Her pussy would probably welcome Jack’s cock the way New York City welcomed me that first spring—all warm and wet and blossoming and pulsing with life.
But she’s so young. She must be in her early to mid-twenties. All dewy skin and shiny hair and wide bright eyes and perky tits and ass. An endless reserve of sass, I’ll bet. Too young for Jack.
Still. I feel something opening up, deep inside of me. Some tiny forgotten, dehydrated rosebud has finally been exposed to the right amount of sun and water and nutrients, if only for a moment, and…something has stirred. Not my dick. Not my heart. That spark of inspiration I need to ignite my interest in a story and a character. This friction between us just might be the energy that propels me headlong into the novel and all the way to the end.
Just maybe.
Something tells me she might be protecting herself. Not just from strangers. From me. From what I represent. From what I could potentially be to her.
I recognize it.
I respect it.
And I like it.
Here is a young woman with a cautious heart, and I feel connected to it somehow. Not the woman but the cautious heart. There’s an unspoken, involuntary camaraderie between the brokenhearted. It might not be that she’s brokenhearted, but something about the world has cracked open for her. She knows what she stands to lose.
That’s what Jack Irons needs. A woman who’s lost something. Something that she’s afraid of finding again, but she remains open nonetheless. Something that will find her, whether she thinks she’s ready for it or not. A reluctant love interest.
That’s it.
Nailed it.
I should jot this down in my notebook. But I know I won’t forget it. And something tells me there are more unforgettable things I can learn from this particular stranger before the night is over.
I’m dying to ask this girl what her roommate is texting her because, even as we walk past the light of the streetlamp, I can see that she’s blushing. It doesn’t even piss me off that she’s texting while walking with me because I can tell it’s about me. “All good?”
“Um.” She clears her throat and slides the phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans. She’s got a great ass, not that I’m looking. “All good. He’s got your photo and your name, so if you murder me, he’ll…probably call the police before hitting on you? I’m unsure about that, actually. Hopefully you won’t murder me.”
“I thought you trusted the universe.”
“I do, I’m just not sure if I trust you.”
“Fair enough. You from California?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
Sunkissed skin, no makeup, easy smile, tissue-thin bohemian blouse that would melt under the warmth of my tongue. No woman from the East Coast would care if a waitress liked her or not, and no woman from the Midwest would decline the offer of a drink from a handsome stranger out of politeness. Only Californians can talk about trusting the universe without laughing.
“Lucky guess. Northern, right? Not LA.”
“Eureka. That’s the name of the town I’m from. I’m not making an exclamation.”
“I’ve heard of the town.”
“Really? Have you driven up the coast or something?”
It was one of the towns I considered having Jack Irons move to when I started the first book, but I’m not going to get into that. It’s good that she doesn’t know who I am. “I had planned a drive up the West Coast once.” That’s also the truth. It’s a sad truth. And I can feel that fist around my heart tightening again. “We never made that trip.” I can’t believe I just said “we.” I don’t usually bring her up with strangers.
She tilts her head as she looks over at me. I don’t meet her gaze, but I know her eyes are warm and curious and sympathetic. “Oh,” she says softly. She’s not uncomfortable around sadness. I like that. Jack would like that. We cross the street, and I notice her glancing to her left and then up ahead and then over at me, like she’s trying to decide something. “Are you from here?”
I shake my head. “Connecticut.”
“Oh. Well, that’s not far.”
“Not in terms of distance. But anywhere outside of Manhattan feels far from Manhattan if you live here. You’ll know what I mean eventually. You like it here?”
“Of course I do! Does anyone not like it here?”
“I don’t know… I haven’t asked everyone yet.”
“Well, I can’t imagine anyone not loving New York. Especially when you’re here for the first time. It’s like meeting a soul mate, right?”
God. How can anyone be so young?
She’s right. I know exactly what she means. I want to ask her if she’s ever met a soul mate, but I also want to wait to hear what she’ll say next. Which is rare.
“I mean, there’s this sense of familiarity,” she continues. “Because we all know about New York. We’ve all seen the cityscape and the landmarks and practically every street, probably, in movies and TV shows and online. But then you actually get here and it’s…it’s even more than you ever thought it could be and it makes you feel like you’re more than you ever thought you could be. Right? Like a soul mate who helps you to become more of who you’re supposed to be.”
Goddammit. She’s a fucking romantic.
“I don’t know. I always felt so much bigger than my life, back in California. When I got here last week, I just… It’s like I felt my soul rising up to the surface to greet the city and everyone in it. You know? And I’ve felt more awake than I have in years. Literally. I can’t sleep because I’m so excited. It’s almost like being in love…I think.” She stares off into space, smiling wistfully, like she did when she had her notebook out in front of her.
She’s so fucking cute all of a sudden, it hurts.
“Almost.” That came out a lot more sarcastic than it was supposed to. “But yeah. I know exactly what you mean.” I barely remember how it feels. I want to though. For Jack, I mean.
