The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

  My mom’s been working in her studio ever since we finished dessert. After patting me on the shoulder and telling me he’d heard from his friend Tom that I’ve been doing a good job at teaching, my father told me that he was proud of me and then disappeared to his study to write. It was the best Christmas gift he’d given me in years.

  “On my way.” I close my laptop and stand up.

  My sister takes my hand. We’ve never been a touchy-feely kind of family, aside from Bettina, so it startles me. “She’s worried because you seem sad. I am too. I thought you were getting better for a while there.”

  “Yeah. I did too.” I squeeze her hand and let go.

  Bettina is sitting up in bed, wearing the pajamas I gave her and writing in the journal I had custom made for her. Engraved on the cover is a tree with a hole in its trunk, an envelope peeking out of the hole, and butterflies flying around it. I told her it’s for her magic secret letters. Or her story about people who write magic secret letters. Whatever she wants.

  I love watching her write. The way she holds her pencil and concentrates on how she forms every single word on the page. If there was ever a time that I took that much care with my writing, I don’t remember it. I suddenly remember watching Fiona writing in her notebook that first night I saw her at the diner, and some image of her as a little girl comes to me. Or maybe it’s Fiona’s daughter. That wistful ache I used to feel whenever I was around my niece, the one that was attached to Sophie and the fact that we’d never had kids—I’m feeling it about Fiona now.

  Which is insane.

  I barely know her.

  “I’m writing a letter to yooouuuu,” Bettina sings without looking up from the journal.

  “To me? Do I get to read it?”

  “Yes.” She sighs and blows at the strands of hair that have fallen in front of her face. “But then you have to write one to me. In here. Before I go to sleep.”

  “That’s a lot of pressure.” I take a seat on the edge of the bed, by her feet.

  “Yeah. Deal with it.” She signs her name on the page, although her signature is in bubble letters. “Here.” She hands me the journal and the pencil.

  “Can’t you read it to me?”

  She rolls her eyes, very dramatically. “Fine.” She holds out her hands, and I place the journal back in them. She shifts around on her bum and clears her throat, looking very serious. My sister took her to see me do a reading at a bookstore last year, and she loves to imitate me. “Dear Uncle Emmett… Hi. It’s me. Your favorite niece. Bettina! I think you are sad. I do not want you to be. Nobody should be sad on Christmas. Not even you. That part isn’t really a secret. Not everything has to be a secret, you know? Even things that make you sad. Sometimes when you tell people about things that make you sad, they don’t make you feel sad anymore. It’s magic! You don’t even have to say the things out loud. You can just write them in here. I can keep the words for you. Even if I don’t understand them. You can give them to me. I promise not to tell anyone if you don’t want me to. But if you want me to, I will. Love, from your favorite niece. Bettina.”

  …

  I’m not crying.

  …

  But I am ready to write about the things that make me sad about Sophie.

  I’m not going to write in here about the things I’ve been feeling about Fiona yet because I’m not ready to let them go.

  I take the journal from Bettina and kiss her on the forehead. “You will always be my favorite.”

  “I know.”

  31

  FIONA

  What the fuck am I doing in Cold Spring, New York? With my cock? In the rain?

  First my parents cancel Christmas on me because they won a last-minute Alaska cruise package.

  Then I can’t get any shifts at the restaurant because I had asked for the time off.

  Then I decide to take Beowulf up on his offer to join the writers’ retreat at his family’s place upstate. The place “with six beds.” One would assume that because he mentioned six beds, he meant there would be at least six people there. He did not. He only invited me.

  It was awkward.

  I left about ten minutes after he finally told me that no one else was coming.

  And I had been so excited about getting shots of Goliath around this cute little town, but it’s raining and I didn’t want to wait at Beowulf’s place for a cab, so I’m walking back to the train station with a four-foot metal cock in my arms. I don’t even know when the next train back to New York is because I haven’t checked on my phone.

  Everything has been terrible ever since Emmett booted me out of his office.

  I blame Emmett Ford for Christmas being cancelled. I blame him for me being stuck in New York for the holidays without even being able to make any extra money. I blame him for Beowulf being a creep.

  I have also missed him so, so much, and that is obviously all his fault too.

  I wonder what horrible thing will happen to me next.

  I can’t wait to hate Emmett even more for it.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a black BMW slowing down as it drives in my direction. It’s a sleepy town on December 26th, so I guess that’s not weird. Beowulf drives a Prius, so I’m pretty sure it’s not him. It’s a little weird that the BMW pulls over just ahead of me. And that the passenger-side window rolls down.

  “Fiona.” I hear a man’s voice over the rain. It’s Emmett’s voice. “Fiona!”

  Whaaaat is happening?

  I veer over to the farthest edge of the sidewalk while also pausing to look into the car. It’s Emmett. Emmett is driving the car. Emmett’s grumpy face is scowling at me from the driver’s seat.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands.

  “I’m going to the train station. What are you doing here?”

  He shakes his head. “Get in.” He leans over to push the passenger-side door open. I don’t move. “Get in, Fiona.”

