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)
There’s no mincing words when it comes to jet lag. “You’ll never get on track for the trip if you crash this afternoon.”
Her plaintive whine sounds ripped from her soul. “But napping is supposed to be good for you.”
“Not on the first day on another continent,” I say, as we head through the bustling concourse on the way to customs and immigration. “The best thing you can do is get out, see the sights, kick around town. You need light—natural light—then go to bed early. That’ll help you get on the schedule here in this time zone. You’ll enjoy the trip much more with your sleep cycle in sync. Trust me.”
She trudges beside me toward the immigration sign in the distance. “But my bed,” she whimpers as we pass a souvenir shop selling sweatshirts with sayings like Grab Life By The Meatballs and Less Drama More Pasta. She cups her ear. “Can’t you hear it?”
“What’s it saying?”
“It says: Hazel, come to me, be my love.” For a second, she brightens, full of energy. “I want to marry a bed. That’s what I want. A big, fluffy king-size bed. What better groom for a romance writer than a bed?”
I shake my head, amused by her slide into the land of the over-tired. “You are seriously exhausted. Did you sleep on the plane?”
She winces. “A little. But in my defense, I was reading a really good book. This memoir of a child actor. It’s so wild, the things she went through. It’s giving me all sorts of ideas for new emotional wounds.”
“So you worked the whole time?” I chide.
“I read,” she says, insisting.
“It gave me ideas for emotional wounds,” I parrot. I’m not letting her get away with that. “That’s work, sweetheart.”
“It was pleasure,” she retorts, and it’s fucking adorable how she argues with me. It’s so damn cute how she wants to be right. Shame I’m attracted to women who like to go toe-to-toe.
But every man has an Achilles’ heel. At least I’m aware of mine.
“You have no respect for mornings,” I say, tsking her. “Or jet lag. But here’s the thing. You can’t be a tired wreck this trip. Want to know why?”
“Why?” she asks suspiciously.
“Because then I’ll be left holding the bag,” I say as we weave through the airport crowds, with Italian accents and phrases floating past us as we pass signs flashing in foreign languages. “While you faceplant in the sleeper car or, worse, on the streets of Nice, I’ll have to play tour guide all by myself.”
“And that would be unconscionable?” she counters.
“Yes. Yes, it would,” I say, sternly, holding my ground. Don’t want her to know that jet lag sucks, I don’t want her to feel it, and I don’t want her to miss a single second of what I suspect will be a trip she loves.
Better for both of us if she thinks I’m still a cold-hearted jerk. If I let down my guard around her more than I already have, I’m bound to let it down more. To reveal secrets that ought to stay locked up.
This descent into friendship with her is decidedly dangerous to my mental health.
“Well, far be it from me to make you suffer unconscionably,” she retorts as we near the immigrations checkpoint.
She’s yawning less. She’s walking faster. Good. My boot camp technique is working.
“Exactly. And that means you’re going to jet lag school today,” I say, the drill sergeant in me strong.
She starts to yawn, but she shakes her head vigorously, like she’s exorcizing the demon of yawns from her very soul, wrestling it to the ground, and defeating it.
“There. I’m better,” she says.
“Good,” I say. “That’s all that matters.”
“Since this way no one will know your secret—that you need me as your co-tour-guide,” she says, with a deliberately haughty lift of her chin.
“Yep. That’s exactly what I need.”
An hour later we make it past the checkpoint, then head down to baggage claim. Once I find my bag and grab it, she spots hers bumping along the conveyor belt. She heads its way, but I catch up, reaching for it.
Fine, I may not be a nice guy. But I’m still going to grab her luggage.
“Thanks, Axel,” she says, then in a whisper, she adds, “And don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone you were nice enough to grab my bag.”
It’s scary how easily she can read me.
Let that be a reminder. “It was there,” I say, gruff. Deliberately gruff.
She gives me a long, overdone nod as she says, “Right.”
“Don’t make a thing of it, Valentine,” I say as I pop up the handle on her bag so she can wheel it.
“I won’t, Huxley. Or should I call you Mr. Alexander Hendrix-Blythe when we travel?” she asks, using my legal name, the one I changed to when I went to college, ditching Dad’s surname at last, and taking on a new last name—my stepdad’s and my mom’s.