She glances over at me quickly before veering left, onto a side street, and I follow her. She’s taller than Sophie was. In those heels, she could rest her head on my shoulder. Jack, who’s the same height as I am, could grab her hand, spin her to face him, and bring her in for a kiss with ease. Would his hand go to the small of her back? The back of her neck? Would he casually tilt her chin up with his finger after gazing into her eyes for just a second?
Difficult to say, just yet.
We walk in silence for about half a block, and then she takes a deep breath before asking, “How long have you been here?”
“Over a decade now.”
She nods and stops in front of a pre-war duplex.
Just as she says, “This is me,” I ask her, “What’s your name?” I didn’t mean to say it in the tone I would normally use to tell a woman to take off her clothes, but it happened, and now I have to stand behind it. I mean, I do need to get laid. And there isn’t anyone else I feel like seeing right now.
I fix her with a stare.
Her lips part and she’s trying to control her breathing, I think, and I like it. “Fiona…” She shifts her weight from one foot to the other and back again. “My name is Fiona.”
“Fiona. I like that. You look like a Fiona.”
She stares at me quizzically. I don’t blame her. I don’t quite get myself right now either. She gestures toward the apartment building and says, “Well…this is me. Thank you. For walking me home. I really do appreciate it.”
“Is this really where you live, Fiona?”
“No.”
“We passed your street a couple of blocks back, didn’t we?”
She shrugs, grinning.
“Still don’t trust me, huh? Good for you.”
“Just playing it safe.” She fiddles with the strap of her shoulder bag. The pink polish on her nails is chipping off a bit, because she’s always fiddling with things, I bet. Men’s hearts, probably. She’s pretty. She’s really pretty. The summer night air feels just a little bit warmer t
han it did on the way to the diner somehow, and it smells better too. Like vanilla and some kind of incense and nervous young woman scent.
I like it and I haven’t had enough of it yet. But she’s too young. She’s too…something. “Well, I should get home.”
“Me too.”
We stare at each other for five or ten seconds. Half a minute, maybe.
I let out a sigh. “You want to keep walking?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
7
FIONA
So, I guess this is happening.
A little nighttime promenade through the neighborhood with a bite-your-lip-handsome stranger who has beautiful sad eyes. I suppose William was right. I did need to feel inspired. I do need this. What’s the harm in a little walk and talk? Maybe he can come with me to Grand Central.
I turn back toward Houston Street and decide to lead him to my apartment building. I’m pretty sure he’s not going to kidnap or murder me. Emmett, if that’s really his name, walks alongside me. He’s tall and fairly lean, and he’d be easy to kiss if it ever came to that. It doesn’t seem like we’re headed in a kissing direction, but this is New York City—anything can happen!
He seems so sad. And I like that. Probably about the one who got away. The one who liked milkshakes. I wonder what his story is.
“What exactly do you do here when you’re not stiffing waitresses in diners, Fiona?” There’s something almost dirty about the tone of his voice all of a sudden, but he somehow manages to not sound creepy. I’ll have to remember to give that to William—the ability to say things that aren’t naughty in a vaguely dirty tone while not being creepy. We turn left, onto Houston, and head up to Little Italy.
“First of all, I truly had no intention of stiffing her, Emmett. Secondly, I am also a professional food server, so I would never do that. I’m here to go to grad school. What do you do?”
“I stare at a screen all day. What are you going to study?”
Guys sometimes get a little weird when they find out I’m a writer—they think I’m going to write about them. So far none of them have been worthy of writing about. This one…he is worthy, but he would probably get spooked. I don’t want to tell him, and I see the perfect excuse up ahead.
It’s an old lady in a leopard-print coat. Her wig is on backward. She’s walking down the middle of the sidewalk and makes no effort to step aside.
“Don’t look her in the eyes,” Emmett mutters.
“Why not?”
We split up to let her through. She has a vacant look on her face as she stares at me. I smile at her and say “Hi,” because I trust the universe and I’m not an asshole who ignores elderly ladies, and then she starts barking out “Some Enchanted Evening.” Right in my face.
Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger!
It’s really fucking startling when old lady strangers yell songs into your face, it turns out.
Emmett slides his arm around my shoulder and pulls me away. The old lady walks off, continuing to yell-sing, her voice echoing around the quiet street. And that’s life in New York, I guess.
“You okay?” he asks with genuine concern. His arm is still around my shoulder, and he smells like a spicy strawberry field that I want to roll around in naked.
“Uh-huh. Surprised, that’s all. I did not see that coming.”
“Well, her wig is on backward. So, it looked like she was heading in the other direction,” he says, grinning. He removes his arm from my shoulder. I didn’t know there was a sexy way to remove your arm from someone’s shoulder, but it turns out there really is!
We both laugh, and his laugh is almost as surprising as crazy singing in the face lady. Easygoing and pleasant. His entire face changes, and he looks closer to my age now.
“We really shouldn’t laugh at her,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“I told you not to look her in the eyes.”
