The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

  He loves me. He said so in a text. I am low-key thrilled about this and acting super chill.

  “I luff you!” I stage whisper into his ear while kissing him all over his face.

  “You smell like a winery,” he says, chuckling. “I lerv you too.”

  “You looove me, you looooooove me.”

  “Shhhh. Let’s keep that on the DL for now.”

  “I have no idea what ‘DL’ means because I’m not forty.”

  He pulls away from me and gives me a smack on the butt. I can’t feel it through the coat, but I can still feel it. “It means keep your voice down and listen. I have to talk to you about something really important, and I need you to focus.” He takes my hand and leads me down the steps.

  I nod my head vehemently, but the only thing I can focus on is his hand and my hand and oh my God, we’re holding hands in public! Yes, it’s the middle of the night and no one else is around, but this counts as being in public. I am so glad I’m sober enough to enjoy this.

  “You’re just thinking about the fact that I’m holding your hand in public, aren’t you?”

  “You don’ know me.”

  And then he starts telling me things that sober me up for real.

  Veronica threatened him.

  He went to Connecticut to talk to his father.

  He wants to come clean about us to the department chair before Veronica gets the chance to talk to him.

  He is willing to face whatever reprimand or sanctions Tom Delancey considers appropriate because he wants to be with me.

  He. Wants. To. Be. With. Me.

  I stop in my tracks and pull him back to face me. I don’t even know what street we’re on right now, and I don’t care. This is real and we’re at the good part and I am in it with him. I place my cold hands on either side of his stupidly handsome face and say, “I will go with you when you talk to Delancey.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I will sign an affidavit acknowledging that this is a consensual relationship and that you are an exceptionally thoughtful and magnificent lover.”

  “Well, I would like to have that in writing.”

  “I will have a plaque made for you.”

  He puts his big cold hands on either side of my face too. “I just want to make sure you understand that there will be repercussions for you too. Not on your transcript, but people will talk. Other students will be jealous or derisive or skeptical—who knows.”

  “Let ’em. Fuck ’em.” I let go of him and bounce around, punching the air. “I’m from California. I’m tough. Ain’t nobody better mess with me, or I’ll smile at them and be extra friendly.”

  He shakes his head at me, and the warmth in his eyes heals every part of me that I didn’t even know needed healing. “I love you so much it actually hurts,” he whispers, absentmindedly touching his hand to his heart. Then he grabs my face and kisses me.

  Emmett was very adamant about me not having to join him in the meeting with Tom Delancey, but he is also very aware that I’m a sassy little turd, so he was not surprised to see me waiting outside of Delancey’s office when he got here. I am still sitting outside Delancey’s office, in the waiting area, and Emmett has been in there for half an hour now. It’s one forty-five. I am so nervous for him. And also still a little drunk maybe.

  But I definitely don’t smell like a winery anymore.

  I am pretty sure I don’t smell like a winery anymore.

  I’m sitting here on a faux-leather sofa, with my ankles crossed and my hands clasped together in my lap, trying to look like a president’s wife. I’d like to think I’m doing a Jackie Kennedy impersonation, but I feel more like Richard Nixon’s wife at the moment. Not that Fionagate is a bad thing. I have zero regrets about what he did to me in that office, and I will stand by my man forever.

  Unless he pisses me off again. But I will always get over it, eventually.

  I am so happy that I decided to come to Delancey’s office and that Emmett made me wait outside, because I get to see the look on Veronica’s horrible face when she walks in and sees me.

  Her perfectly manicured hands ball up into fists. “What are you doing here?”

  “Oh hello. I’m here waiting for Emmett. He’s talking to Professor Delancey right now. About us.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Oh, you’re an ‘us,’ are you?”

  I flash her a megawatt smile. “Yes. We are.”

  The door to the chair’s office opens, and Emmett walks out, heading straight toward me. Tom Delancey waves the receptionist over and mutters something then goes back inside his office, shutting the door.

  “Are you Veronica?” the receptionist asks.

  “Yes. I have a two o’clock appointment with Professor Delancey.”

  “That appointment has been canceled. Thank you!”

  I stand up, and hopefully nobody notices that I lose my balance a little because my foot’s asleep. It is not easy to sit with your legs crossed at the ankles. But it is exceedingly easy to slip my hand into Emmett’s when he joins me in the waiting area. He gives it a little squeeze. He is frowning, but in a hot way.

  Not like Veronica, who is frowning in a b-face way.

  “Ready to go?” he asks me.

  “If you are.”

  He nods once and then looks Veronica straight in the eye as we walk past her. “Veronica.”

  “Bridgerton is awesome, by the way,” I add. Because boom. Take that, b-face.

  We don’t say anything to each other until we’re outside the building. Beowulf just happens to be entering the building just as we’re leaving it. He stares at our joined hands and wrinkles his brow at us.

  He can go fuck himself.

  It’s raining, so I pull the umbrella out of my bag and open it up. Emmett takes it from me, holding it over both of our heads. I lean into him and rub his arm. “What happened?”

