I haven’t looked at it for a while since phones are usually messengers of doom.

When I open the screen, there’s a note from Max blinking up at me.

I bristle when I see his name—Max at Astor Agency—but I’ve bristled for a while when Max has reached out.

A quick scan tells me it’s a report on sales for A Perfect Lie , and he’s using exclamation points, so that’s good.

I barely skim it. If I get caught up in sales, I won’t write, and if I don’t write, I can’t pay the bills.

I also won’t pay the bills if I don’t help promote my books.

Which is where Carter comes in. As I leave the bedroom, I dial my brother in San Francisco.

He answers on the second ring. “You do know that text messages exist?” he says by way of greeting. Pulse-pounding pop music plays in the background, accompanied by the sound of machines grinding. Carter’s at the gym. Naturally.

I scoff. “You still want me to text you before I call? I refuse to do that,” I say, returning to my living room. But I don’t flop down on the couch. I just…walk.

I need a game plan for tomorrow. And I won’t find it sitting down.

“Of course you refuse. But a lot of people do it. You know, in case the other person can’t pick up but wants to talk soon. It’s a courtesy, you know. It’s a thing,” he adds.

“A thing I won’t do,” I say. “Because the phone has a built-in device for letting someone know you’re calling. The ring. And a built-in way to avoid calls. The old-fashioned ‘don’t answer’ trick.”

“God, I miss you,” he says sarcastically. “Anyway, what’s cooking?”

Dragging a hand through my hair, I pace back and forth. “I have to do this thing tomorrow. A Q and A. With a bunch of authors and…” I take a deep breath. “Hazel.”

Her name is a raw scrape in my throat.

“Ohhhhh,” Carter says, full of insight. “That should be interesting.”

I swallow roughly. A little uncomfortably. “But I can’t let on that we…have a history.”

“Euphemism,” he coughs out the word.

“Exactly.” I knew Carter would understand the spot I’m in. “I need to be nice to her onstage. How do you do it?”

My brother cracks up. “Oh, Axel. How much time do you have?”

I roll my eyes as I reach the window, then stare out at the streets of Gramercy Park ten floors below.

It’s a Saturday, so young families pushing strollers crisscross the block, alongside joggers with dogs.

“Look, I’m sure a lot of natural charm has to do with the fact that your dad’s not a flaming liar. ”

“That is true,” he acknowledges.

Carter’s five years younger than I am. We share a mother, a woman who thankfully realized her first husband was a dish made from charm, lies, and fiction.

I’m glad she got out of that toxic marriage to a grifter. I wish I could have gotten out of having the scam artist as my dad. At least my stepdad’s a good guy. Hence, Carter’s the consummate good guy.

“So, gimme some tips. You know public appearances are not my favorite thing,” I say.

“It’s hard to live down the broody, grumpy, stick-up-your-ass image you’ve created for years, isn’t it?”

“Damn straight it is,” I say, proudly. That image has served me well. It’s safe. It protects me.

The reality is my job comes with public appearances. Sure, readers don’t seem to mind if I’m a little salty.

But there’s salt and then there are bitter lemons. I prefer to be the first.

“Well, have you read her latest book?” Carter asks.

“Of course,” I say, incredulous. “Read it the night it came out. I even read it on my phone because the paperback wouldn’t arrive till the next day.”

Carter laughs.

“Why are you laughing?”

“You hate her, and you read her book?”

I huff. “I used to write with her. Obviously, I think she can write. It’s a good book. She’s a good writer. Plus, one should know their enemy.”

“Right. Sounds like that’s why you read it. Anyway, just pick two to three things about her story to compliment. And when the desire to throw rocks at her like she’s Johnny the Jackass from next door who called you a twerpy nerd overcomes you, remember?—”

“The pen is mightier than the sword, and you can always make him your villain,” I say smugly.

And I did. Johnny the Jackal was my first villain. And it felt gooood to use his name, though like any good writer I varied it a touch.

“Also, Axel?”

“Yes?”

“Just smile,” Carter adds. “It takes less muscles to smile than to frown.”

“Actually a study debunked that,” I say. “Several leading plastic surgeons found it takes more but?—”

“But men who smile get laid more often. And on that note, smile. Just fucking smile.”

That kid gives damn good advice. “All right. If you insist.”

“Nice! You sound like less of an asshole already.”

Twenty-four hours later, I’ve kept it up.

I’ve been smiling in the shower, smiling on the street, smiling as I do yoga with my buddy Bridger who lives in my building.