“Yeah yeah. I wonder what her story is though?”
“She probably came here from Northern California to go to grad school but declined a generous offer for a free drink, and everything went downhill from there.” He says it with such a straight face, I can’t even tell if he’s kidding.
“Yeah. Well, I’m excited. I always wanted a leopard-print coat.”
He gives me a crooked smile, and it seems Emmett Ford might actually have a sense of humor. He might actually be the kind of guy I could like. Maybe I just need to date a grown-up for a change.
“So now you can cross ‘get yelled at by a crazy lady’ off your New York City bucket list. You got anything else planned? Your boyfriend take you out anywhere fun yet?”
Now I give him a crooked smile. Smooth. And cute. “I don’t have a boyfriend. But I do have a list of twenty-five places I want to see. I was hoping to do a little sightseeing before classes start, but I’ve been so busy ever since I got here.”
“Yep. That’s how it goes. Twenty-five, huh?”
“Does that seem like too long or too short of a list?”
“Twenty-five’s a good number actually. Unless they’re all cheesy touristy places, then it’s lame.”
“Only half of them are cheesy, and I’ll probably go to those when my mom’s here. A third of them are cool. A quarter of them are romantic, so I should probably save them.”
“For when you’re with someone less awesome than me?”
“Sure. Let’s go with that.” We turn onto my street, and I slow my pace because I don’t want to be done with our walk and talk yet. “Well, there is actually one place I’m dying to go to that’s only interesting with another person.”
“Your bed?”
Spit take!
“Sorry,” he says, but he’s looking right at me and he doesn’t seem like he’s sorry.
“Don’t be. And no. When necessary, things can get plenty interesting if I’m on my own in bed.” Take that, grown-up Sad-Eyed Sexy Voice Handsome Man.
“Fair enough.”
“It’s at Grand Central. The Whispering Gallery. Have you heard of it?”
“I have, but people are very hush-hush about it.”
“Ha ha.” Wow. He’s on a roll now. “I was planning to go to Grand Central when it opens at five, actually…”
He acknowledges this hint and nods. Not in the dismissive way he did at the diner. He’s considering it. “Grand Central’s a great place to go in general, actually. The Main Concourse is beautiful.” He looks at his watch. It’s a beautiful watch. “We could take a cab there and walk around until then. It’ll have that just-cleaned smell.”
“Now? You want to go with me?”
“Yeah, I don’t want you going by yourself. And since you won’t let me buy you a drink, I’ll get us a cab.”
“Okay. To be clear—you want to take me to Grand Central? Now? In a cab? And then get out of the cab and go into Grand Central with me?”
“You catch on fast,” he teases. “I don’t know if you were including the Whispering Gallery in the romantic quarter of your list, but it sounds pretty romantic to me.”
“We’ll see.” We reach my actual apartment building, and I stop, turning to face him. “Okay. Well, I still have to run up to my apartment to get something.”
“Your wallet?”
“Right. Oh, and I can pay you back!”
“Absolutely not necessary. I won’t take your money.”
“Okay. Well, I have to swing by my apartment to get two things, then. Do you mind waiting here? I’ll be really quick.”
“I’ll be here. You getting more mace?”
“Well, this thing I’m getting certainly repels some men instantly.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“Good. Go ahead and call a cab. I’ll be right back with a four-foot cock.”
8
EMMETT
I never thought I’d be so relieved to see a woman holding a four-foot metal rooster. I guess it’s meant to be yard art. Given the alternative, this is…less disturbing. I don’t t
hink I even noticed just how beautiful Fiona is until I realize that seeing her with her arms around a somewhat gaudy, multicolored cock statue does not diminish her attractiveness at all. She has a mischievous grin on her face as she carries it toward me. I automatically hold my hands out to take the thing from her.
“You’re still here!”
“Cab’s on its way. What is happening, exactly?”
“This is Goliath,” she says, as if introducing me to an adorable puppy. “My mom made him. I have to take a picture of him at Grand Central. And any other touristy location I happen to go to. For her. For my mom. You don’t have to hold him.”
I give her a look because yeah, I do have to. She places Goliath in my arms. It’s about twenty pounds worth of iron. I’m really glad it’s a quarter to five in the morning. Unlikely that anyone I know will see me. Fairly unlikely that anyone who recognizes me will see me.
Or maybe…maybe I don’t care right now.
Fuck it. I’m taking a pretty girl and a four-foot cock to Grand Central. This is New York. I once saw a guy make out with someone in a tomato costume at the back of a subway car and no one cared. At least I know what to do with a big cock. I bet James Patterson doesn’t.
“You’re sure you’re okay? Holding the cock?”
“Yes. I appreciate the concern. And the consent. To letting me handle your cock.”
“Just let me know if you get uncomfortable.”
“I will.”
She’s fun. Fiona is fun. Her hair is even shinier now, and she put on lip gloss and more perfume, I think. It is surprising, just how happy that makes me.
The Love Interest Page 4