I yelp when the door to our apartment slams shut, but Jed is not at all startled. I hear heavy footsteps, and seconds later, our other roommate Keiko stomps into the room. She has pink hair and lots of eyeliner. She’s wearing a floral minidress and black Doc Martens, and she’s very pretty but also slightly terrifying, and I really want her to like me. I’ve only met her once before since I moved in here just over a week ago, because she’s always at her boyfriend’s place.
“Hi! Welcome home!”
She frowns at me, says nothing, throws her overnight bag onto her bed, and starts pulling clothes out of it, tossing her dirty laundry into the hamper at the foot of her bed. Then she grabs things from her garment rack and stuffs them into her overnight bag. It all takes her less than sixty seconds, and I can’t look away.
“Hey, Keik.” Jed doesn’t even look up from his phone.
“Hi.”
“Left your mail for you on the counter. Did you see it?”
“No, I’ll grab it on the way out.”
“Cool.”
“I love your hair!” I find myself saying. “I’ve never seen that shade of pink on a head before.” I wince as soon as I finish blurting out that sentence. I would ignore me too right now. “Do you have to use a rinse every week to keep it looking that shiny, or…?”
She slings her bag over one shoulder and then stares down at the philodendron on her bedside table. “Did somebody water my plant?”
“I did. A couple of days ago. It was really dry.”
“Don’t water my plant.”
“Okay.”
“I water my plant.”
“Got it.”
“Fiona made out with a famous author yesterday.”
“Who’s Fiona?”
“Our new roommate.” Jed points at me.
“Oh.” She doesn’t give either of us another look, but she does reach out to muss up Jed’s hair on her way out.
“I brought home gluten-free brownies from work if you want one!” I call out.
Her response is another door slam.
“I’m surprised she likes you so much,” Jed says. “It usually takes her months to warm up to people.”
I am about to ask him if he really thinks she likes me but my phone vibrates, and I actually start to salivate. I try to play it cool and take a couple of deep breaths, sending positive energy to my heart and yoni before reaching for it. Jed leans over me to grab it, looks down at the screen, says, “It’s him,” and then drops the phone in my lap.
I comb my fingers through my hair and fix my bangs before opening up the text app.
When I see the text from Emmett, I wonder if he sent it to the wrong number because it’s so different from the ones he’d sent me before.
EMMETT: Hey. I’m really sorry, but I won’t be able to meet up with you. This isn’t going to work. Best, Emmett
“Best, Emmett?” Who ends a text message like that?
Jed’s staring at me. “What’d he say?”
I feel a little bit sick and a little bit angry, and I don’t even want to read that text aloud.
But I also can’t just leave it at that.
ME: Dear sir, please clarify. Do you mean you are not able to meet up with me today, or you will not be meeting up with me ever? Thanks.
About a minute later, I get a reply.
EMMETT: It’s just not a good idea for us to meet up. You’ll understand eventually. Have a great week.
Okay, well, that doesn’t even deserve a response.
This man doesn’t deserve me.
He doesn’t even deserve one more awesome text from me.
Ohhhh but he’s getting one.
ME: Dear sir, thanks so much for your prompt clarification. I look forward to understanding eventually and hope you also have a pleasant week. Yours truly, Fiona
I don’t get a reply.
Which is fine.
I drop my phone onto the bed and lie back down.
“Did he dump you?”
“Yes.”
“Assface.”
“Total assface.”
“Want me to leave bad reviews for his books on Amazon?”
“No… Maybe later.”
“Just say the word.”
“I don’t want to overreact. I mean. We just met. It was just the one time. It was just a few text convos. It’s fine… I’m fine. I need to focus on writing anyway. Classes start next week, and that’s why I’m here.”
Jed massages my feet through the blanket.
“Lemme read one of his books, and if I hate it, then you can write a bad review for me.”
