Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86799 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Which is not a helpful thought, so I return to the book I’m listening to for another few minutes, turning it off when the meal comes.
Hazel’s more quiet than usual as she bites into her penne pasta, then stabs another piece with her fork. “Did you know this is airline code for vegetarian?”
“Pasta?”
“Yup,” she says, then pops it into her mouth.
“Were you expecting the wild beets, sweetheart?” I ask as I slice a piece of the roasted chicken, then take a bite.
“Of course,” she says. “It’s my greatest hope. But you know what else is?”
“Your greatest hope?” I ask.
She sets down her silverware, then looks me square in the eyes. “For you to talk to that guy.”
My brow creases. “What guy?” I’m not sure what she’s getting at.
She tips her forehead behind us. “The guy you were chatting with as we boarded, Axel,” she says, a bit of a plea in her voice. “He likes your work. He’d be really excited to know it’s you he was talking to.”
I frown. “Nah. That ship has sailed.”
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?”