The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

  …

  Veronica must die.

  …

  I can barely hear anything because of all the cartoon fire shooting out of my ears, but I do notice, in my peripheral vision, that Emmett is stroking his chin in contemplation while regarding Veronica. If he likes to look at her, fine. Whatever. It feels like my face is melting right now, so I’m sure I’m not going to be much to look at from now on.

  He clears his throat and then says in a very steady voice, “I think now would be a good time to remind everyone that the goal here is constructive criticism. It’s fine to have an opinion—we all do—but the point of a creative writing workshop is to learn how to give and receive constructive criticism. Meaning criticism of the work that will actually prove helpful to the writer…despite the genre or subgenre.”

  Wow. I almost sort of liked him too for a second there.

  And now, instead of dropping out or flinging myself from the window, I am determined to remain in this class and to continue writing Regency romance—at best because I will prove to these assholes that romance novels are a respectable form of storytelling and at worst because I want to piss everyone off by being defiant and awesome.

  When my final classmate has finished his attempt at constructive criticism, Emmett Ford stares at his laptop screen—at my assignment, I assume—and says in a clipped tone, “I don’t have anything to add to what’s already been said.” And then he sings the praises of the assignment written by the middle-aged lady to the right of me.

  I’m happy for her. I really am. It must feel great to be the recipient of that kind of recognition from such a frowny-face, shiny-blue-eyed hack author.

  19

  EMMETT

  * Three weeks later *

  I don’t need to be in therapy. But if I were, I’m sure I would just be babbling on, ad nauseam, about how frustrated I am right now. The therapist would then tell me I had convinced myself that I’d never find love again and so I somehow managed to find someone I might be able to love, and after getting a cruel glimpse of what it would be like to fall in love again, I created a situation that would make it impossible for me to have her. Not yet, anyway. And by the time I am no longer strongly discouraged from engaging in any manner of loving behavior with her, she will either despise me or be totally indifferent because she’ll be in a relationship with some asshole her own age whom she is now free to have sex with, like Beowulf.

  Fucking pretentious little shit. I happen to think that Fiona is a very smart woman. Surely she wouldn’t be dumb enough to fall for that little shit’s moves—if she hasn’t already. But if she does—none of my business. And I certainly can’t fault that little shit for trying. I could do everything within my power to ensure his failure as an author…but I’m not going to do that. Because he’s such a pretentious little shit writer, he’ll be doing that all on his own. I have no idea what he’s even doing in the master’s program.

  Anyway. Congratulations to me for confirming my belief that I will never love again. I was right. And it’s fine.

  I’ve gotten through the first month of classes. I’ve written thirty thousand words of my novel. Jack Irons gets to say and do every single thing to Catalina that I can’t say or do to Fiona. So good for fucking him.

  I just wish I could let Fiona read my manuscript, but even that might be inappropriate. Not that she’d want to read it. She probably hates my writing more than she hates me. But she’d be happy to know just how much she’s influenced me. If I could tell her.

  Instead, I will be pissing her off even more when she knocks on my office door in a few minutes.

  I don’t even know if I’m pissing her off anymore, actually. I think she is now amused by me. And that pisses me off. And turns me on. Which further pisses me off. So, I’m even colder to her, and that just makes her sass it up in class like it’s all a big secret joke to her. She keeps smirking and raising her hand to ask a question whenever I’m on a rant about story structure or past versus present-tense first-person POV, and she keeps calling me Professor Ford. “Sorry—can I ask a question, Professor Ford?”

  Would the question be: “Is your dick getting harder right now, Professor?” The answer is: Ask me again in May, when classes have ended. I will tell you everything you need to know about how hard you make me, Miss Walker. I will tell you about my rock-hard martyred cock and the lust in my heart and every fucking organ. I swear to God even my liver is obsessed with you. Every gesture, every smirk, every word you utter when I’m around goes straight to my balls and remains stored there until I get home, and then it’s all released. I’m a fucking beast, and I release you and then I feel sane again, for a little while. I will tell you exactly what happens to my brain and my body when you open that soft, glossy pink smart mouth of yours. I will tell you every filthy thing I have fantasized about doing to that mouth and every single part of you.

  If that doesn’t scare you off, then I will proceed to do every one of those things to you, Fiona. Achingly slow and tense at first, to torture you like you’ve tortured me. And then hard and fast because I won’t torture myself any longer. It will be the sweetest relief and the most agonizing pain all at once because no matter how deep I drill into you, I will never actually be a part of you. We’ll always be two separate, unknowable people who are drawn together and then separated, again and again.

  But I will kiss you and fuck you until we both forget this terrible truth. I will kiss you and fuck you until there are no memories, feelings, no words left. Only sweat and skin that feels sunburned and raw from endless friction. Only breaths that might never be caught. Only hearts that have been beating so fast for another person that they’ve emptied out and are ready to be filled again by that same person—by love, if that’s the story we want to tell each other.

  But that day in May might never come, and this is not a story we can tell ourselves or each other or anyone else right now, not with the two of us as hero and heroine.