14
WILLIAM DEXTER
The Earl of Asschester by Fiona Walker
Though William Dexter held the rank of an earl, third highest in the peerage, he was an ass of the highest order. There was nothing noble about him, aside from his reasonably striking perfectly symmetrical face and somewhat pleasing posterior. He was rude, moody, occasionally downright cruel, and displayed no respectable talents other than kissing.
He was a fine kisser. An excellent kissing partner, truth be told. Occasionally he even gave the impression of having something resembling a sense of humor. Regardless of his aforementioned despicable qualities, he was considered the ton’s most eligible bachelor of the season—by everyone except Lucy Finch.
Her heart was a rare and beautiful bird that she kept locked safe in a gilded cage, and no man could ever claim it.
She wrote of love. She wrote stories of love and acts of love, and she wrote pretty words that described lovely ladies and dashing gentlemen. She wrote of steamy trysts and clever banter and grand gestures. While each of her stories and characters demanded a happily ever after, Lucy did not want one for herself. She wanted to write dozens of them, and that would be enough.
William chastised her.
He pined for her.
He ached for her.
He was tormented by her.
But there was nothing he could say or do to forget her, woo her, or recover from his epic failure at being a decent man. Especially after his obnoxious, repugnant letter. Written words mattered to Lucy, and William’s words, though ostensibly polite, had cut her to the very core.
He regretted writing the letter almost immediately.
He called upon her at her home in the middle of the night, in the rain, bearing apologies and gifts, but it was too little and it was already too late.
She would not open the door all the way, and he knew better than to force his way through. The look in her eyes—those eyes that for one glittering moment had shone with the possibility of love for him—was enough to stop him cold. He could see that she was forcing back tears and realized that it was he who had caused this strong and admirable woman emotional harm. He felt shame for the first time in his careless thirty-five-year-old life.
“Listen here, Lord Asschester. Listen well and then leave, and I will ask you to never, ever darken my doorstep again… Are you listening?”
“Yes, Miss Finch. Despite what you might think, I have always paid keen attention to every word you’ve uttered and written.”
Her lower lip quivered the tinies bit, but she took in a deep breath and continued. “Well, this is the last thing I will ever utter directly to you, my lord… Just because I write about cocks, that does not mean it is appropriate for anyone to be a dick to me,” she hissed. “Not even you. Especially not you.”
There, there, luv. We got that out of our system now, eh? Movin’ on.
15
FIONA
* One Week Later *
I’m back on track. I’m in grad-school mode. It’s the first day of class for me in the MFA Creative Writing Program, so I’m too busy managing my debilitating Imposter Syndrome to think about Assface anymore. I skimmed through the first book in his Jack Irons series and convinced myself that he’s a hack. That made it easier to convince myself that it was a good thing that he ended things so abruptly and without explanation. Unfortunately, it made the fa
ntasy hate sex so much hotter—but I’m done thinking about him now.
Jed helped me pick out an appropriate First Day of Grad School outfit, and then I chose to wear something completely different since he apparently thinks I’m studying to become a stripper. Yesterday I timed the walk from my apartment to the building my fiction workshop is in, so I’m here five minutes early—not so early as to get nervous while I’m sitting there waiting for one of my favorite authors to show up. Marjorie French wrote one of my favorite collections of short stories. I read them over and over again when I was in college. Back when I was a contemporary American fiction snob. I was so excited when I saw that she was a visiting professor this year.
I had to work when they had the grad student mixer, so I don’t know anyone yet, but as I walk through the corridor to the classroom, I swear I keep hearing the name Emmett Ford being whispered around me. Do these people somehow know that I made out with Emmett Ford last week? Have I been thinking about him so much that his name is now etched on my forehead? I touch my forehead, just to make sure. Maybe they’re talking about cars. Or mispronouncing Harrison Ford. Or saying “helmet floored.”
There’s a tall guy with longish brown hair standing in the doorway to the classroom. He’s talking to someone who’s in the hall, just blocking the door like it’s no big deal. He’s an artsy-hippie type, the kind I was used to seeing in Northern California. He gives me a thorough once-over and nods.
