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)
Looking concerned, Hazel tugs on my shirt, pulls me aside on the street.
“You okay?”
Her concern feels good. “Was it obvious?”
She points at my face. “The sour look gave you away.”
I go blank, stony. “Better?”
“That’s good. But seriously, what’s wrong? You hate scavenger hunts?”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Yeah.”
“Any reason?”
I hate that she’s so caring, but I love that she’s so caring. “There’s no way to say this without sounding like a dick,” I mutter.
“It’s okay,” she says, gently, a little playfully. “I know you're a jerk, and I don’t mind.”
I love that too. That she knows me, all of me. That she’s not afraid to call me a jerk, because it’s different to call your friend a jerk than it is your enemy. I can hear the softness in her tone. I welcome it.
And maybe today is one for confessions. I told Steven about the reviews. I can say this to Hazel. “I hate doing them in front of people. Because everyone expects me to be the best,” I admit with a sneer. The sneer is for me—I do sound like a big dick.
She nods. “Because you’re a former lawyer, because you’re a thriller writer, because you plot for a living.” Of course she gets it.
“Yep.”
She pats my arm with affection. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”
All your secrets, especially if they’re about me. “Yes,” I say.
“It’s okay if you don’t win. Other people like to win too. Just play for fun. You’ll be on my team.”
“Where’s my competitive monster?” I ask, pretending to hunt around for her.
An impish shrug is Hazel’s only answer. “Sometimes my competitive monster likes to have a glass of rioja and take the night off. Yours can join her at the café drinking wine while you and I scavenge.” She drapes an arm around my shoulder, squeezes. “Hey! That reminds me of sweet raccoon wine.”
As we head along the street toward the nearby square, I arch a dubious brow. “That sounds like a clue in a scavenger hunt, or something the chief forager was peddling.”
“Or,” she says, holding up a finger, “a new type of wine.”
She goes on to tell me about the research she did with the New York sommelier about grape harvests. “I was dying to disprove the restaurateur,” she says.
“Ah, that’s the malcontent I know,” I say. “I’m so proud of you for wanting to prove someone wrong.”
With a laugh she asks, “And you want to hear the wildest thing of all?”
We’re ten feet from the group, so there’s just enough time. “Always.”
She stops at a street cart, where a vendor peddles fresh fruit. She’s using the cart for protection, so we can talk freely before we’re with the crowd again. Her face is soft, her eyes tender as she says, “When I found out, I wanted to tell you about the raccoons and the bird and the grape harvest. Isn’t that weird?”
My heart squeezes. “That’s the weirdest.”
“Later that day, I found out about the trip. But even before the trip news, I still thought of you,” she says, then knits her brow, like she’s sorting her impulse to talk to me then on the timeline of us.
Before the airplane apology.
Before the fountain confessions.
Even before we started stitching our friendship back together, she still wanted to talk to me.
I was a jerk then.
Hell, that barely covers it. I was a world-class prick, yet she wanted to share the idea of sweet raccoon wine with me.
That confession doesn’t slow the train of my new, unexpected thoughts. It speeds it up. Soon, I’ll need to talk to her about them, or explode.
But first, it’s time for a scavenger hunt.
Hazel was right. Other people do enjoy winning, and focusing on that—and them—takes all the pressure off me.
I’m having—gasp—fun. Steven kills it at solving clues leading to locations from my books. No surprise there. He’s in first place with his teammate, Alecia, collecting photos at all the locations in the hunt.
While we gather outside a tapas bar with flickering white lights, Amy sends the final clue to our phones.
Beside me, Hazel reads out loud from her device. “Here, the metal glistened,” she says, then cuts herself off, shouting, “The Hotel Reyes!”
I laugh as she immediately claps her hand over her mouth, eyes popping like she can’t believe she just spoiled the name of the hotel that hosts a glittery gala in A Beautiful Midnight.
“Sorry!” she says to the group, but the Book Besties are already laughing, and Redheaded College Girl is too. “It’s just my favorite scene in that book.”
Amy laughs as well. “No biggie. And we need to catch the train anyway, so maybe it all works out.”
A smooth baritone cuts through the crowd. “I can hold the train if you need a little more time for the photo.”