  She emailed yesterday to request a short meeting with me after today’s class—if I can “spare a few delightful minutes.” She kept the email brief and to the point. She would like to discuss her work in progress with me. I already know that it’s not the work in progress she wants to discuss with me so much as my inability to praise her work in progress. And the fact that I rarely make eye contact with her or speak to her directly.

  Even if I were in therapy, no one would be able to convince me that I’m not doing that for her own good. Yes, it’s easier for me to not look at her in class. Yes, it’s less of a risk to not speak to her directly. But she’s the one who’s paying all the tuition. She’s the one who moved across the country on her own. She’s the one who needs to move on and date some little shit who isn’t me. I’ll be fine. I’ve already had the privilege of knowing the love of my life. I’ve got my career. I’ve got more money than I’ll ever need. I’ve got a deadline to keep me warm at night.

  Maybe if she would stop writing a fucking romance novel it would be easier for me to praise her. Maybe it would be easier for both of us if she were a little less talented and clever and passionate and sweet and funny and gorgeous. Maybe if she’d stop smelling so fucking amazing, I could take a deep breath in her presence and calm the fuck down.

  I shouldn’t have agreed to this meeting.

  Three soft but somehow obnoxious and determined raps at the door interrupt my totally rational thought process.

  “Come in.” Christ, I sound like I just jerked off.

  The door opens partway, and Fiona’s smirky beautiful face pokes through. “Is now a good time?” ‘Because it sounds like you just jerked off,’ is what that smirky beautiful face is saying.

  “Now is a fine time.” I comb my fingers through my hair and lean back in my shitty desk chair behind my shitty desk. “Close the door behind yourself.”

  Her expression tells me it’s surprising to her that I’d want her to close the door when she’s in here alone with me. But she’ll see that there’s no reason she or
anyone else should have cause for concern. There’s a slender window in the door, like in every other door in every building on campus. There will be nothing to see. I will diffuse her anger so quickly she won’t know what hit her.

  “How are your chakras doing?”

  She struggles to refrain from smiling. “Most of them could use a few adjustments. I don’t think I need to ask how yours are doing.”

  “Correct. But as a whole, I’m doing well. Have a seat.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to stand. I won’t take much of your time.” She stays near the door, crossing her arms in front of her chest. Attempting to cover up her telltale nipples, I bet.

  “Take as much of my time as you need. As long as you don’t need more than fifteen minutes.”

  She snorts and rolls her eyes. It’s cute. And aggravating. And it has no effect on me.

  She’s about to open her mouth to unleash some prepared speech on me, but I interrupt her by saying, “Take any interesting cock pics lately?”

  She catches her breath and then huffs. “Yeah, actually. I got some really pretty pictures of him in Central Park with the fall colors.”

  Who the fuck did you go to Central Park with to see the fall colors?

  “That’s great. You should head over to Vermont to go apple picking this season if you get the chance. It can be a nice little weekend vacay, I hear.”

  She frowns at me. “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Welcome.”

  She sighs and brushes her bangs out of her eyes. They’ve grown longer since I met her. Now she’s fussing with her bangs and fidgeting, and she’s so uncomfortable and nervous it’s adorable—but it has no effect on me. “So, I just wanted to ask you if you really disapprove of historical romance, or the entire genre of romance in general, or if it’s just my writing that you dislike so vehemently.”

  “I don’t disapprove of either the subgenre or the genre. There’s obviously a huge audience for it, and a lot of very talented authors write romance novels.” I get up and walk around to the front of my desk, casually leaning against it. This makes her even more uncomfortable, which pleases me. “It’s just that I’ve read your contemporary American fiction short stories, as I said, and they’re very good.”

  “I can’t make a living writing contemporary American fiction short stories.”

  “You can if you also write a best-selling contemporary American fiction novel.”

  She takes a step forward, and it seems as though she wants to lunge at me. “I don’t want to do that, and besides…what are the chances of that happening? You write genre fiction, so I don’t see how you can be so judgmental about any other genre.”

  I take a step forward too. “Fair enough. If you’re comfortable rewriting the past for the sake of commerce and entertainment, then by all means do it.”

  “I don’t think of myself as rewriting the past—I’m rewriting my own future.”

  I step closer to her. She steps back, and I back her all the way up to the door so she’s blocking the window. I can’t help myself. “That’s a pretty sentence. You should use it in your book.”

  “Thanks for finally giving me some constructive criticism.”

  “Welcome.” My face is inches away from hers, and I can see her lower lip trembling and smell the coffee and mint on her breath, and I would pull back if I got any sense that this made her truly uncomfortable, but she raises her chin in defiance. “Anything else you’d like to discuss with me, Miss Walker?”

  “I would really love it if you wouldn’t be so rude to me in class.”

  “I don’t think I’m rude to you. I’m just not as nice to you as you’d like me to be.”

  “I don’t understand why you can’t be nice to me—it’s not my fault I’m in your class. I tried to get out of it.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Then what else can I do, Emmett?”

  “Don’t call me Emmett.”