“Yoga makes you that happy, man?” he asks as we leave, mats on shoulders.

“The happiest,” I say with a grin. Practice makes perfect after all.

I refuse to lose this who’s nicer battle with Hazel.

I smile as I walk into the hotel, as I head to the auditorium, as I enter the greenroom backstage.

I smile as I say hi to Kennedy and Mateo and Saanvi, mingling by the coffee urn. Then I smile wider to TJ, who’s chilling on the gray couch next to the redhead I’m going to vanquish.

Hazel looks sharp in a red twin-set cardigan with black buttons, and a stylish pair of jeans and boots. Damn. She’s mastered the pretty-but-approachable-and-quirky look so damn well.

I glance down at my black polo and dark jeans, paired with my black glasses. Well, black is easy to match.

But I’m a romantic thriller writer, so I’m allowed to look dark.

Except today, I’m going to be dark and smiling. “Hello, Hazel. Lovely to see you,” I say.

With a laugh, she just shakes her head. “Nice to see you, Axel,” she says, then turns her focus back to TJ.

A few minutes later, Luciana strides in. She’s one of the publicists for the Romance Reader Expo. The olive-skinned brunette waggles her phone triumphantly, flashing gleaming white teeth. “The auditorium of the Luxe Hotel is packed with more than one thousand fans,” she tells the six of us.

Huh. That seems impossible to believe. That’s just…too many. “Are there really a thousand people here?” I ask.

Hazel whips her gaze to me, and I swear she’s holding back an epic eye roll.

Maybe I sounded like I’m in a courtroom. “It’s just a lot,” I explain, since I don’t want to look like I’m contradicting Luciana. But I guess I sound like I’m questioning her.

You can take the lawyer out of the law practice. But you can’t take the cross-examiner out of the lawyer.

But I didn’t mean it like I doubt her. I’m more than four co-written books and eight solo books into my career, and I still haven’t wrapped my head around the fact that I have readers. That people choose to read, or listen, to my words.

It’s surreal.

I'm convinced someone is going to jump out from behind the curtain at any second and say they're punking me.

Then take my career away.

“Actually,” TJ cuts in, deadpan, as is his MO, “It’s probably one thousand and five. That’s what the auditorium seats. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one charges you, Huxley.”

“Thanks, appreciate it,” I say, dryly. “Anyway,” I say, recalling Carter’s words as I fasten on a smile, sending it Luciana’s way. “It’s all good.”

With a nod that says the size of the auditorium convo is closed, she walks us through the event.

“I’ll do a quick intro. Then it’s showtime.

The focus is on the readers. They’re here to ask questions.

But I’ll moderate and make sure the questions are acceptable.

You’ve all sent me your list of off-limits topics, so we should be good to go.

” She looks around, checks her watch. “Shall we head backstage and mic you up?”

“Sounds great,” I say with a smile.

See? This old dog can learn new tricks.

We leave and head to the wings. The crowd is buzzing with chatter. The noise and hubbub drift back here, and it’s heady.

And still hard to believe.

I peer around the wings at the packed room. There’s no way they’re here for me. Maybe everyone else. But not me. Not the guy who’s shitty with names. Not the guy who embarrassed himself at his first signing when he got the name of the bookstore owner wrong.

It’s one hour. Then you’ll see your friends, play some pinball, and grab a beer with the guys .

I head onstage, and Luciana introduces us, then points to the woman queued up at the front of the question line in the audience.

Ah, shit. She’s wearing a Ten Park Avenue shirt. She leans into the mic. “I’m dying to know what happens to the next couple at Ten Park Avenue . Will you and Hazel ever finish Lacey’s book?”

You don’t even want to know how painful that last story was to try to write. Trust me, you don’t want to know.

But Carter’s words flash before me.

Smile. Just smile.

My father’s snide comments flicker as they sometimes do. Have you ever considered, I don’t know, trying a little harder to help me pull this off ?

And I smile, and I try. “We’re both really busy. Have you read Hazel’s latest sexy romantic comedy? The antics of sunshine Kelsey and broody Brayden when they’re stuck sharing a flat on a non-refundable trip in The I Do Redo, are so terrific,” I say, deflecting.

And multitasking too, as I heap on the praise.

Score one for the guy who’s picturing how the woman with the Ten Park Avenue shirt takes her coffee as she strips naked to screw some dude.

And just like that, no one will know who I really am.