The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

  Honestly, I don’t even know how kids can sleep in this city, and I also don’t know how parents can handle raising them here. Just that thought causes me to swallow down the faint sting of regret, of not raising children with the love of my life. It’s fading now though, like the sense memory of that first sip of Irish whiskey. Like absolutely everything else.

  “She wants to talk to you,” Celeste tells me. “That okay?”

  “It’s the only okay thing about this day so far. Put her on.”

  She switches to speakerphone and places the phone on a hard surface. They must be in the kitchen. Celeste spends her late nights in the kitchen, and I spend them in my office.

  “Helloooooo? This is Bettina. Who am I speaking to please?” She giggles. This is her new thing—something she heard her mom say on the phone last week.

  “This is the Sleep Police. You’re under arrest for getting out of bed in the middle of the night.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Oh, okay. Well then, this is the Cuteness Police. You’re under arrest for being too cute.”

  “Yes. What did you have for dinner today?”

  Why can’t all my conversations go like this? “I’ll tell you after I’ve ordered it.”

  She gasps. “You haven’t had your dinner yet?! Whaaaat?! Hey, are you outside?”

  “Yeah, I’m out for a walk.”

  “Can I come?”

  “No way.”

  “Why?”

  “You have to go back to bed. No kids allowed out here this late at night.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Wrong!”

  “I’m not wrong. It’s too dangerous out here for little kids. The subway monsters all come out at night—everyone knows that.”

  “Thanks a lot, asshole,” my sister mutters in the background.

  “The subway monsters aren’t scary, Mommy,” Bettina explains. “Also, they aren’t real. It’s just something he made up in a story for me. They look mean and scary, but really they’re just afraid to talk to people.”

  “Ahh. Sounds like someone we know.”

  “I’m not afraid to talk to people. People are afraid to talk to me. That’s not my fault.”

  “Hey, are you going to meet a girl somewhere or something?”

  “Ew. Are you on your way to a hookup right now?” Celeste asks, all Upper East Side judge-y and married person-like.

  “No. I’m going to the diner. For food. By myself.”

  “Mom, can we go?!”

  “It’s after three. You have to get back on your school sleep cycle.”

  “But you guys are always up! It’s not fair. I want a milkshake.”

  “Oooh, a milkshake. That sounds good. Yeah, why don’t you guys come meet me for a milkshake?”

  “Nope. You need to go to bed, little girl. And Uncle Emmett needs to meet a new lady friend.”

  “I really don’t.”

  “He really does. He’s just not very good at talking to girls.”

  I have to laugh at that because—please. I’m very good at talking to girls. I just don’t meet very many I want to talk to. Not my fault.

  “Maybe we should give him a little advice.”

  “Yes! I know lots of things I can tell you! Girls like it when boys say funny jokes to them. Like, knock knock?”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Nobody. Because you don’t know how to talk to girls.”

  “Ouch.”

  I can just picture my sister doubled over laughing at that. Laughing so hard she can’t make a sound. Asshole.

  “Ohhh, and?! Also?! Girls like it when you’re nice to them. Well…” She smacks her lips together, and I’m sure she’s staring up at the ceiling, tapping her chin with her index finger. “Not too nice though. Like, not all touchy-touchy and googly eyes. Like how Jake R. is with me. And also, they sort of like it when you’re mean to them, kind of, right? But only if they can tell it’s because you like them. And only if you’re really, really cute.”

  “Right. I’ve noticed that. Am I really, really cute?” Obviously, I know the answer to that question.

  “Yes. I heard Kristy’s mom say so. She said you’re a hot piece of eye candy and she wants to lick you like a lollipop, so I guess she thinks you’re really sweet too!”

  “Jesus,” Celeste mutters.

  I shudder. “That’s nice, I guess.”

  “You should go on a date with Kristy’s mom!”

  “I think her husband might have a problem with that. Time for bed, Betti Boop.”