“Hey,” he says, finally stepping aside to let me pass him.
“Hi.” I scan the room. It’s not large, and there are four long tables arranged in a rectangle. Five other people are already seated. Marjorie French isn’t here yet, but I’m sure she will sit at the table by the far wall, near the dry-erase board. I take a seat in the middle of the long table that faces the door just as the tall artsy-hippie-type guy pulls out the chair next to me. He smells like Nag Champa incense, espresso beans, and money. He must be an East Coast faux-hippie type. They come into the restaurant where I work.
“Hey,” he says, giving me yet another once-over and nod. “I’m Beowulf.” He holds out a large hand and patiently waits for me to place my bag on the table. He’s not smiling at all, so I guess that’s not a joke.
“I bet a lot of people say their name is Grendel when you tell them that.”
“My parents actually named our dog Grendel. After I was born. It was intense.” He continues to hold my hand. “Your name is?”
“Oh. It’s Fiona.”
“Nice.” He slides his hand out of mine and pushes his hair behind one ear. He lowers his chin to his arm and mutters while glancing at the door, “So what do you think of Emmett Ford?”
I drop my laptop while pulling it out of my bag, and it slides onto the floor with a terrible thud. “What? Why? Shit.”
“He’s replacing French as our prof.”
“What? Why? Since when?”
“Pregnancy issue.”
“Wait. What? Who’s pregnant?” I’m so confused. Did Emmett get someone pregnant and now he’s teaching this class? I touch my forehead again. I must seem like a total idiot.
“French is pregnant and has to stay off her feet. They didn’t send out a notification or anything. Probably afraid we’d all complain or try to switch workshops. Or more likely they just didn’t think to tell us.”
“It…didn’t say that on my class schedule.”
“Yeah. He probably got the job because of his dad. His father’s Graham Ford, you know?”
I did know that. Because of the Wikipedia page that I kept hate-reading until I had memorized it and clicked on every single link within the article about Emmett Ford.
“I can’t believe nobody told us.”
I think I continue to babble about how weird and rude it is that nobody would tell us about something so significant as a professor change, but I might just be screaming these thoughts in my head. Regardless, Beowulf’s attention has strayed to a stunning woman with shiny jet-black hair who struts into the room like it’s a catwalk. She heads directly for the table by the dry-erase board and takes the seat next to the one in the middle, which one would assume would be the professor’s seat. Her porcelain skin is flawless, her eyeliner is perfect, and I already hate her, but I’m sure she’s a very nice person. If she’s a good writer, then I may need to have her killed.
More importantly: WHAT. THE. FUUUUUUCK?!
I suddenly remember that my laptop is on the floor and reach down to pick it up. I hit my head on the edge of the table, yell out “Shit!” and when I look up, rubbing the crown of my head, I see New York Times best-selling author and fantastic kisser Emmett Ford standing in the doorway, frowning at me.
I feel like I just pounded a milkshake all of a sudden. Now I have a cold headache and tummy troubles and also arctic witch tits. So that’s wonderful. I have no idea why I chose to wear the same thin white blouse that I was wearing the night I met Emmett, but he definitely recognizes it, and he almost does a good job of not glancing down at my general nippular area.
He blinks, looks over at the table in front of the dry-erase board, his eyes skimming over Maleficent, then takes the seat in the center of the table opposite her. He’s still frowning. He places his coffee cup and laptop on the table without acknowledging anyone, even though the room has gone uncomfortably silent ever since his arrival. Aside from the sound of my rapidly beating heart and my internal shrieking.
He’s wearing a crisp white button-down shirt and expensive-looking dark jeans with a leather belt that I can smell all the way over here. Even under this uninspired artificial lighting, he has that glow about him like he just came from a spa or something. He is so handsome I want to throw my laptop at him. And then straddle him and lick his face.
Nope.
No I don’t.