  I don’t like being ordered around but I also like that he’s ordering me to get in his car, and it’s exasperating. It’s cold and raining and the sun is going down and my arms are getting tired. So I start to place Goliath on the floor in front of the passenger seat.

  “Put the cock in the back seat.” He shakes his head.

  Again—I do not like being told what to do. And again, I am annoyingly aroused by his tone. I toss my backpack into the back seat and sit Goliath up and put the seat belt around him—in the front seat. Then I shut the passenger door and get into the back seat with my backpack. Take that, bossypants.

  He stares at me through the rearview mirror. “Good. I was going to ask you to get into the back seat, but I figured you’d think that was rude. Less likely anyone will see you back there.”

  I glare at his reflection as I remove the hood of my padded coat from my head and let the water drip onto his leather seats. “How did you even recognize me?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know the answer.

  He glances over at Goliath in the front seat. He doesn’t even roll his eyes at me. He’s totally stoic. He doesn’t drive. “Fiona. Why are you here, and why are you walking to the train station in the rain? With Goliath?”

  “What the hell are you doing in Cold Spring?”

  “I’m going to my cabin. I was in Connecticut. I just bought groceries, and now I’m going to my cabin to write for a few days.”

  “Oh!”

  “And you? Why aren’t you in California?”

  “My parents won an Alaska cruise. I decided to go to Beowulf’s writers’ retreat, but…” I can’t decide if I should tell Emmett about it or not. Beowulf might have him as a prof next semester, I have no idea.

  “But?”

  “There was no one else there, okay? He only invited me.”

  The anger in Emmett’s eyes is strangely satisfying. He’s gripping the steering wheel so tight. “So you left? You were going home by yourself? In the rain?”

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. “He offered to drive me, but
I didn’t want him to.” I pull my phone out from my coat pocket. “I should check the train schedule.”

  “Don’t bother,” he says as he pulls out into the street. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Where?”

  “To my cabin.”

  I need a moment to let this sink in. “You’re taking me to your cabin?”

  “Did you have any other plans?”

  “I was planning to write and be mad at you.”

  “Good. You’ll be able to do both of those things at my cabin.” He shakes his head again. “I can’t believe that little prick. Did he try anything?”

  “No. I mean, other than squeezing my arm like he usually does.”

  I can see from looking at the back of Emmett’s ear that he’s clenching his jaw, and it makes me obscenely happy. “What a little shit.”

  I look out the window, trying to hold my tongue. I manage to do that for about thirty seconds. “I didn’t want to see you.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “This doesn’t change anything,” I state very convincingly, even though I’m pretty sure this means Emmett and I are soul mates and the universe clearly wants us to be together.

  “I know.”

  “Are there two beds at this cabin of yours?”

  “Yes. Two bedrooms. Two and a half bathrooms. A study. A deck. Wood-burning fireplace. Plenty of space. Good water pressure. High-speed internet. Very private.”

  I can’t help but think of that chapter he sent me, from The Departure. Jack and Catalina went to a cabin and finally made love there. I inhale and accidentally release a loud sigh.

  But that was fiction.

  The reality is that Emmett doesn’t want to risk being with me until May, and I can’t risk getting my heart broken every single time I see him until then. I need to make that clear to him.

  What I say is: “I’m hungry.”

  “Good thing I bought a lot of food.”

  “I’ll pay you for what I eat.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  “I’ll make dinner, then.”

  “Okay.” He turns down a side street. “I can’t believe you went to Beowulf’s place.”

  “I needed to keep busy, okay? I couldn’t get any shifts at work and my roommates were gone, and I needed to…” I needed to keep busy so I wouldn’t think about you all the time. “I needed to work on my novel, and I wanted to see upstate New York.”

  “Where’s his house?”

  “In the other direction from the one you’re driving in right now.”

  We don’t say anything for a couple of minutes. He turns on the stereo, and Sinatra is singing “The Way You Look Tonight.” He glances up into the rearview mirror at me. “That’s the radio, by the way.”

  “Not like I expected you to listen to that song and longingly think of me,” is what I say. But oh my God oh my God oh my God, Universe! What are you trying to tell us?!

  The car slows, and he signals, turning onto a driveway. The driveway of a colonial-style house. Two stories, with a newer addition built onto one side. There’s a gate and a charming garden out front. “Why are you stopping here?”

  “This is my cabin.” He parks the car.

  “This is a house. This is the size of my parents’ house.”

  “I call it my cabin.”

  “Oh. I was expecting something a little more rustic.”

  “As always, sorry to disappoint you.”

  He gets out to open the front door of the house, and I see him turning off the security system, turning on some lights. I get out, slip my backpack on, and get Goliath out of the front seat.

  He comes back out to retrieve things from the trunk. “Go on in,” he says. “Make yourself at home.”

  “I’ll help you carry stuff inside.”

  “I got it. Go on in.”

  I carry Goliath through the front door.

  Holy shit.

  Beautiful oak hardwood floors. Open design plan. Vaulted ceilings with skylights and exposed beams. This colonial has been remodeled on the inside, and it’s wonderful.

