Smut: A Standalone Romantic Comedy Page 7

  Although I’m not completely alone. Down the hall, in the study, I have what seems to be a permanent houseguest—Fluffy. Luckily Fluffy is a low-maintenance boarder who only requires food, water, and shelter. Of course, Kevin mentioned there should be some cuddling involved, but I know where to draw the line. Love and cuddling don’t work for me with humans, let alone pets—at least not anymore.

  I pour myself a glass of water at the sink and slam back two Advil, a B-vitamin, and then chase it all with a Five Hour Energy drink just as my dad sends me a text asking me to bring some of the books I borrowed back to the store. I’m not supposed to, but if we have more than two copies of something, I usually take it home to read. I know my dad wishes they weren’t science fiction novels about space and doomsday prophecies, but I honestly couldn’t give a shit what he thinks sometimes. He’s still my dad though and I feel obligated to help—it’s my future after all—so after a quick shower, I slip on my clothes and dark shades and head out into the cobblestone streets of downtown Victoria.

  My apartment, overlooking a colorful colony of floating homes, is located just beyond the ferries that head south to Washington State. If it wasn’t for the fact that Angelica owns the apartment as an investment, there’s no way I would be able to afford it on my own. All the money I saved back in England, the money I thought would see me on an around-the-world trip or two, is starting to run out, and there’s no chance for me to get a part-time job when I spend so many hours working for my dad for free.

  I head out into the gloom of the day, something that makes me feel at home along with the gardens (which, unlike back home, start blooming here in February), horse-drawn carriages, and high tea at the Empress Hotel.

  It’s actually just as I’m passing the massive façade of the ivy-covered hotel that I’m sure I’ve started hallucinating, because there’s Amanda leaning back against the railing overlooking the marina.

  I freeze for a moment like a panicked deer, unsure what to do and where to go. For one, it’s her, and after that email, I should fear for my life, or at least find some way to protect my groin. For two, she looks bloody hot. I’m frozen in both fear and this shameful kind of desire because my dick is twitching and my limbs are growing heavy all because she’s wearing these shiny blue skin tight leggings adorned with pink cherry blossoms that seem to accentuate every curve and muscle in her legs, hips, and arse. Then there’s her breasts, impossibly firm in a sleek white tank top. It’s like until this moment, I wasn’t even aware that Amanda had much of a body, but fuck, there it is. And I’m going to have to figure out how to quickly forget it.

  Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are moving and I’m hiding behind my sunglasses, hoping I can just walk past her and she won’t see me.

  But oh, oh shit. She does.

  Feign ignorance Crawford.

  “Um, hello?” she cries out in indignation.

  Here it goes.

  And then I’m sucked into a brief conversation with her, one that I’m certain will turn to bloodshed at any moment.

  Yet, some fucking how, she doesn’t freak out. She doesn’t blow up at me. She doesn’t try and kick me in the balls. She says she read the email, and yet I’m looking into her eyes, amplified by her fresh pink face, framed by cat-eye glasses, and they don’t look any angrier than usual. Her dislike of me has somehow remained the same. Is it possible she has already reached her hate ceiling and is tapped out? Could it be she’s had a sense of humor all this time?

  Somehow I doubt it.

  I decide to get out of there while I’m still unscathed and hurry off to the store. She still wants to meet me at the library at seven p.m., so I have no choice but to pretend that the email was never sent, and for both our sakes, I should forget she sent me one to begin with. I’m starting to think the only way through this is to just start the fuck over.

  I can do that.

  I think.

  Later that evening, after being roped into working at the store for a bit and muddling through a rubbish Ethics tutorial, I head to the library. I’m twenty minutes early. There’s nothing that irks me more than being on time for something and finding out someone is already waiting for you. They’re early, yet it comes across like you’re the one that’s late. Well, not this time. I can’t let Amanda have the upper hand, even though I’m pretty sure she does.

