Page 74 of The Love Interest
We’ve thoroughly explored every inch of each other’s bodies. I woke up in bed, with her in my arms. I didn’t have to wonder if she’d walk into the steam shower with me this morning because she asked if we could shower together, and then she did the thing that most men fantasize about having a woman do to them in a shower. We’ve watchedFrozenwhile eating store-bought pie for breakfast. She didn’t have hersa la modedue to her mild lactose intolerance. I wanted to go buy her some kind of bullshit nondairy ice cream, but she didn’t want me to leave, and we didn’t want to risk being seen together by Beowulf.
We aren’t exactly on the run like Jack and Catalina, but we’re kind of in hiding. This adds an extra sense of urgency and a layer of intimacy that I could only imagine when I was writing the chapters in my book. The other thing that adds a sense of urgency and intimacy—not wearing pants. We’re both wearing sweatshirts, underwear, and thick socks. Ignoring the whole professor-student thing, this is about as ideal a situation as I could dream up for myself.
I’m sitting in an armchair in the living room, reading an old Robert Ludlum hardcover. Fiona is sitting curled up on the floor, between my legs, reading what I have so far ofThe Departureon my iPad.She’s been so quiet, and I’ve never been so nervous while someone reads my work before. I keep glancing down to see what page she’s on. Other than that, it’s very relaxing.
Okay, it’s relaxing aside from the fact that there’s a four-foot metal cock staring at me from ten feet away. But I’ve gotten used to him. I just can’t help but feel like he was judging me while I was fucking Fiona on the sofa last night.
I’ve got sandalwood incense burning on the coffee table, and one of the patio doors is open a crack. It’s cold out, but the clean, fresh air is both bracing and soothing. And I’m struck by that memory of being here, years ago. The same memory that came to me the night I met Fiona, because of her scent. The lavender isn’t blooming in the backyard, but this beautiful young woman between my legs is in full bloom and fragrant as springtime. That longing I’d had back then, when I was here all alone, for some faceless woman to join me in the quiet moments. The woman now has a face—an amazing one—and the quiet moment is now.
She inhales sharply and then says, “I can’t believe she just walks off with the red-haired man at the Whispering Gallery!”
“Is it not believable?”
She wriggles around to face me, places the iPad on the floor, and snakes her arms around the backs of my knees. “It’s totally believable the way you wrote it. I just can’t believe I didn’t see it coming. That he was her ex-husband.”
“But you buy that he is?”
“Yes! I just—how did I not see that coming? I guess I was so wrapped up in the love story between Jack and Catalina that I didn’t think of it.”
“She’s a good love interest for him, huh?”
“Very. And he’s so romantic. It’s so unexpected.”
“Yes. It’s kind of surprising to me too.”
“What was the thing she was going to say to him? About when she first met him?”
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
She wrinkles her nose, annoyed with me. Then she sits up on her knees, slides her arms up the sides of my legs, and presses herself against the chair, closer to me. “I love it, Emmett. It’s really good, and I can’t wait to find out what happens next.”
“Thank you.” I put my book aside, lean forward to kiss her.
She climbs up onto my lap, straddling me. “Catalina isn’t exactlymethough…”
I wrap my arms around her waist. “No. I don’t want to share you with Jack Irons. But you’re still the inspiration. I’m not William Dexter either.”
“No. But you’re still the inspiration.”
“It’s interesting how that works, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Very.”
I bury my face into her chest, let my fingers casually roam beneath her sweatshirt. It is sort of alarming how comfortable we are with each other already. My fingers must be a little cold because she shivers and pulls away from me, almost imperceptibly.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Something else, you mean?”
She nods, rests her arms on my shoulders. “Did Sophie used to come here? To your cabin?”
I wait for the familiar clenching of insides whenever someone mentions her name, but it doesn’t come. “No. I bought this place after I’d been in New York for a few years. Once I was confident that I was going to remain a millionaire.”
“A millionaire, huh?”
“Fuck yeah, I’m a millionaire. You impressed?”
“Obviously. I’m a gold digger, so this is my favorite thing about you.”