  Emmett drops a big duffel bag and leather messenger bag inside the front door and then goes back out again.

  I place Goliath on the floor in the living room and wander around. Tasteful furniture. Not fancy, but it’s all comfortable and modern. I don’t see any bookshelves, but there are stacks of books everywhere. Some of the books are children’s books. It smells like incense, which is very unexpected. There are so many sliding glass doors to a big patio out back. This place must be so pretty during the day with the light streaming in.

  He comes back inside, shuts the front door. Brings the bags of groceries to the huge open kitchen and unloads some things into the fridge, including beer. He places a bottle of wine and a bottle of bourbon on the counter and then removes his coat and goes back to the front entrance to hang it up on a coat rack.

  This is the cleanest house I have ever been in. And so well furnished. “Does someone else live here?”

  He walks right over to me. “Nope.”

  I take a step back when he reaches out to me. He gives me a look, like Come on. Get over yourself. “I’ll hang up your coat,” he offers calmly.

  “Oh.” I let my backpack slip from my shoulders. He takes the backpack and then helps me off with my big, wet, puffy coat. The tips of his fingers graze my shoulders—over my Henley shirt—and it makes me shiver.

  “Guess I should turn up the heat,” he muses.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty chilly.” It’s totally not cold in this house, but he needs to get over himself too.

  He subtly glances down at my two telltale physical signs of being chilly and nods. “I’ll turn up the heat, then.” He takes my backpack over to the foot of the stairs and hangs up my coat on the coat rack. Then he adjusts the thermostat a tiny bit, just to play out this little ruse. “I let family and friends use this place sometimes,” he finally explains. “But I come up here more in the summer and fall. Usually. Not this year. My neighbor’s cleaning lady takes care of it all year round.”

  I can’t stop watching him as he walks around. I’ve never seen him in private, in his own place before. The way he moves with ease, it makes him even more attractive. It makes my internal screaming even louder. He comes back over near where I’m standing and casually flips a switch to turn on some porch lights. I have a look through the glass doors at the back of the house. There’s a deck and grass and trees, so many trees. “Is that a pool?”

  “Yeah. Plunge pool.”

  “Baller.” I have literally never said the word baller out loud before in my life, but it’s the only thing I could think to say, other than the thing that I have been thinking, which is, Holy shit I want to live here.

  “It’s not heated though. And this isn’t waterfront property. More private, that way.”

  “Sure.”

  He places ingredients for a salad on the counter near the double sink and then looks around. “I’ll show you the guest room,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him up the staircase.

  We both reach down to pick up my backpack, his hand on mine around a shoulder strap. Neither of us pulls away. I can feel his eyes on me, but I can’t look at him.

  “I got it,” he says in a hushed voice.

  I slip my hand out from under his. “Thank you.”

  He heads up the stairs, and it’s not my fault that his butt is directly in my eyeline. That’s just how it goes when you’re walking up the stairs behind someone. I clear my throat. “So when was the last time you came? Here? The last time you came up here? To the cabin?”

  “Back in July, I guess. Been a while.”

  I wonder if he’s ever brought other women here. I wonder if he and Sophie used to come here. I wonder how he can seem so casual about the fact that I’m here with him now.

  There’s a narrow hallway on the second floor. He opens the door to th
e room nearest the stairs and turns on the overhead light. It’s a perfect-sized room with a queen-size bed that’s covered in cozy bedding. I like it so much I want to cry.

  Emmett carefully places my backpack on the armchair then walks out and opens another door, across the hall. “This can be your bathroom.”

  I skip over to it. I was trying to act cool, but fuck it. I’m so happy to be here, I’m skipping. And now I really am going to cry because there’s a claw-foot tub in the huge walk-in shower.

  “The master bathroom has a steam shower, if you want to use that.”

  A tiny high-pitched sound escapes my lips. I think I just meowed like a kitten. “Cool.”

  “I’m actually going to take a shower,” he offers calmly. “I didn’t get a chance to when I was at my parents’ house.”

  “Cool. Cool. I’ll go down and make dinner.”

  “There’s salad and pasta,” he says. “Go ahead and open up the wine, if you want to.”

  “I will. Cool.”

  “Cool.” He half smirks at me and then goes down the hall to what I assume is the master bedroom.

  When I’ve taken a few steps down the stairs, he says, “Fiona.”

  I turn back to him. “Yeah?”

  “Belated merry Christmas.”

  “Yeah. You too.”

  He nods, pulling his sweater off over his head as he goes into his bedroom. I get a glimpse of his toned torso and a hint of light-brown chest hair. If this were his novel, I’d follow him in there when he’s taking a shower.

  I really, really want to see him naked.

  But this is reality.

  So I continue down the stairs to make dinner while the man I’m most attracted to in the world is naked in the shower on the floor above me.

  32

  EMMETT

  In a perfect world, naked Fiona Walker would have joined me in my steam shower.

  In an Emmett Ford book, she would have been fully clothed, waiting to be slowly undressed in the bedroom.