  “But I haven’t finished telling Uncle Emmett about girls yet.”

  “I think you’ve given him enough to work with for tonight.”

  “Ugh! Fine. Nighty night. Are you coming to see me soon?”

  “Sure.”

  “Before school starts?”

  “Definitely. Nighty night.”

  Celeste tells her she’ll be there to tuck her in soon, and then I hear those little bare feet scuttle across the hardwood floor.

  She takes me off speakerphone. “You still there?”

  “I didn’t realize hanging up on you was an option.”

  She tsks. “Emmett…”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “I miss her too, you know. Sophie?” Her voice trembles the tiniest bit. She and Sophie had become really good friends not long after we’d started dating. Celeste would have been one of her bridesmaids. “But it’s been over a decade. It’s like…” She sighs. “Never mind. Have a good milkshake.”

  “Wow. It felt like we were almost going to have a real conversation there for a second.”

  “This isn’t why I called.”

  “Right. You called to leave me a message about Dad calling. It’s like what, Celeste?” I can’t believe I actually want to hear her say it, but for some reason, tonight I do.

  She takes a deep breath before saying, “It’s just that you’re not in mourning anymore. You know? It’s like you’re using her. As an excuse. To live half a life. Not even half. Your whole life is about your writing now—I know you have contracts and fans and deadlines,” she spits out before I get the chance to. “But that can’t be it for you. That can’t be enough. She didn’t want this for you.”

  I stop in my tracks, stand by the fence around a schoolyard. There may or may not be an old man peeing on a jungle gym in there, but I don’t care. I have to take a breath and bite my tongue to keep from saying what I always say when we have this discussion every few years—that she’s not an artist. She wouldn’t understand. Celeste was a lawyer before she had Bettina. Our father’s an author, and Mom’s a sculptor. Her husband’s in advertising. She doesn’t understand our careers. But she does understand me, unfortunately. I’ll just never admit that to her.

  “Hello?”

  “Still here.”

  “I just want you to be happy.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re allowed to move on. No one will blame you. It’s not your fault she got sick, and it’s not your fault she died, and it’s not your fault you’re a man who needs a woman. Loving someone else doesn’t mean you didn’t love her.”

  Jesus.

  When she talks, she really talks.

  “Emmett? Still there?”

  I start walking toward the diner again. It feels true, what she said. It would hurt if I actually let it in. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Maybe it would feel good to accept it.

  I’m never lonely because I’ve never let Sophie go.

  That is one true sentence.

  Here’s another: I’ll never meet anyone I could fall in love with until it feels like I’m not betraying Sophie.

  I’m not going to write those sentences into my story yet.

  But I can’t ignore that they’re there, waiting for me to finally write that chapter.

  “You should get back into law, sis. That was quite a closing statement.”

  “Sorry. I’ve b
een wanting to say that for a long time. Except I’m not sorry. Are you okay?”

  “Course I am.”

  “Right. Course you are. Well, I have to go explain to my daughter why it’s important to sleep at night, so…”

  “I have no doubt you will convince her.”

  “Did I convince you? About what I said?”

  “No. But thanks for saying it.”

  “Yeah. Nighty night, kid.”

  “Nighty night.”

  I slide my phone back into my pocket and consider turning back to go home because how the fuck am I supposed to eat while I’m digesting everything my sister just said?

  But I’m hungry.

  And I still need inspiration.

  And I still need to find a woman for Jack.

  So, to the diner I go.

  WILLIAM DEXTER

  Put Down Your Dukes by Fiona Walker – Prologue

  William Dexter, Duke of Camden, was a gentleman from the moment he was born. So said his mother. His nurse, Mrs. Crawley, would tell you a different story—so long as the Dexters were not within earshot, of course. But even she would always tell that story with a smile upon her stern face because William Dexter made women smile. Ever since the day he was born. It seemed as if he was born to satisfy all that a girl or woman might desire in a boy—by laughing, flattering, entertaining, dazzling, and generally being a pleasant sort of young fellow.

