Page 89 of The Love Interest
“Bridgertonis awesome, by the way,” I add. Becauseboom. Takethat, b-face.
We don’t say anything to each other until we’re outside the building. Beowulf just happens to be entering the building just as we’re leaving it. He stares at our joined hands and wrinkles his brow at us.
He can go fuck himself.
It’s raining, so I pull the umbrella out of my bag and open it up. Emmett takes it from me, holding it over both of our heads. I lean into him and rub his arm. “What happened?”
He lowers his voice and says, “There will be a reprimand on my performance review. So, it’s on the record and that could make things more difficult if I ever decide I want to teach again—anywhere else. He isn’t making me drop a class, but he won’t be offering me another term after this one’s over.”
“Were you hoping to teach again?”
“Not next year, that’s for sure. But I actually kind of like it, so I had been thinking maybe one day I’d want to teach again. We’ll see.”
“I’m sorry, Emmett.”
“You don’t have to apologize for anything. None of this is your fault.” He stops on the sidewalk, turning so we can face each other. “I mean, itisyour fault for being so hot and lovable. But I don’t blame you for it. I just hope people like Veronica aren’t total assholes to you about this.”
“Well, I’m pretty good at dealing with assholes now.”
He lowers the umbrella so no one can see us kissing under it.
Let the rain come down on us. I don’t care.
I am pure fucking sunshine, and Emmett’s kiss is the rainbowandthe sexy, grumpy pot of gold at the end of it.
43
EMMETT
* May. Finally. *
No more classes, no more books. No more students’ dirty looks.
We made it through my final semester at UNY. We got through five months of on-campus discretion. In public, Fiona handled five months of the occasional muttered snarky comment from classmates with the grace and strength of a politician’s wife. In bed, she took her frustrations out on me—as requested. In her writing, the fallout from Veronica’s gossip about our relationship fueled the conflict in her telling of William and Lucy’s story.
It’s difficult to say if art imitates life or vice versa, or if one simply inspires the other.
We have celebrated our last day of classes by spending the night together out and about. We watched the sunrise at Pier 35 and then came to Grand Central to take the train to my parents’ house. My whole family already loves Fiona, and they will all be there for lunch to celebrate with us.
They don’t know it yet, but we’re going to have a lot to celebrate…
We don’t have to board the train for well over an hour, so I suggest we swing by the Whispering Gallery. We walk hand-in-hand, but once we get to the ramp from the Main Concourse, she skips ahead to one of the corners.
She is twenty-six now but still so fucking young.
I’m thirty-six now, and I feel a lot younger than I did before I met her.
The terminal is more crowded than it was that first time we came here together, but in true New York fashion—no one pays attention to us.
As soon as I’m in my corner, I hear Fiona whisper, “When I first met you, at the diner, it was love at first sight. For my nipples.”
“When I first saw your nipples through your shirt at the diner, it was love at first sight.”
“You were so grumpy, though.”
“Well, I had writer’s block. And then I cockblocked myself by becoming your instructor. And then your nipples kept taunting me in class. I think I was pretty upbeat, considering.”
“You’re pretty tolerable now.”
