“Fucking Faulkner,” I whispered, my tone laced with disgust.
“Only one of the greats,” came a deep, rumbling voice from across the aisle.
I inserted my bookmark and turned to face the stranger, my breath catching in my lungs.
His lips were hitched to the side in a small grin and his bright blue eyes were alight with laughter. He canted his head toward my book. “But I’m guessing you don’t agree.”
I struggled to find the words to respond—not a problem I typically suffered. As a journalist, words were my bread and butter. Unfortunately, they’d deserted me when I’d come face-to-face with the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on. He had thick, wavy, brown hair and a sexy five o’clock shadow that dotted his strong, chiseled jaw. His eyes were deep pools of indigo that I imagined myself getting lost in. And his lips? Well, I wouldn’t mind finding out how soft they were.
If I were Cinderella and my fairy godmother had just granted my wish for the perfect man, he would have been it.
I cleared my throat and set my book to the side. “Can’t say I’m much of a Faulkner fan, which was probably obvious when I cursed his name.” I smiled sheepishly. It was one thing to fling insults at a dead author, but an entirely other thing to have someone witness you doing it.
He shrugged, his right shoulder lifting and then falling carelessly. “You either love him or you hate him.”
“Let me guess,” I said, relaxing into the conversation, “you love him.”
“I certainly appreciate the way Faulkner’s work helped shape the American consciousness. You can’t deny he gave a voice to the misfits and malcontents, whereas his contemporaries typically used them to serve as fodder for the ‘more important’ characters.”
“Spoken like a scholar. Or a misfit or malcontent.” I fought back a smile.
Personally, I found Faulkner’s characters—at least the ones I’d read—tiresome and troublesome. Then again, I was no scholar.
The handsome man, no longer quite a stranger, turned to face me fully, his hand outstretched. “Professor David Carstairs.”
“Victoria Witherspoon.” I placed my hand in his and tried not to swoon when his fingers skated over my palm as he pulled away. “Professor, huh?”
David’s head ducked forward and his cheeks flushed. Setting his hand to the back of his neck, he made a face. “American Literature, I’m afraid.” He looked flustered, as if being a professor wasn’t really fucking cool.
And hot. Oh so hot.
Maybe most people thought his job made him a nerd, but I wasn’t one of them. And as for being attractive … well, forget about all those grunting alphaholes. I swooned for kind and cerebral. To me, smart and well-spoken was the sexiest combination you could find in a man. And Professor David Carstairs had both in spades.
“That’s very impressive. You obviously wouldn’t know it from the way I just maligned poor Mr. Faulkner, but I actually do love books. Just maybe not that one.”
“Oh yeah?” His eyes sparked with interest and he leaned closer. “Who’s your favorite author?”
Since I had an inkling the sexy professor wasn’t looking for my thoughts on the latest shifter-meets-witch romance I’d stayed up all night reading the weekend before, I scrunched up my nose and looked to the ceiling, cataloguing the authors I’d studied back in college. It had been years since I’d read anything that didn’t come with a guaranteed happily-ever-after. Life was too short for anything but stories that made me happy.
Bringing my gaze back to his, I finally said, “I really enjoyed Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, The Fitzgeralds—both F. Scott and Zelda, mad as she was—and Edith Wharton. Although, now that I’m saying it out loud, I realize practically all the novels I love best have been made into movies. For all you know, I’ve never even picked up a real book.”
David moved to the empty seat next to me and reached for my dog-eared copy of Faulkner’s seminal masterpiece. Thumbing through it, he examined the notes I’d scribbled in the margins and chuckled at some of my more colorful observations. Eventually, he set it back down with the rest of my belongings.
“Anyone whose notations are filled with that much passion on the subject is a true reader. I particularly appreciated the part where you ranted about how Caddy only existed to showcase Faulkner’s misogyny and hatred of women.”
“Spoken like a true professor,” I snickered, remembering the paper I’d written on that very topic my senior year.
My instructor had returned it with a bright red “C” in the upper right-hand corner. While my thesis about the prevalence of sexism in early American literature had been well researched and supported, apparently, I’d missed the point of the assignment entirely. Alas, that’s what tended to happen when I was fueled by Red Bull and righteous indignation at two o’clock in the morning.
“Since you’re the expert,” I continued, twisting in my seat and bringing our knees within scant centimeters of one another, “what’s your favorite book?”
