Page 34 of The Love Interest
“Yes.”
“Assface.”
“Total assface.”
“Want me to leave bad reviews for his books on Amazon?”
“No… Maybe later.”
“Just say the word.”
“I don’t want to overreact. I mean. We just met. It was just the one time. It was just a few text convos. It’s fine… I’m fine. I need to focus on writing anyway. Classes start next week, and that’s why I’m here.”
Jed massages my feet through the blanket.
“Lemme read one of his books, and if I hate it, then you can write a bad review for me.”
14
WILLIAM DEXTER
The Earl of Asschester by Fiona Walker
Though William Dexter held the rank of an earl, third highest in the peerage, he was an ass of the highest order. There was nothing noble about him, aside from his reasonably striking perfectly symmetrical face and somewhat pleasing posterior. He was rude, moody, occasionally downright cruel, and displayed no respectable talents other than kissing.
He was a fine kisser. An excellent kissing partner, truth be told. Occasionally he even gave the impression of having something resembling a sense of humor. Regardless of his aforementioned despicable qualities, he was considered theton’s most eligible bachelor of the season—by everyone except Lucy Finch.
Her heart was a rare and beautiful bird that she kept locked safe in a gilded cage, and no man could ever claim it.
She wrote of love. She wrote stories of love and acts of love, and she wrote pretty words that described lovely ladies and dashing gentlemen. She wrote of steamy trysts and clever banter and grand gestures. While each of her stories and characters demanded a happily ever after, Lucy did not want one for herself. She wanted to write dozens of them, and that would be enough.
William chastised her.
He pined for her.
He ached for her.
He was tormented by her.
But there was nothing he could say or do to forget her, woo her, or recover from his epic failure at being a decent man. Especially after his obnoxious, repugnant letter. Written words mattered to Lucy, and William’s words, though ostensibly polite, had cut her to the very core.
He regretted writing the letter almost immediately.
He called upon her at her home in the middle of the night, in the rain, bearing apologies and gifts, but it was too little and it was already too late.
She would not open the door all the way, and he knew better than to force his way through. The look in her eyes—those eyes that for one glittering moment had shone with the possibility of love for him—was enough to stop him cold. He could see that she was forcing back tears and realized that it was he who had caused this strong and admirable woman emotional harm. He felt shame for the first time in his careless thirty-five-year-old life.
“Listen here, Lord Asschester. Listen well and then leave, and I will ask you to never, ever darken my doorstep again… Are you listening?”
“Yes, Miss Finch. Despite what you might think, I have always paid keen attention to every word you’ve uttered and written.”
Her lower lip quivered the tinies bit, but she took in a deep breath and continued. “Well, this is the last thing I will ever utter directly to you, my lord… Just because I write about cocks, that does not mean it is appropriate for anyone to be a dick to me,” she hissed. “Not even you. Especially not you.”
* * *
There, there, luv. We got that out of our system now, eh? Movin’ on.
15
