A few people, including Beowulf, chuckle at that.
I look over at Professor McFrowny Face again.
He blinks once and says, “You’re here to write Regency romance novels?” Not even an attempt at hiding the derision in his tone.
“Yes. I am writing a Regency romance novel. Is that a problem?”
He doesn’t answer. He just shifts his penetrating gaze to the middle-aged woman who’s sitting next to me and nods.
I don’t hear a word the rest of my new classmates say because I’m screaming at Emmett Ford in my head again. At some point, everyone is done talking about themselves and our illustrious professor has us write down our names and email addresses on a sheet of paper and then starts talking about Aristotle’s three-act structure and a couple of books about writing that he likes.
Then he says, “So I was thinking it would be a fun way to get to know each other’s writing style if you rewrite the opening of a famous novel of your choice. It doesn’t have to be the entire first chapter or prologue, just the first page. For instance, say you write steampunk science fiction. You could rewrite the first page of The Grapes of Wrath using your own voice and typical setting of your work. But using the book’s character names. Any questions?”
You thought it would be fun? You? Thought of something fun?
A couple of people ask for clarification, and it seems to annoy Emmett. This pleases me to no end. I hope everything about this class annoys him as much as him being the teacher annoys me. Although I do happen to think that’s a fun assignment.
“Can we rewrite one of your books?” Beowulf asks, grinning.
Emmett’s jaw tightens when he looks at him. “Beowulf? Is it?”
“Correct.”
“Go for it, if that works for you. I’d encourage any of you to do that. Great idea. I look forward to it.” He looks at me for a second, and it feels like he’s going to address me directly, but instead he says, “Okay. Short class today. See you next week with your assignments. Email them to me and everyone on the class list in five days. Have a good week.”
“Oh, Emmett?” the shiny-black-haired-model-type says while parting her lips and placing the tip of her pen between her teeth. Such a poser.
“Yes?” Emmett doesn’t seem to remember her name. Which makes me a tiny bit happy.
“Veronica,” she says, touching her décolletage. “You haven’t given us your email address yet. So we can send you our assignments.”
“Right. It’s EMMETT FORD at U-N-Y dot E-D-U.”
“Right.” She smiles. “I figured. Just wanted to confirm.”
Emmett stands up and says, without looking at me, “Miss Walker, could I see you in my office for a minute, please?”
“Um. Now?”
“Yes. Now.”
“Sure.”
“Great.” He heads for the door without waiting for me.
I grab my laptop and bag. “Nice to meet all of you,” I say on my way out.
Emmett is walking down the hall. His butt looks so good in those jeans I want to kick him. I want to kick him and then kiss him. Or kiss him and then kick him. I just want to do things to him. I’ve never met a man I wanted to do so many things to.
So many things—aside from take a class that he teaches in grad school.
16
EMMETT
I can’t tell if she’s mad at me or not.
Two very significant and intriguing parts of her are either very mad at me or very happy to see me. I can’t tell which—I would love to investigate further, but I can’t. I was expecting some kind of blowback in text form after I told her I wouldn’t be meeting up with her, but it never came. Which was surprising. And maybe a little disappointing.
But not as disappointing as her decision to write a historical romance novel.
And not nearly as disappointing as finding Fiona Walker’s name on the class list after attending the new-faculty orientation and reading the school’s personnel policies. And then there was the anecdote I overheard, about a visiting professor who had an affair with a grad student in his class—when he ended it, she accused him of sexual harassment, and it created a huge scandal. I can’t do that to my father.
Ending things abruptly over text was the lesser of two evils, and while I may have made the decision quickly, it wasn’t a decision I came to lightly.
I open the door to my shitty new office and glance back to make sure Fiona’s following me.
She’s wearing the same clothes she was wearing the night we met. The same clothes I’ve been fantasizing about removing from her body for just over a week now. I’ve been thinking about removing them from her body off and on for the past forty minutes too, which is not good. It has to stop. I need to explain things to her and be done with it.
I just wish she weren’t so pretty. And smart. And funny. And endearing.
And I wish I hadn’t agreed to take this job.
But I can’t back out now.
I stand by the door, holding it open, and wait for her to pass through it before closing the door only partway. She smells so fucking good it makes me angry, because she didn’t know she was going to see me today, so what’s she doing wearing perfume when she leaves the house? Why should fuckheads named Beowulf be allowed to sit next to her and smell her and put their bony asshole hands on her arm? Fuck you, Beowulf, you fucking pretentious asshole. Fuck you, all other guys.
But this is how it has to be, and it’s fine.
My office is at the end of the hall. I thought about it on the way to campus this morning, and it’s probably best to keep my door open a bit when Fiona’s in here. When any woman is in here, really. She’s not stupid. She’ll keep her voice down.
“Hi,” I say, putting my laptop and coffee mug down on the shitty desk. Then I sit at the edge of my shitty desk, facing her.