  He lowers his voice and says, “There will be a reprimand on my performance review. So, it’s on the record and that could make things more difficult if I ever decide I want to teach again—anywhere else. He isn’t making me drop a class, but he won’t be offering me another term after this one’s over.”

  “Were you hoping to teach again?”

  “Not next year, that’s for sure. But I actually kind of like it, so I had been thinking maybe one day I’d want to teach again. We’ll see.”

  “I’m sorry, Emmett.”

  “You don’t have to apologize for anything. None of this is your fault.” He stops on the sidewalk, turning so we can face each other. “I mean, it is your fault for being so hot and lovable. But I don’t blame you for it. I just hope people like Veronica aren’t total assholes to you about this.”

  “Well, I’m pretty good at dealing with assholes now.”

  He lowers the umbrella so no one can see us kissing under it.

  Let the rain come down on us. I don’t care.

  I am pure fucking sunshine, and Emmett’s kiss is the rainbow and the sexy, grumpy pot of gold at the end of it.

  43

  EMMETT

  * May. Finally. *

  No more classes, no more books. No more students’ dirty looks.

  We made it through my final semester at UNY. We got through five months of on-campus discretion. In public, Fiona handled five months of the occasional muttered snarky comment from classmates with the grace and strength of a politician’s wife. In bed, she took her frustrations out on me—as requested. In her writing, the fallout from Veronica’s gossip about our relationship fueled the conflict in her telling of William and Lucy’s story.

  It’s difficult to say if art imitates life or vice versa, or if one simply inspires the other.

  We have celebrated our last day of classes by spending the night together out and about. We watched the sunrise at Pier 35 and then came to Grand Central to take the train to my parents’ house. My whole family already loves Fiona, and they will all be there for lunch to celebrate with us.

  The
y don’t know it yet, but we’re going to have a lot to celebrate…

  We don’t have to board the train for well over an hour, so I suggest we swing by the Whispering Gallery. We walk hand-in-hand, but once we get to the ramp from the Main Concourse, she skips ahead to one of the corners.

  She is twenty-six now but still so fucking young.

  I’m thirty-six now, and I feel a lot younger than I did before I met her.

  The terminal is more crowded than it was that first time we came here together, but in true New York fashion—no one pays attention to us.

  As soon as I’m in my corner, I hear Fiona whisper, “When I first met you, at the diner, it was love at first sight. For my nipples.”

  “When I first saw your nipples through your shirt at the diner, it was love at first sight.”

  “You were so grumpy, though.”

  “Well, I had writer’s block. And then I cockblocked myself by becoming your instructor. And then your nipples kept taunting me in class. I think I was pretty upbeat, considering.”

  “You’re pretty tolerable now.”

  “Thanks. So are you. I can’t wait to fuck you when we get back to my place.”

  “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me all morning.”

  “I’m pacing myself—be patient.”

  I check my watch. There’s a homeless guy who always stands outside Grand Central with his little boombox. Yesterday, I gave him a hundred bucks and an old Frank Sinatra tape, with instructions to show up here this morning—well aware there was a good chance he wouldn’t. But he does. He walks in through the entrance at 42nd Street, boombox hanging around his neck. He stands near the entrance and waits for me to give him a signal.

  “Fiona…” I say into the corner as I reach into my pocket.

  “Yes, Emmett?”

  “I’ve wanted to ask you this for a while, but I didn’t want to distract you from your schoolwork. You’ve been spending so much time at my place lately, and I think you should move in with me.”

  I hear her little gasp. “You do?”

  “Yes. As my fiancée. Will you marry me?” I turn around to face her, from thirty feet away, holding up the ring box that’s been burning a hole in my inside jacket pocket since last night.

  That’s the homeless man’s cue. He presses play on his boombox, and “The Way You Look Tonight” starts blaring from it.

  Fiona spins around, both hands covering her mouth.

  We meet in the middle of the concourse. She has teared up, and she’s nervously fiddling with her bangs to make sure they’re in place. She is so beautiful, and my heart still hurts sometimes when I look at her.

  “Will you?”

  “Yes, I’ll marry you, Emmett.”

  I slide the diamond ring onto her trembling finger.

  “I love you.”

  “Good. I love you too.” I give her a quick kiss, slip the empty box back into my pocket, take one of her hands in mine, and place my other hand on her waist. “Thank you for making life beautiful for me again.”

  We slow dance to Sinatra in the middle of Grand Central. People walk around us. Someone films us with their phone. Someone screams out the lyrics as he passes by. It’s a perfect New York moment, and Jack Irons can kiss my romantic ass because this is a more baller move than any he’s pulled off.

  When the song is over, the homeless guy turns off his boombox and salutes, yells, “Mazel tov!” and walks out.

  Fiona shakes her head at me, wiping tears from her eyes. “Emmett Ford, you are full of surprises.”

  “I’ve got another surprise for you.” I dip down to whisper into her ear. “We don’t have to wait until we get home to fuck…” I start to explain, but before I’ve finished, she’s grabbed my arm, leading me toward the exit.

  I booked a nearby hotel room with early check-in. It was a five-minute walk from the train station, but we jogged here in three minutes. Good thing we’re both so young.