  I half-heartedly glance around the library. It’s surprisingly busy at this time of night and devastatingly quiet thanks to the eagle eye of one of the librarians. I don’t know her name, but she has a face you’d see speaking from an old tree in a Disney film, as well as a round, immovable build, and scaly hands. Her tongue will give you a lashing at ten paces if she catches so much as a laugh coming from your direction.

  Quietly pulling out a chair, I take a seat at a table near the entrance, hoping to spot Amanda, but when it turns into 7:05 p.m., I’m starting to wonder if she’ll even show. I check my emails, my phone, and there’s nothing. I have a feeling that this morning was just a bunch of acting on her behalf, and she had planned to stand me up and go running to the dean.

  Just in case I missed her earlier, I get up and look around again, this time going up to the second level. I’m just about to turn around when I see a flash of red hair in the corner. I go down the row and see her at a small table surrounded by stacks of books, a laptop open beside her though she’s furiously scribbling in a leather-bound notebook that looks like its seen better days. She’s got headphones in her ears, so she doesn’t seem to hear me as I sidle up next to her.

  “Hey,” I say to her, waving my hand in her face.

  She jumps in her seat, eyes wide, and lets out a yelp that comes out a lot louder than she probably realizes.

  “Jesus!” she cries out, ripping the headphones from her ears and scowling at me like she’s trying to set me on fire. “What’s your problem?”

  “Sorry!” I say, raising my palms while I hear the first “Shhh” of the librarian somewhere in the building. I lower my voice. “I was looking for you.”

  “You’re late,” she says, trying to catch her breath and compose herself. She angrily tucks strands of hair behind her ears and straightens her glasses, swallowing hard. I think I like her like this, slightly unhinged. A red flush appears on her chest, similar to the one I saw on her earlier today.

  “I wasn’t late,” I protest quickly. “I was here at six-thirty, waiting for you.”

  “Yeah, well, I was up here. Ever think of looking for me?” Her eyes narrow, and even though I can’t see her pulse tick along her jaw anymore, she looks like she wants to kill me. She probably does. I can’t forget I’ve given her a good reason.

  “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d already be here.” I force a smile and try to look as apologetic as possible, and gesture to the empty seat across from her. “Can I sit down or would you rather me stand?”

  She stares at me for a moment, her mouth set in a firm line, her face blank. I can’t read what she’s thinking, but I know she’s studying me like I’m a frog about to be dissected, and she’s holding the blade, trying to figure out where to cut.

  Maybe this is where I should turn and run.

  “Yeah, fine,” she says, and as I make a move to grab the seat she says, “No, wait. Hold on.” She waves her hand at me, half out of her chair. “We need to talk before you even dare sit with me.”

  Here it comes.

  “Something wrong?” I ask.

  The glare deepens. I can almost see the pits of hell blazing in her eyes.

  “Something wrong?” she repeats, giving me a brittle smile. “How about the email you sent me last night? Do you know how close I am to going to Marie with it?”

  I fold my arms across my chest and peer down at her. “You didn’t seem to mind much this morning.”

  She makes a small noise of frustration, her brows lowering. “I hadn’t read the email yet.”

  “Really?” I ask, feeling the corner of my mouth tip up, unable to help myself. “Because I could
have sworn you said you did.”

  Her chin juts out as she straightens in her seat, her attention going to the notebook in front of her. She quickly closes it up and slips it into her bag on the floor. “I think you owe me an apology and an explanation. All I did was email you wanting to work together on this and you responded by being the rudest, most misogynistic fuckface that ever was. I mean, I thought that’s who you were, but there was some tiny, naïve part of me that hoped I would be proven wrong.”

  I should apologize. But I can’t.

  I sit down instead, hands splayed on the table as I lean in. “Why do you hate me so much?”

  She looks shocked. “Why? How about the reason I just gave you?”

  “Ignore the email for now,” I tell her, and her eyes turn damn near satanic. “I’ll explain in a minute. I just want to know. Before all of this. Why all the hate?”