“Wonder Boys by Michael Chabon. Also made into a movie.
His sexy smirk threatened to undo me.
Do not swoon, do not swoon, do not swoon.
Difficult, given the temperature, but I somehow managed to hold it together.
“I’ve read the book and seen the movie,” I told him. “I’ve even been inside the house they used for filming Grady’s place. One of my professors lived there.”
All at once, David’s smile dimmed and he eyed me with what I interpreted as disappointment. I was confused for about two-point-two seconds until I realized that he’d misinterpreted my statement.
“Oh! No, nothing like that,” I blurted with a laugh and a wave of my hand. “I assure you, my presence there was entirely on the up-and-up. Every year Professor Burrows hosted an end-of-term cocktail party for the program’s graduating seniors. He thought it would help us transition into the ‘real world’ where grown-ups didn’t do keg stands.” I chuckled and used my fingers to make air quotes. “The joke was on him though because two years later a couple of guys ended up getting high in his bathroom. Rumor has it his parties were by invitation only after that.”
All at once, David relaxed and his gaze dropped to my mouth. “Can I confess something?”
Unbidden, I felt my tongue dart out and lick my lips. His eyes flared with heat, and I nodded.
“You can call me a creep and tell me to fuck off, but I find it incredibly sexy that you’ve read my favorite book, seen my favorite movie, and have a unique piece of trivia about it to boot.”
Feeling myself blush under the weight of his stare, I pushed a lock of hair behind my ear and dropped my eyes to gawk at David’s hands. I’d never been a hands girl before. Traditionally, forearms were more my thing, but I couldn’t stop picturing them molded to my naked body. What would it feel like to have those long, tapered fingers digging into my flesh as he rocked me back and forth over his cock?
I blinked and shook my head, pushing the inappropriate fantasy to the back of my mind. This was bonkers. I’d known this guy for all of thirty minutes and I was fantasizing about getting horizontal with him. That never happened.
But it was precisely because I’d never felt such an instant, all-consuming attraction to a man before that I raised my eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. If this attraction was one sided, I’d never in a million years say what I was about to say. But the way David had stared at my mouth—like he couldn’t wait to taste me—and the look of bold, open longing in his eyes told me it wasn’t. I was positive that he wanted me as badly as I wanted him.
“For what it’s worth, I find you being a professor incredibly sexy too. And the fact that you didn’t try to convince me my opinion on Faulkner isn’t valid is an incredible turn-on.”
What did it say about me—or rather, the men I typically met—that something as benign as simple respect was a major aphrodisiac?
“Is that so?”
I nodded and my mouth split into a shy
grin. “It is.”
“What do you think we should do about that?” He smirked again, and oh dear god, his dimples popped. I was such a goner.
Pulling every last ounce of bravery I possessed to the forefront, I looked him square in the eyes. “I think we should get dinner together. Tonight, if you can.”
David smiled back at me, and I felt it all the way to the tips of my painted pink toes. “I’d love that.” He reached out and squeezed my hand before quickly dropping it and leaning back in his seat.
I was sweating like a buffalo in this heat and humidity, but he looked entirely unflappable in his navy linen pants and white cotton t-shirt.
“But first, tell me more about this professor who didn’t think keg stands were an important and necessary life skill.”
From there, our conversation flowed quick and easy. We spent the rest of the ride to Dobbers Island getting to know one another. I talked about my work as a reporter covering everything from an overabundance of stray kittens roaming the streets to insurance fraud when a nearby town’s beloved ice cream parlor burned down. Meanwhile, he discussed what it was like shaping the minds of his students and how he’d always loved reading. I told him the reason for my visit to the island, and he described summers there as a child.
By the time we pulled up to the dock, we’d exchanged numbers and agreed to meet at seven o’clock in front of the restaurant nearest the inn where I was staying. David had offered to pick me up and then walk over to the restaurant together, but the less my family saw of him, the better.
I didn’t want my mother getting her hopes up that I’d brought a date to her wedding after all.
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Meet the Men of Dublin Rugby
If you love hot, alpha athletes who play hard but love even harder, start reading the Dublin Rugby Romance series today.
COMING HOME
(Dublin Rugby #1)
I grew up surrounded by professional athletes, so I know better than to date one. Which is why when I jump on a plane to Ireland to care for my ailing grandfather, I’m determined not to fall for arrogant rugby star Declan O’Shaughnessy.