  In the years since his boyhood, he had found a number of more interesting ways to satisfy a woman—none of which his mother nor Nurse Crawley knew of, to be certain. By the time he was sixteen, he had grown tired of merely being considered pleasing to the eye. Surely his greatest feature was not the subtle yet enticing waves of his sun-kissed brown hair. Or his tall, lean, yet muscular frame. Or his impossibly cordial come-hither smirk. He had vowed, then, to nurture his intellect and riding skills. By the time he was twenty-five, he had grown bored of any woman who swooned simply by being the subject of his piercing emerald-green gaze. To his great dismay, he had not yet encountered any woman in all of England who could resist him. Now that he was twenty-eight, he vowed to resist all women.

  That is, until he met the one woman who could resist him…

  Oi!

  For fuck’s sake, darlin’. Not your best work now, is it, luv? I’m not here for it. You’re not here for it. Bit distracted by that posh fella’s been starin’ at you ever since he strolled in here like Mr. fuckin’ Darcy, eh? Go on. ’Ave a good ole gander at ’im, then—go on. You know you want it. You and me both know that sweet little plan of yours to keep them lovely legs locked at the knees till you got twenty pages ain’t gonna get us nowhere, will it now? Not at this rate. Let’s not keep that bright, happy bird that is your tender young heart locked in a cage any longer. Set that bird free.

  Also—does this world really need another book about a fuckin’ duke? Let’s not force my foot into this particular shoe just cos of a cute title. ’Ow ’bout an earl, then? A viscount, even? Do wot you want of course, my queen. Just throwin’ it out there.

  But since we’re on the subject— ’Ow ’bout makin’ me a tad less perfect, yeah? Gimme a flaw or two—flaws bein’ sexy as fuck. Gimme somethin’ to overcome for the sake of the girl. Know wot I mean? No offence, but I’m bored out of my fuckin’ skull, and you been workin’ nonstop since you got here.

  No need to rush this, now. You’re still young. You’re new in town. That bloke seems up for it. Judgin’ by them raspberry ripples beneath that top of yours, I’d say you’re right up for it. Have a bit of fun, why not eh? Put that pen away, luv. Close this notebook. Get your flirt on, babe. Tits out and off you get for a quick shag, and report back tomorrow, yeah?

  Inspiration’s the name of the game.

  Cheers.

  Off you go, then.

  5

  FIONA

  Shut up, William.

  You can shut up too, nipples.

  I’m on my grind.

  I’m not distracted by the handsome guy. I’m distracted by the glory and wonder of New York City in general. Handsome Guy is just sitting over there staring at the bare wall directly behind me, I think. Repeatedly. With great interest and alarmingly intense blue eyes. And then jotting things down in his little Moleskine notebook.

  Plus, there’s a vent overhead that’s blowing cold air down my blouse, so—also not Handsome Guy–related.

  He looks familiar though, in the way that all exceptionally attractive people here seem to. Like you must recognize them from TV or magazines. He’s about four thousand times better looking than the Seth Rogan look-alikes I usually settle for, but that just makes me mad. I think. Okay, maybe I’m aroused. Mad and aroused. I’m maroused. But that’s just because the writing isn’t going well.

  Still—how dare he just sit there being handsome and staring in my general direction while I’m trying to write a romance novel. Who does he think he is?

  Ohhh, but he’s not wrong, my sweet William.

  I do feel my heart fluttering in its cage.

  I do feel the electric pulse of this city coursing through my veins and between my legs.

  That and caffeine and possibly marousal from being stared at by frowny Handsome Guy, but mostly the electric pulse of the city.

  But tonight’s not the night to get my flirt on. I need to nail this prologue and then get to Grand Central by five. That’s the plan. Prologues before bros. That’s my motto.

  His face is so fucking pretty though. Jesus.