  She blinks, her mouth dropping just a bit so I can see her run her tongue along the back of her teeth. “Because you’re an asshole,” she says, her voice so hushed and incredulous, it nearly makes me laugh.

  Her admission doesn’t sting. It just spurs on my curiosity.

  “Granted. But what makes you say that? What have I ever said or done to you?”

  But the moment those words leave my mouth—and the moment she levels me with her gaze—I know she has a list prepared.

  She ticks off her fingers one by one. “The first day of class you asked if you could call me Big Red. I said no. Then you asked if the carpet matched the drapes.”

  I try not to seem ashamed. “In my defense, I was pretty sauced that first class.”

  “Then,” she goes on, ignoring me, “we had to read our one-page stories out loud. After mine, you said that my stuff works better than Nyquil.”

  “Hey,” I tell her, defensive and vaguely embarrassed. “I didn’t think you heard that.”

  She cocks her head and shakes it. “Oh really. Then there was that time where I dropped my books right in front of you, and instead of helping me, you just stared at my ass as I bent over. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure you made a sound like you were coming in your pants,” she adds, wrinkling her nose for added effect.

  That vaguely rings a bell. “So you don’t like being appreciated by the male species,” I say, goading her.

  “I don’t want any species staring at my ass when they could be helping me,” she says. “Not that I need help anyway.”

  I lean back in my chair, studying her. “Oh, of course not.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I lick my lips and shrug. “I don’t know, it could explain why anytime anyone has a critique about your writing, you just laugh it off, as if their opinions don’t matter, don’t count, and aren’t warranted.”

  She stills. I know I’ve hit a sore spot.

  A flash of pink tongue comes out, absently licking her lips. “That’s not true,” she finally says, though her voice is soft now, a whisper. “I can take criticism.”

  “Right.”

  “But, I mean, most people in that class couldn’t string a sentence together if they tried.”

  I raise my brow. “You mean people like me.”

  Amanda thinks that over, like she’s chewing it in her head.

  “Why are you taking this class anyway?” she asks, and I know she’s had a change of heart and doesn’t quite want to call me an idiot to my face. I’m not sure if I like this sudden politeness, nor the change of subject.

  “Because I want to.”

  She stares at me for a moment, still chewing, still digesting. I get why it’s hard for her to believe, that she thinks there is some ulterior motive on my behalf, perhaps an easy grade, perhaps I just live to annoy her.

  “Look,” I tell her, feeling the need to explain myself, maybe just because of the way I’ve been acting. I half recollect the things I said to her in class and I’m surprised she noticed. Thank god there’s no way she knows what I’m thinking most of the time. “I’m not taking writing because I think it’s easy or a joke or I just need a credit. I’m taking it because I like it.”

  “But you’re taking Business Management.”

  I peer at her inquisitively. “How do you know that?”

  “Because during the first class, the one you said you were hammered at, everyone had to tell the class what they were taking at school, and I remember what you said.”

  I’m slightly impressed. “Well, then. I guess you were paying attention.” I take off my leather jacket and hang it on the back of the chair, figuring I’m not going anywhere now. When I turn back to face her, I catch her eyes on my biceps. She quickly averts them, but she can’t fool me. Is it wrong that I feel a strange sense of victory, maybe even pride, that she’s noticed me in some way that doesn’t involve me being a total asshole?

  I clear my throat. “Anyway, not that it’s any of your business, but I’m taking Business Management so I can properly take over my father’s store. The bookstore. The writing class is for me. Maybe the only thing that is for me.”

  I’m surprised I’ve admitted that last part.

  She tilts her head, eyeing me. She seems to spend a lot of time thinking me over, and yet the outcome always seems to be the same: fuckface. That was the term she used, right?

  “So you want to be a writer?”

  I don’t answer her at first. “I want to get this project done and over with, and I want to graduate.” All right, maybe it was a non-answer, but I don’t feel like giving her any ammo. I sigh and lean back in my chair. “I’m sorry about the email. I guess you rubbed me the wrong way.”

