Page 1 of Not Quite Perfect

One

Victoria

I stepped onto the ferry,my overnight bag bumping along behind me, and dropped into a seat toward the rear of the boat. I fluttered my sticky shirt against my overheated skin—if there was anything I hated more than going to my mother’s sixth wedding, it was the thought of doing it in temperatures that had soared to ninety-plus degrees with no break in sight.

But that was a problem for tomorrow.

Tonight, I had to avoid running into my older brother Theo. Difficult, since my brothers and I were all staying at the same inn. Silently, I cursed the bet we’d made the month before. How Theo had known our mom was close to walking down the aisle again was beyond me. But he had, and he’d used that knowledge to swindle Drew, Alex, and me out of a few hundred dollars each. As far as I was concerned, he’d cheated, and I had no intention of paying up.

Hence, the avoiding.

What I couldn’t avoid, however, was the fact that my book club was meeting on Tuesday evening and I still hadn’t read this month’s selection. Why we’d decided to enrich our minds instead of our libidos, I’d never know.Oh right.Something about how being able to confidently discuss the classics would make us better people.

Cringing, I reached into my purse and pulled out an old, battered copy ofThe Sound and the Fury. Of all the great American novels the discussion leader could have picked, she’d chosen the one I’d hated the most when I’d studied it in college.

My eyes scanned the weathered pages, taking in the notes I’d scribbled in the margins. Normally, I didn’t defile books in such a way, but following Faulkner’s stream-of-conscious narrative had been nearly impossible at eight o’clock in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays during my junior year.

I liked to think I was older and wiser now, but as I flipped through the pages, skimming the text, I still had trouble following the disconnected timeline. I shook my head when I reached the end of the first chapter. No doubt about it, my understanding of the story hadn’t improved with ageorwisdom.

“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 entirelyotherthing 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 actuallydolove 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.

---