Page 39 of The Love Interest
She makes some weird flourish gesture with her hand while bowing when she says, “And you, sir.” Then she shakes her head and says, “Please forget I just did that.”
“I’ll never forget it.”
She frowns at me, turning on her heel. “Bye.”
I watch her ass as she strides out of the room. She needs a spanking. Maybe I can pay one of Morgenstern’s students to switch with her. I’d pay good money to spank that ass.
Fuck me, I can’t be having these thoughts.
But fuck, I would do anything to be able to doanythingto Fiona Walker right now.
17
JACK IRONS
Mistaken Identity by Emmett Ford (The Jack Irons Series, Book One) – Chapter One as rewritten by Fiona Walker
Captain Jack Irons despised being on land, never stood with his back to the door, and always noted the exits. He was an American in London. Britain was no longer at war with his native country, but Jack was still at war with himself. He was devastatingly handsome, fiendishly clever, and bored out of his ever-loving mind. He had three days left to kill before his ship would return to America, and he’d already had his fill of tea and balls and polite conversation. Yet he’d made the acquaintance of one Timothy Lockhart earlier and liked him well enough to allow himself to be browbeaten into accompanying him to thetonparty at Lady Skeffington’s. He had absolutely no plans to marry again, but he also had no other plans for the evening. So, there he was, frowning and facing the entrance, wishing his wife could walk through it but knowing she would never walk through any doorway again.
Since he was to be amongst high society—his least favorite tier of society—he’d left his pistol on board theMarianne.Being unarmed made him uncomfortable but not nearly as uncomfortable as the disarmingly beautiful woman who had just been announced into the ballroom was making him. Miss Lucy Finch. She was physically stunning. Her flaxen-blonde hair created a halo effect, her doe eyes were appealing, her rosebud lips were enticing, to say the least. But it was this girl’s saucy countenance as she surveyed the room, that caused him to feel both defenseless and guarded at the same time.
When her gaze fell upon him, she smirked, exchanged a few words with her mother and sisters, and then approached him directly. He had thus far not known a young lady of thetonto approach a man she was not directly related to at a ball. Judging by the sudden hushed conversations behind fluttering fans, neither had any of the other ladies of thebeau monde. So, this simple brazen act was surprising and intriguing, and despite the sudden feeling that he was under attack, he resisted the urge to flee from her.
She curtsied and he bowed, and that was enough of that.
“I believe I spied you swaggering about on Pall Mall earlier today with Baron Lockhart,” she mused. “You must be the skilled, intrepid, and very generous Lord Beaumont we’ve been hearing so much about.”
Jack found himself feigning a rather impressive English accent. “Intrepid for certain, my lady, but as for skilled and generous—that depends on the company I’m keeping.” He winked.
He winked?
Then he surprised himself by taking her hand and bending down to press his lips to her dainty silk glove. He wanted to remove it and everything else she was wearing with his teeth and then let his lips explore every single inch of her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. He knew that, given his impending departure, it was unlikely he would have the pleasure of acquainting himself with certain parts of her, and that was regrettable.
Still. This was an interesting turn of events. In all his travels, he had not winked at nor engaged with anyone in this manner since his dearly departed wife, and yet it was his instinct to flirt with this woman. Perhaps that was not accurate—his initial instinct was to beat a hasty retreat, but his next instinct was to charm her—and pretend to be someone else. It was problematic. He would have to keep his guard up.
“I hope to acquaint myself with your alleged skilled and generous nature, my lord.” She grinned and winked at him.
He had survived battles, countless drunken barroom brawls, duels, storms at sea, shark and pirate attacks—but for the second time in his life, Jack Irons knew he was in trouble.
18
FIONA
Iwas not able to convince anyone to switch fiction workshops with me.
This is unfortunate for two reasons. First of all because I have been in a constant state of angry lady boner ever since Emmett asked to see me in his office last week. Secondly, because of said angry lady boner state, I suppose I thought it would be hilarious and clever of me to rewrite the opening of my professor’s book. I mean, Beowulf was the one who brought it up, and Emmett had encouraged us to “go for it.”
Beowulf did not go for it.
No one else in this fucking class went for it.
So now, after going around the room and critiquing Steve’s fantasy retelling ofThe Outsidersand Beowulf’s pretentious contemporary American literary version ofUlysses, they’re discussing my iteration of the first Jack Irons book. I’m wondering how disappointed my mother will be if I transfer to the College of Dentistry because I would rather floss other people’s teeth than wait to hear what Professor Ford has to say about it once everyone else has taken their shot at skewering it. He hasn’t looked at me once since he walked in.
His expression has remained aggravatingly neutral ever since saying the words, “And what are our thoughts on Miss Walker’s rendition ofMistaken Identity?For those of you who haven’t read the original work—it’s an action thriller, and Jack Irons is a former military man. His wife was murdered years earlier, and when we first meet him, he’s been traveling across America from South Carolina to California. In my opening, he’s in a diner when a man enters and mistakes him for someone he’s hired to kill the man who ran over his daughter. Steve? What did you think?”
Steve thought Emmett Ford’s opening was attention-grabbing and that mine is rather clever despite being a bit overwritten—although he feels that might be intentional since he’s not familiar with the style of Regency romance novels. He has some other annoying condescending things to say, and I forget them immediately.
Beowulf, on the other hand, considers it very brave of me to attempt to rewrite the professor’s own work, and because he considers himself a feminist, he really appreciates how bold the heroine is. “It’s refreshing,” he says. “I think that any piece that is well written should be appreciated for the quality of its writing.”