  “Because you rub me the wrong way!” she says, and another “Shhhh!” comes from down the aisle.

  “Quiet,” I hiss at Amanda. “Do you want Treebeard to kick us out or what?”

  A flash of worry comes across her brow and she nods, knowing exactly who I’m talking about.

  “Regardless of who rubbed who first,” I tell her, trying not to smirk at my innuendo, “we need to at least try and get along if this is going to work.” I pause. “Or if anything, at least not kill each other until the novella is done.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  I shrug. “Well, a good start would be if you just accepted my apology.”

  She blows a strand of hair out of her face. “Fine.” But of course she’s not looking at me, she’s pulling her laptop toward her, going into serious writer mode, just like in class. Whatever, I’ll take what I can get at this point. Though I have to say, even though it was my idea, it’s going to take a lot of discipline to not press her buttons. And no, that’s not innuendo this time.

  “So I’ve been doing some thinking,” she says after a few beats, scrolling through something on her computer.

  “Other than about turning me over to the dean?” I ask.

  She glares at me over her glasses. “Yes. Since we both don’t like this arrangement, I think one of us should do most of the work. Pick the topic, outline the plot and characters, while the other contributes a few chapters. Preferably in an alternate POV to make it easier.”

  “And you’re thinking it’s best if you do all the work?”

  “Nope. If you want to do the work, that’s fine with me. Just whatever has us seeing each other less.”

  I frown. She really has it in for me. “I foresee some problems with this. For one, we have completely different writing styles. I think it will be quite obvious who is pulling most of the weight. Two, how do I know that you’re not going to throw me under the bus and complain that I didn’t do any of the work? Or, for that matter, throw me under the bus and blame it all on me if we get a shitty grade?”

  She eyes me over the top of her computer. “Because I could throw you under the bus right now if I wanted to. And I’m not.”

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “I’d rather just split the work and do the alternate point of view.”

  “You don’t trust me?”

  I laugh. “Do you trust me?”
/>
  “Fine,” she snipes. “Then I’ll work on the plot and characters.”

  “No. We both work on it. Together.”

  She gives an exasperated snort and cocks her head. “Why are you trying to make this more difficult?”

  I honestly have no idea, other than it’s kind of fun. “I just want an honest grade.”

  “Bullshit,” she mutters under her breath. She clears her throat. “You know we’re going to have to see more of each other this way. Might even take several days for us to plot this out.”

  “That’s fine with me.”

  “Don’t you have a store to help manage?”

  I feel my jaw tighten for a moment before I manage my most charming grin. “I can do a lot of things at once. I’m very resourceful. Talented, some say.”

  She rolls her eyes. “We will let Marie be the judge of that. So, dare I ask if you have any ideas? Other than the ones proposed in the email, that is.”

  “Actually, I thought of several on the way over here,” I tell her, which is true. “All based on different themes. Sex, death, guilt, betrayal, and deceit.”

  Her eyes widen, looking impressed. “Okay,” she says slowly. “Are you serious?”

  I nod. “How about you pick a theme and I’ll tell you my story idea.”

  She bites her lip, and I find myself momentarily drawn to them and the light ruby sheen of her lip balm. If I let myself get carried away, I can almost—almost—see them wrapped around my dick. I squash the thought before it has any effect. Besides, I know the last thing she’ll pick is sex.

  “Betrayal,” she says.

  A little close to my heart, but she doesn’t need to know that. “Betrayal,” I repeat. “Where a husband ends an affair with a woman in order to make his marriage work, only to catch his wife cheating on him.”

  Those damn lips of hers form an o-shape. “Heavy. Personal experience?”

  “No,” I tell her. Not really. “But heavy is interesting. We could reverse it. Tweak it.”

  “I like it as it is,” she says, though I can tell she hates to admit it. “What would you pick?”