  “Get you anything else?” the waitress asks, barely pausing by my table as she heads back behind the counter with a coffee decanter. She almost smiles at me this time, or maybe she’s just trying to dislodge something between her teeth with her tongue. It’s hard to tell.

  “Just another cup of this delicious coffee, please, Ellen.” I offer her my most irresistible West Coast smile. Ellen is around sixty and might be the only person on Earth who hates me, and this is totally unacceptable. I am determined to make this woman love me before I leave here tonight.

  “Right.” She refills my cup, sighing because I’m the asshole who ordered a slice of pie and a cup of coffee two hours ago.

  As she pours, I grin up at her. “You having a good night?”

  “Sure.” And off she goes again.

  Welp. At least she answered me this time. Last night I came in with my laptop, and she rolled her eyes as soon as she saw me. Tonight, I brought my notebook. Because people who write in notebooks aren’t just here for the free Wi-Fi. People with notebooks might order something other than coffee and a slice of pie over the course of two hours. I didn’t. Not tonight. But one day I might.

  “Thank you, Ellen! You’re the best!” I call out to her, perhaps a little too loudly. Handsome Guy glances over at me while sipping his strawberry milkshake. Now that is something you don’t see every day. A handsome, blue-eyed, golden-skinned, light-brown-haired grown man enjoying a milkshake by himself at a diner at nearly four in the morning. Although he doesn’t even seem to be enjoying it, really. It’s like he’s forcing himself to enjoy it.

  I wonder what his story is.

  Golden Boy. He looks like his name is…Parker. Or Blake. Parker Blakewood. Or Blake Parkington. To the manor born. He’s probably a lawyer. Not corporate. Intellectual property, maybe. Wears great suits during the day, but at night he puts on really expensive jeans and button-down shirts, drafts letters of trademark infringement while sipping really expensive Scotch and listening to smooth jazz. Doesn’t look like a player or anything, but he does look like he could get any woman he wanted if he wanted to. He also looks…melancholy. Like there’s some woman he wants but he can’t have.

  Maybe she liked milkshakes. Drinking milkshakes reminds him of her. It makes him happy and wistful at the same time.

  Oooh, I like that. I open up my notebook again because I can have William do that—not with a milkshake, obviously. I’m pretty sure they didn’t drink milkshakes in Regency England, but a particular kind of tea that
the heroine likes, perhaps? I need to research what else they drank back then. Shit, I wish I had my laptop with me.

  But also, fuck you, William.

  He’s not wrong, but fuck him.

  Sure, it would be great to feel inspired.

  I would absolutely love to have sex right now, but I just need to write.

  That’s what professional writers do—they just write. And I’m going to be a professional writer. Eventually.

  Except the whole reason I’m in New York is because life is short and it’s time for me to seize the day and all that. To follow my bliss. To live the life of passion that I had shunned for a life of practicality. I’m here for me and for my mom. And I know exactly what my mom would want me to be doing right now. She’d want me to do Frowny Handsome Guy.

  So fuck me. You’re right, William. About everything.

  My phone vibrates on the table, and I know before checking it that I got a text from my mom. The only other person who would text me at this hour is my roommate Jed, and he’s too busy trying to seduce someone in our apartment right now. I flip my phone over and see a notification from Sissy Walker. It’s after one in California, and I hate that she’s awake.

  SISSY: You asleep?

  ME: No. Why aren’t you?

  SISSY: You didn’t send me a cock pic today. What’s up with that?

  My mother is a folk artist. She owns a vegan restaurant, and she’s an energy healer, and she also makes folk art. She makes metal statues like the four-foot rooster named Goliath the Cock that she made me bring to New York so I can take pictures of him at different tourist attractions. A few years ago, if she had asked me to do this, I probably would have straight up told her to piss off. But I would do anything for her now.

  ME: I worked a double shift today. Didn’t have time to go anywhere else. But since I can’t sleep, I was planning to go to Grand Central in a bit. Will pick up cock on the way.