She stands near the door, crosses her arms in front of her chest, and says, “Hello, Professor.”
“Obviously, we need to keep our voices down. Please come away from the door.”
I wait for her to roll her eyes and step closer to my desk before continuing. “You’re probably surprised.”
“Indeed. A tad, yes.”
Okay, she’s mad.
I mirror her, crossing my arms in front of my chest too. “First of all, I’m very sorry about your mother.”
She’s about to say something sarcastic, I think, and then blinks and says, “Oh.” She shifts from one foot to the other. “Thank you. She really is fine now. But we always have to remain vigilant, of course.”
“Yes. I’m glad she’s doing better.”
She nods once. We stare at each other, wordlessly, for a moment. Or rather, she glares at me and I stare at her pretty, tense face and try not to imagine what it would look like if we were hate-fucking right now.
I clear my throat and keep my voice low and steady. “My father told me about this position later that day, after the last time I saw you. I made a decision as to how to handle it, and I’m sorry if it upset you and I’m sorry if I blew it.”
She steps a bit closer to me so we can talk even more quietly, but now I can smell her again and it’s infuriating. “I don’t know what you think ‘it’ is, but yes, you blew it. And no, you didn’t handle it correctly.”
“I didn’t want to turn this into a big thing.”
“Right. Well, this wasn’t a big thing, was it?” She shrugs, but she’s feigning indifference, it’s very clear. “It was just a few hours.”
“Right. To further explain my decision-making process, I want you to know that after I texted you, I requested to read the material you had submitted to the department to join the master’s program. The short stories you wrote were very good.”
She blinks again, shifts back and forth between feet again, recrosses her arms. “Oh. Thank you.”
“That was why I checked about the other fiction workshop. I was going to recommend that you transfer to the other class.”
“Wait. What? Why?”
<
br /> “Because I have to teach this class for one year, and I can’t date my students. Even after this semester is over.”
“That’s a rule?”
“It’s a policy. Consensual relationships are discouraged, and teachers can be sanctioned if found to be in violation of the policy.”
“Oh. Well, that sucks.”
“I agree.”
“I’m still mad at you. I probably shouldn’t tell you that since you’re my teacher, but I will also tell you that I will get over it.”
“I hope so. But like I said—if you were to convince a student who’s enrolled in Professor Morgenstern’s class to switch with you…” I wait for some sign of recognition and understanding in her eyes, but I don’t see it. “I think it would be less of a violation of the policy…”
Her eyes widen.
There it is.
“Oh.” She raises her chin a little and tries to refrain from smiling, and it’s so fucking cute I want to kiss her. “I see. Well, I will look into this.”
“Do that. Do it soon. And obviously don’t discuss this or any of our interactions with anyone here.”
She glares at me again. “I’m not an idiot.”
“I don’t think you are, Miss Walker. Far from it.”
She balls up her hands into fists and rests them on her hips. I want to rest my hands on her hips. I want to massage those hips and make her moan the way she did on that park bench.
But I won’t.
Not now.
“Just to be clear,” she whispers, leaning in a little, “if I were to successfully switch to the other workshop, are you saying that you would want to…pick up where we left off?”
“Yes. But don’t contact me on my cell phone until you’ve done that.”
“Got it… Will that be all?”
“Yes. Have a good week.”
She makes some weird flourish gesture with her hand while bowing when she says, “And you, sir.” Then she shakes her head and says, “Please forget I just did that.”
“I’ll never forget it.”
She frowns at me, turning on her heel. “Bye.”
I watch her ass as she strides out of the room. She needs a spanking. Maybe I can pay one of Morgenstern’s students to switch with her. I’d pay good money to spank that ass.
Fuck me, I can’t be having these thoughts.
But fuck, I would do anything to be able to do anything to Fiona Walker right now.
17
JACK IRONS
Mistaken Identity by Emmett Ford (The Jack Irons Series, Book One) – Chapter One as rewritten by Fiona Walker
Captain Jack Irons despised being on land, never stood with his back to the door, and always noted the exits. He was an American in London. Britain was no longer at war with his native country, but Jack was still at war with himself. He was devastatingly handsome, fiendishly clever, and bored out of his ever-loving mind. He had three days left to kill before his ship would return to America, and he’d already had his fill of tea and balls and polite conversation. Yet he’d made the acquaintance of one Timothy Lockhart earlier and liked him well enough to allow himself to be browbeaten into accompanying him to the ton party at Lady Skeffington’s. He had absolutely no plans to marry again, but he also had no other plans for the evening. So, there he was, frowning and facing the entrance, wishing his wife could walk through it but knowing she would never walk through any doorway again.
