Page 70 of The Love Interest
Because Fiona Walker ishere.
I still don’t believe in fate.
But I guess, in some twisted way, I have that little shit Beowulf to thank for luring her out to Cold Spring and being a creep.
More importantly, I have Bettina to thank. If I hadn’t written that letter about Sophie in her journal, I wouldn’t feel so open to seeing Fiona now. Maybe that journal really is magic.
Or maybe Fiona and I are just meant to be together.
But last night, I made a decision.Fuck waiting.That’s my decision.
We’re both adults. I trust her to be discreet. I trust myself not to do anything to fuck up my life. The thing that’s been driving both of us crazy is the resistance.Myresistance. Fuck my resistance.
We’re here, alone together, in my cabin.
Now, the only thing stopping us from doing the thing that we’ve both wanted to do since the night we met isherresistance.
I don’t blame her for not wanting to see me. I don’t blame her for being mad at me. But I want her to be mad at me while she’s naked and screaming my name. I want her to be mad at me for making her feel so good that she knows for a fact I’m the only man she’ll ever want. I want her to be mad at me because she knows we’re going to be so in love with each other that we’ll always drive each other nuts. Our greatest passion in life will be each other. If it scares her, I will show her she doesn’t have to be afraid of it—or me. She doesn’t have to let everything else fall away. She only has to trust that once I’ve made the decision to love a woman, I won’t let go of her.
She can count on me.
I just need her to sit on my face for like half an hour so I can convince her of this.
When I’m downstairs, my hair is still damp, I’m barefoot in jeans and a T-shirt, and I’m only mildly disappointed that Fiona is still wearing that pullover shirt and jeans. Because she’s hot as hell, even though she was clearly trying to look as unattractive as possible.
She’s at the kitchen sink, absentmindedly staring into it. I see that she’s opened the red wine and has had almost a full glass already.Good girl.I see that she is also barefoot now. I can see her reflection in the window above the sink, and she is so pretty. When she realizes I’ve dimmed the overhead lights in the dining and living room, she doesn’t say anything. She goes to the stove in the middle of the island to check on the pasta. I go to the record player and put on Vivaldi. I don’t have a big record collection here, but the other options include Marvin Gaye—which is too on point—andDisney Ultimate Hits Volume 2,which I bought for my niece. Classical music won’t intimidate Fiona, even though the lute is a surprisingly sexy instrument. Classical music will remind both of us that we’re grown-ups. Super responsible grown-ups who are on winter break and need to start fucking immediately.
She turns off the burner. “Colander?” So terse. She’s back to trying to prove that she’s mad at me.
So be it.
“Yeah, I’ll get it.” I grab the colander from one of the cupboards and place it in the sink for her.
“Thank you.” She carries the pot of boiled water and penne to the sink and pours it all into the colander.
As I’m reaching for a wineglass, she jerks back and yells out, “Ow! Shit!” She drops the pot into the sink and flings her left hand around.
“Did you burn yourself?”
“The hot water splashed on me. It’s fine.”
I go over there to turn on the cold water, push the colander and the steaming pot aside, take Fiona’s hand, and hold it under the cold running water. She winces and then glares at me.
“Better?”
She nods.
I turn off the water and grab a dish towel, wrapping it around her hand. Even amid the aroma of pasta sauce and fresh basil, I can still smell her unique fucking delicious fragrance, and she is all I want for dinner tonight.
She pulls her hand away. “Thank you.”
“Anytime.” I grab that wineglass and pour myself some Malbec. I like watching her move around my kitchen. She’s graceful…and tense. More tense than before I took a shower. I can think of about fifteen different things I can do about that tension, off the top of my head, but I’ll wait for her to come around.
She carries the colander and pours the penne over the pasta sauce in the saucepan, mixes it all together with a wooden spoon. “Do you have a big serving bowl, or should I put this in individual bowls?”
I take another gulp of wine before fetching a big white bowl and placing it on the island counter for her. She pours the pasta into it and then takes the saucepan to the sink to rinse it off. I turn off the burner.
“I was going to do that,” she snaps.