  “Veronica calls you Emmett.”

  “Veronica doesn’t need a spanking.”

  She gasps. There’s fire in those eyes and I swear I can feel the heat from between her legs, and I want to pin her to the door and kiss her, but I can’t. I’ve managed to stop kissing her once, but I’ll never be able to stop kissing her again, not if I start now. Not with this kind of buildup. I retreat behind my desk.

  “You need to leave. Now.”

  That lower lip is quivering even more now and her beautiful brown eyes are tearing up, and I know I went too far.

  Shit.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude, Fiona.”

  This is where any other woman would say something pithy, drop the mic, and leave my office. But Fiona isn’t like any other woman. She stomps over and slaps her hands down on the edge of my desk. “I’ve been a waitress for most of my life, and a lot of assholes have been rude to me and I know they aren’t sorry even when they say they are. I don’t know what your story is. I don’t know if you’re rude to other people or if it’s just me, but you need to figure out a way to stop being a dick to me. I know I shouldn’t be saying dick to my prof, but I also know my prof shouldn’t be this big of a dick to me. I won’t be coming to your office again. I will continue to write Regency romance novels, and I won’t be discouraged by you or anyone else, no matter how moody and snobby you are.” She pushes herself away from the desk and mutters, “I can’t believe I actually liked you.”

  And now she storms out of my office, leaving the door open and taking all the oxygen with her.

  20

  EMMETT

  I’m at my sister’s penthouse to babysit Bettina, and I’m grateful to have something to do now besides relive yesterday’s brief, disastrous meeting with Fiona. It’s also just good to see two people in New York who are obligated to love me no matter what. Celeste is wearing a nice dress and coat, scurrying around trying to find the right pair of shoes so she can meet her husband for drinks with some important clients.

  “I’m not sure when we’ll be back. Bettina’s in bed. School night, obviously, so she needs to go to sleep, but I promised you’d tell her a story.”

  “Of course I will.”

  She squeezes my arm while passing me on the way to the closet in the front hall.

  “Am I a rude person?”

  “Yes.”

  “You could have at least paused for three seconds while pretending to think about it.”

  “You could at least pretend to not be a moody rude asshole sometimes.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She finds the shoes she’s looking for and slips them on. “Are you okay? Are the classes going well? Is it good for you? Are you inspired, at least? How’s the novel coming along?”

  I can only rub my forehead and nod in response to all those questions, and she needs to leave now anyway.

  “Well, I think Dad’s really happy you took the job. And Mom’s happy that he’s happy.”

  “Good to know.”

  “We’ll talk when I get home. Do not let her get up, and don’t let her eat anything with sugar in it. Shit, I’m late.”

  “Will you get out of here, then?”

  “Shit. Where’s my purse?”

  “In your hand.”

  “Right. Text you when we’re on our way back. Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  Christ, it’s good to hear those words and it’s good to say them.

  I feel a little better now, and I know I’m about to feel a lot better as soon as I see my favorite person. I walk down the hall to Bettina’s room, making sure she can hear my footsteps on the hardwood floors. Her door’s wide open, and when I stop inside the doorway, I find her standing on her bed facing me, ramrod straight, like Hannibal Lecter waiting for Clarice Starling. In unicorn pajamas.

  “Yayyyyyy!!!” She starts jumping up and down on the mattress. “You’re here! You’re here! You’re here!”

  Here is the only person on Earth who is ever this happy to see me. She’s grown since the last time I saw her
, over a month ago. It makes my heart hurt and feel better at the same time.

  “Hey, Betts.”

  When I’m two feet away from the bed, she leaps into the air and I catch her. “Let’s watch Frozen!”

  “Nope. School night. You need to go to sleep.”

  “Boooo! It’s not fair!”

  “I know. Sucks to be you.”

  “It does! It’s so hard.” I place her back down on the bed, and she jabs at my chest with her tiny index finger. “You were supposed to come see me before school started, and you did not!”

  “I’m sorry about that. I got really busy. I got a new job. Did your mom tell you?”

  “Yes. Teaching like Grandpa used to.”

  “Yeah.”

  She twists her lips to one side. “You’re not very good at it.”

  “No, I’m not. Who told you?”

  “Nobody.” She shrugs. “I can just tell. You don’t smile enough. I like teachers who smile a lot. With their eyes and their teeth.”

  “You mean like this?” I make a weird scary clown face.

  She frowns at me. “No. Don’t do that.”

  “Okay. Get under the covers.”

  “You are telling me a story.”

  “I know.”

  This is what we do. When she was old enough to understand that I write stories for a living, like her grandpa, she started insisting that I make up stories for her instead of reading them to her at night. It’s some of my best work, and I’ve never written it down.

  I sit cross-legged on the rug by her bed. This is the only instance in life wherein I will ever sit cross-legged–when I’m telling my niece a bedtime story. It gets harder to sit this way every year, but I’ll keep doing it until she gets too old for bedtime stories or when her parents finally decide to put a grown-up chair in this room.

  “Okay, start,” she orders, once she’s made herself comfortable.