Since he was to be amongst high society—his least favorite tier of society—he’d left his pistol on board the Marianne. Being unarmed made him uncomfortable but not nearly as uncomfortable as the disarmingly beautiful woman who had just been announced into the ballroom was making him. Miss Lucy Finch. She was physically stunning. Her flaxen-blonde hair created a halo effect, her doe eyes were appealing, her rosebud lips were enticing, to say the least. But it was this girl’s saucy countenance as she surveyed the room, that caused him to feel both defenseless and guarded at the same time.
When her gaze fell upon him, she smirked, exchanged a few words with her mother and sisters, and then approached him directly. He had thus far not known a young lady of the ton to approach a man she was not directly related to at a ball. Judging by the sudden hushed conversations behind fluttering fans, neither had any of the other ladies of the beau monde. So, this simple brazen act was surprising and intriguing, and despite the sudden feeling that he was under attack, he resisted the urge to flee from her.
She curtsied and he bowed, and that was enough of that.
“I believe I spied you swaggering about on Pall Mall earlier today with Baron Lockhart,” she mused. “You must be the skilled, intrepid, and very generous Lord Beaumont we’ve been hearing so much about.”
Jack found himself feigning a rather impressive English accent. “Intrepid for certain, my lady, but as for skilled and generous—that depends on the company I’m keeping.” He winked.
He winked?
Then he surprised himself by taking her hand and bending down to press his lips to her dainty silk glove. He wanted to remove it and everything else she was wearing with his teeth and then let his lips explore every single inch of her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. He knew that, given his impending departure, it was unlikely he would have the pleasure of acquainting himself with certain parts of her, and that was regrettable.
Still. This was an interesting turn of events. In all his travels, he had not winked at nor engaged with anyone in this manner since his dearly departed wife, and yet it was his instinct to flirt with this woman. Perhaps that was not accurate—his initial instinct was to beat a hasty retreat, but his next instinct was to charm her—and pretend to be someone else. It was problematic. He would have to keep his guard up.
“I hope to acquaint myself with your alleged skilled and generous nature, my lord.” She grinned and winked at him.
He had survived battles, countless drunken barroom brawls, duels, storms at sea, shark and pirate attacks—but for the second time in his life, Jack Irons knew he was in trouble.
18
FIONA
I was not able to convince anyone to switch fiction workshops with me.
This is unfortunate for two reasons. First of all because I have been in a constant state of angry lady boner ever since Emmett asked to see me in his office last week. Secondly, because of said angry lady boner state, I suppose I thought it would be hilarious and clever of me to rewrite the opening of my professor’s book. I mean, Beowulf was the one who brought it up, and Emmett had encouraged us to “go for it.”
Beowulf did not go for it.
No one else in this fucking class went for it.
So now, after going around the room and critiquing Steve’s fantasy retelling of The Outsiders and Beowulf’s pretentious contemporary American literary version of Ulysses, they’re discussing my iteration of the first Jack Irons book. I’m wondering how disappointed my mother will be if I transfer to the College of Dentistry because I would rather floss other people’s teeth than wait to hear what Professor Ford has to say about it once everyone else has taken their shot at skewering it. He hasn’t looked at me once since he walked in.
His expression has remained aggravatingly neutral ever since saying the words, “And what are our thoughts on Miss Walker’s rendition of Mistaken Identity? For those of you who haven’t read the original work—it’s an action thriller, and Jack Irons is a former military man. His wife was murdered years earlier, and when we first meet him, he’s been traveling across America from South Carolina to California. In my opening, he’s in a diner when a man enters and mistakes him for someone he’s hired to kill the man who ran over his daughter. Steve? What did you think?”
Steve thought Emmett Ford’s opening was attention-grabbing and that mine is rather clever despite being a bit overwritten—although he feels that might be intentional since he’s not familiar with the style of Regency romance novels. He has some other annoying condescending things to say, and I forget them i
mmediately.
Beowulf, on the other hand, considers it very brave of me to attempt to rewrite the professor’s own work, and because he considers himself a feminist, he really appreciates how bold the heroine is. “It’s refreshing,” he says. “I think that any piece that is well written should be appreciated for the quality of its writing.”
Thank you, Beowulf.
“Despite the genre or subgenre,” he continues dismissively. “Good job.” He pats me on the forearm.
I almost sort of liked him for a second there.
I nod and pretend to take notes on my laptop while the middle-aged lady to my right gives me notes on every single line of my assignment. But really, I’m trying to decide how to convince my mom that I am more passionate about dental hygiene than writing.
When it’s Veronica’s turn to chime in, she sighs dramatically and tells Emmett how much she loves the entire Jack Irons series, and despite thinking every word of it is perfect, she too thought it was very brave of me to tackle this book for this assignment. “I thought it was cute,” she says, as if describing an ugly baby. “And I want to support other women authors, many of whom write romance…” She sighs again. “It’s just that I’m already sick of the whole Bridgerton thing. That show is so overrated, and so are the books. There, I said it. I’m done.”
The Love Interest Page 9