He finally takes in all twelve of us and says, “Hello. I’m not Marjorie French.”
Eleven of us politely laugh at that. One of us doesn’t find it amusing at all that he’s not Marjorie French. How dare he?!
“My name is Emmett Ford. I am an author of action-thriller novels. I’m replacing Marjorie, who suddenly became unable to teach this year. I understand no one was notified about this changeup.” He opens his laptop while continuing, not making eye contact with anyone as he speaks. “If any of you have an issue with me teaching this class, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The other graduate-level fiction workshop is also at capacity, so if you want to get out of this class, you’ll either have to convince someone in Ross Morgenstern’s workshop to switch with you or find some other class to fulfill your course requirements.” He clears his throat—the only evidence of his humanity so far—and then says, “Why don’t you go around the room and introduce yourselves. Tell us your name and why you’re here and what you write.”
He turns to the guy to the right of him, indicating that he should start. Which is annoying because that means I’ll have to talk sooner than if they went in the other direction, and I don’t know if my voice is working anymore. I don’t know if I’ll just start screaming when it’s my turn. I bet if I did, Professor Ford wouldn’t even blink. He’d just frown at me handsomely. It’s like he doesn’t even know I’m here. He took me to the Whispering Gallery, made out with me on a bench at dawn, and told me he liked me, and now he’s acting like I’m not in the same room with him.
“Fiona.” Someone nudges my arm. It’s Beowulf. Everyone is looking at me. Even Emmett. Professor Ford, I mean. “Your turn,” Beowulf whispers.
“Oh.” How long had I been mind-ranting? How much did those other three people say about themselves? Am I naked and on fire right now? Because it feels like I’m running through the halls naked and on fire. I clear my throat and glance over at Emmett, which is a huge mistake, so I immediately shift my attention to every other person in the room. “My name is Fiona Walker. I grew up in Eureka, California. I’ve been writing short stories ever since I was little, just for fun. I’ve actually never even sent my stuff—my stories—to any literary
journals or magazines. I just wrote to entertain myself, but it didn’t seem like something I should spend my life doing… My parents are New Age-artist types. They’re great. Really great. But they’re not great at keeping their shit together. So I grew up intent on being the responsible, practical one in the family. They own a vegan restaurant, and it’s always been a beloved spot in our town, but they’re so bad at running it. I got my degree in business administration at Berkeley so I could manage the restaurant and help my dad with his…small agricultural business.”
I look around, and I’m pretty sure everyone who’s actually paying attention to what I’m saying knows I mean that my dad grows pot. “Anyway, I thought it was important to be practical and have a career that kept me grounded and kept everything on an even keel… But then my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer—she’s fine.” I’ve learned to say that as soon as I mention that my mother was sick, so people don’t worry. But Beowulf touches my arm anyway to console me.
“I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly.
I chance a quick look over at Emmett and am surprised to see his eyes have softened. He’s looking at me with some kind of compassion or recognition. Those sad eyes again. He looks over at Beowulf and frowns, and the moment between us is gone.
“Thank you.” I tap Beowulf’s hand to indicate that he can let go of my arm now. “She’s good now. But when she was going through treatments, she was too tired to read and it made her dizzy to watch TV, so I would read to her. Her favorite books had always been Regency romance novels. I used to tease her about it. But when I was reading them to her, I understood why she loved them so much and I saw how good they made her feel. When she was still going through chemo, she told me that the only thing she regretted in life was that I wasn’t pursuing my writing because she’d always known how happy it made me. I read her a short story that I had recently written. She said if she died, I had to promise her I’d write books for a living. I said if she lived and got healthy again, I promised to write books for a living. She got healthy again, and so I found someone else to look after their businesses and finances. So, that’s why I’m here. I can’t make a living writing books yet, but I am still a practical person, so I figured why not go into debt getting a master’s degree in creative writing in New York City so I can learn how to write Regency romance novels for a living.”
The Love Interest Page 8