Page 15 of The Love Interest
I am way off my game tonight.
This is the opposite of a meet cute.
Which is fine.
I only found this woman intriguing at first because she seemed so alive and focused. I could see Jack going for that. Something about her would remind him of his wife. Something about the way she stared off into the distance so seriously, absentmindedly tapping her pen against her lips, before grinning and looking back down to scribble in her notebook. Something about the slope of her long neck and the casual glimpse of collarbone and smooth exposed skin between that open V of her nearly transparent white blouse. The shade of her brown hair matches her eyes exactly, the white of her eyes match her blouse, and everything about her is striking in a totally subtle way, somehow. She wears a thin, delicate gold chain necklace. No pendant. Just a sliver of gold that catches the light every now and then, and I bet it sticks to her skin when it glistens with sweat. The way she rubbed her flat hand up and down her thigh. Something about the way she tried to endear herself to Ellen, despite the outright rejection. The way she closed her eyes to savor each sip of mediocre black coffee. She’s not a girl, but she radiates youthfulness and hope and new beginnings.
Her pussy would probably welcome Jack’s cock the way New York City welcomed me that first spring—all warm and wet and blossoming and pulsing with life.
But she’s so young. She must be in her early to mid-twenties. All dewy skin and shiny hair and wide bright eyes and perky tits and ass. An endless reserve of sass, I’ll bet. Too young for Jack.
Still. I feel something opening up, deep inside of me. Some tiny forgotten, dehydrated rosebud has finally been exposed to the right amount of sun and water and nutrients, if only for a moment, and…something has stirred. Not my dick. Not my heart. That spark of inspiration I need to ignite my interest in a story and a character. This friction between us just might be the energy that propels me headlong into the novel and all the way to the end.
Just maybe.
Something tells me she might be protecting herself. Not just from strangers. From me. From what I represent. From what I could potentially be to her.
I recognize it.
I respect it.
And I like it.
Here is a young woman with a cautious heart, and I feel connected to it somehow. Not the woman but the cautious heart. There’s an unspoken, involuntary camaraderie between the brokenhearted. It might not be that she’s brokenhearted, but something about the world has cracked open for her. She knows what she stands to lose.
That’s what Jack Irons needs. A woman who’s lost something. Something that she’s afraid of finding again, but she remains open nonetheless. Something that will find her, whether she thinks she’s ready for it or not. A reluctant love interest.
That’s it.
Nailed it.
I should jot this down in my notebook. But I know I won’t forget it. And something tells me there are more unforgettable things I can learn from this particular stranger before the night is over.
I’m dying to ask this girl what her roommate is texting her because, even as we walk past the light of the streetlamp, I can see that she’s blushing. It doesn’t even piss me off that she’s texting while walking with me because I can tell it’s about me. “All good?”
“Um.” She clears her throat and slides the phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans. She’s got a great ass, not that I’m looking. “All good. He’s got your photo and your name, so if you murder me, he’ll…probably call the police before hitting on you? I’m unsure about that, actually. Hopefully you won’t murder me.”
“I thought you trusted the universe.”
“I do, I’m just not sure if I trustyou.”
“Fair enough. You from California?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
Sunkissed skin, no makeup, easy smile, tissue-thin bohemian blouse that would melt under the warmth of my tongue. No woman from the East Coast would care if a waitress liked her or not, and no woman from the Midwest would decline the offer of a drink from a handsome stranger out of politeness. Only Californians can talk about trusting the universe without laughing.
“Lucky guess. Northern, right? Not LA.”
“Eureka. That’s the name of the town I’m from. I’m not making an exclamation.”
“I’ve heard of the town.”
“Really? Have you driven up the coast or something?”
It was one of the towns I considered having Jack Irons move to when I started the first book, but I’m not going to get into that. It’s good that she doesn’t know who I am. “I had planned a drive up the West Coast once.” That’s also the truth. It’s a sad truth. And I can feel that fist around my heart tightening again. “We never made that trip.” I can’t believe I just said “we.” I don’t usually bring her up with strangers.
She tilts her head as she looks over at me. I don’t meet her gaze, but I know her eyes are warm and curious and sympathetic. “Oh,” she says softly. She’s not uncomfortable around sadness. I like that. Jack would like that. We cross the street, and I notice her glancing to her left and then up ahead and then over at me, like she’s trying to decide something. “Are you from here?”