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FIRST COMES LOVE
(Dublin Rugby #2)
I’ve called my best friend Aoife O’Shaughnessy a number of things, but dumb was never one of them. Through all of her mad schemes, I never once thought she was actually stupid—until now. Because I just heard her plan to cash in her v-card, and it’s her craziest idea yet.
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JUST FOR NOW
(Dublin Rugby #3)
Playboy. Flirt. Womanizer. I know what they say about me, but none of it is true. Despite the parade of girls leaving my room, I’d rather stay a virgin than wind up with a baby-mama claiming the kid is mine.
But one flirty conversation with Lauren Andrews, a sexy chef from California with curves to die for, and I’m all in. One kiss, and I yearn for something more. Something lasting.
But between our age difference, and the fact that she’s going back to America in a couple of months, convincing her to be with me is harder than I thought. I'm used to women falling at my feet, not pushing me away.
Now I’m in for the match of my life, and I have no intention of losing. Even if it means leaving Dublin—and rugby—behind for good.
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TAKE A CHANCE ON ME
(Dublin Rugby #4)
All my life, I looked and wondered. Could I? Would I? And then, finally, I did. But when I sampled a taste of that forbidden fruit, my whole world came crashing down.
Now I’m in Edinburgh looking to rebuild my life, but those old temptations are calling to me once again. One look at Chef Lachlan MacLeod’s whisky-colored eyes and the ink lining his forearms, and I’m wondering all over again.
Can I? Will I? My heart says no, but my body says yes.
The biggest question of all though is whether he’s willing to take a chance on me.
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FOREVER AT LAST
(Dublin Rugby #5)
Gemma
The day my fiancé left me at the alter for his pregnant secretary, I thought my life was over.
Thankfully, my sister refused to let me wallow in misery. When she dragged me to Dublin, I never expected to fall for a sexy rugby player with the body of a gladiator and the heart of a gentleman.
All I wanted was to get over my ex; I never meant to fall in love. I never meant to find forever.
Ross
For years I’ve been the best fullback in the league, but an injury has forced me to retire early.
For weeks, I’ve been walking around numb, wishing for something to make me feel alive again.
But when I met the broken-hearted beauty with a body made for sin, I wished for something different.
Something that looked a lot like love.
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The River Hill Series
(Co-Written with Jamaila Brinkley)
The Vintner’s Vixen
The Distiller’s Darling
The Baker’s Beauty
The Barista’s Beloved
Also by Rebecca
The River Hill Series
(Co-Written with Jamaila Brinkley)
The Vintner’s Vixen
The Distiller’s Darling
The Baker’s Beauty
The Barista’s Beloved
Swoon-worthy Standalones
Lucky Star (A Hollywood Love Story)
Mr. Gold (A Billionaire Office Romance)
The Contract (A MMF Billionaire Romance)
Xander (A Forbidden Mafia Romance)
Protect Me (A Bodyguard Romance)
More Flirt Club Weddings
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Always A Bridesmaid by Dee Ellis
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Fake Plus One by Arlo Arrow
Garters and Groomsmen by Kim Loraine
Kiss The Bride by Amelia Wilde
My Wedding Knight by Alexis Adaire
Something Blue by Fiona Starr
Something Borrowed by Tracy Lorraine
The Bridal Auction by Vivian Ward
The Worst Man by Rebecca Norinne
Three Weddings and Forever by Laney Powell
Wanderlust Wedding by Rebecca Gallo
Wedded and Finally Bedded by Olivia Hawthorne
Wedding Wishes by Dori Lavelle
With This Ring by Alexx Andria
About The Author
USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Norinne USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Norinne writes sexy romance from the heart. Her heroines will make you laugh and her heroes will make you swoon.
When not banging away at the keyboard, you can find her watching rugby, playing board games, or drinking a pint of craft beer.
Originally from California, she now resides in New England with her husband and two cats where they are renovating a house built in the 1700s and trying valiantly not to be eaten alive by mosquitos.
For more information, please visit http://www.rebeccanorinne.com. Or, for the latest news, release dates, giveaways, and other exclusive content, sign up for Rebecca’s newsletter at http://www.rebeccanorinne.com/newsletter.
The Worst Man (Wedding Season Series) Page 7