  My fiancée pulls my jacket off before we’re inside the room, and I manage to remove her jacket and shirt in two seconds. In between frantic kisses and unzipping my pants, she is breathless when she says, “You are the smartest man I have ever met. How did you know I’d want to have sex with you before we went to your parents’ house?”

  “I’ve read your manuscript. I know your story.” I unhook the bra she wore because she knew she’d be seeing my family today. She had no idea I’d be pressing her up against the wall of a hotel room, lowering myself to kiss her tits as I kneel before her and pull down her jeans.

  Turns out Fiona is the smartest woman I’ve ever known. She’s wearing black panties that say Yes, I’ll marry you, Emmett in white vinyl on the front.

  “What the fuck?”

  She laughs, threading her fingers through my hair. “I’ve read your book too. I know how your mind works.”

  “How long ago did you have these made?”

  “Few weeks. After you told me we’d be taking the train to see your parents.”

  I pull those panties down, and she stops giggling as soon as I remind her how my tongue works. I pause to quote from her book, “I’m going to kiss you until you beg for more, dear Fiona.”

  She tenses up, gripping my hair and sucking air through clenched teeth. Then she says, “Get over yourself.”

  “I’ll be getting a leg over you soon enough—future wife.”

  “Not if I get on top of you first, future husband.”

  That’s all we have to say to each other for a while.

  We’re both good with words, but we’re even better at this.

  Fiona Walker has a very promising career as a romance author ahead of her, and I plan to keep her inspired for the rest of my life.

  EPILOGUE ONE – Jack Irons

  The Departure by Emmett Ford (The Jack Irons series, Book Six) – Epilogue

  It had been a year since Jack last saw Catalina and nearly two hours since he last thought of her. In that year, he’d been all across the country. He’d been all across Europe, and he always came back to Oceanside. He never went in search of her, exactly. It was his policy to never look for trouble because trouble always found him. He sought Catalina out on some level that went beyond cities and countries—or perhaps it was more that he sought her somewhere deep inside himself. But he always hoped to find the disarming woman in his bedroom when he returned.

  A year ago, he had cut the palm of his hand when he was cleaning up broken glass from that beer bottle she’d sent flying across the room. The cut hadn’t been deep enough to form a scar. But it had amused Jack to think of how appropriate it would have been if Catalina Calida had indirectly left a scar on the palm of his dominant hand. He often contemplated her while using it, after all.

  He was using that hand to put his key in the front door to his apartment when he realized it was already unlocked, with no signs of tampering. Once again, he was unarmed. Once again, he was excited, and he knew he was in trouble.

  He took in a deep breath because he also knew his breath would be stolen from him as soon as he entered the kitchen. He was right. But he had no idea he’d have his heart stolen again—this time by someone new and completely unexpected.

  Catalina was sitting at his kitchen table. She was all woman now, her long hair swept over one shoulder. She was humming to a baby who was cradled in her arms. The baby couldn’t have been more than three or four months old, and she was laughing. He didn’t know how he knew it was a girl, but he recognized that laugh. He recognized how this girl made him feel.

  Catalina glanced over at him, smiling. She didn’t stop humming, but she gestured for him to join them. Jack approached slowly and quietly, even though the baby wasn’t asleep. He wasn’t used to being around children. Even as a child, he’d rarely played with them. But he wasn’t apprehensive. He wanted to be careful around this one.

  This baby had dark hair—not red. Dark, like Catalina’s. Dark, like his own.

  “She’s yours.”

  Jack’s instin
ct was to doubt her, but as always, when it came to this woman, he decided not to trust his instincts.

  “Her name is Whisper,” she cooed.

  “Whisper, huh?” He appreciated the sentiment but couldn’t help muttering, “Might have to talk you out of that.”

  The mother of his child elbowed him in the gut. “You can touch her, you know.”

  He reached out to stroke the baby’s dark hair. In doing so, he exposed the underside of his forearm to Catalina. She sighed quietly when she saw the words that had been tattooed there. What you seek is seeking you.

  “Well hello, darlin’,” he said. And for the first time in years, Jack Irons felt as though he had come home.

  Well, that’s sweet.

  I do have mixed feelings about this, though.

  A baby with Catalina—I like it. A baby named Whisper? Not so much. I’m assuming a lot of shit went down in that span of a year and we’ll be exploring those adventures in future novels. Because Jack Irons is not ready to retire to the suburbs with a wife and kid after only six books.

  That joke about the palm of my dominant hand, though… Fuck you, Ford.

  And enough with the heart and the feelings again—come on. I’m happy you’re getting married and I’m happy we both have our women now, but let’s stay in character. Let’s keep the voice of the Jack Irons series and our balls intact.

  I am proud of you for finishing this draft. I mean, the editor will give you a thousand notes, but you finished and it’s good. Enjoy your vacation with your betrothed. You’ve earned it.

  And when you knock her up, you’d better name your kid Jack—whether it’s a boy or a girl. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have left your apartment that night and you never would have met Fiona Walker.