Selena Kitt - Paperback Romance

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Jessica Sweet scrambled to mount her horse, hopping up and swinging her long leg over his back. She leaned in close as she urged him toward home, knowing she was racing against the coming storm. She always rode him bareback, the wind whipping through both her long auburn mane and the horse's chestnut one.

She whooped and dug her heels in, sensing that they weren't going to make it. The rain came down in sudden, slashing sheets, soaking them both to the skin. The horse broke into a full out run, heading toward the shelter of the big barn, neighing and nickering and shaking his big head from side to side as he entered it.

"Good boy,” Jessica murmured, patting his neck. She got him settled in a stall and made a run for the house, bursting into the front door and slamming it behind her with a sigh.

She stood there catching her breath, her breasts heaving in the white blouse now plastered to her wet skin. When she opened her eyes, she saw him, a big hulk of a man looking even larger in the small rocking chair next to her fireplace.

"Jake!” she gasped, her eyes narrowing. “Get out of my house."

The man advanced toward her, grabbing her around her tiny waist and pulling her hard against his chest. “Not until I claim what's mine!"

His kiss burned her mouth, her throat, and even as she struggled against him, she could feel herself giving into him, as she always did…

“Maya!”

The voice startled her and she knocked the ladle into the steaming vat, splashing her apron with tomato soup. She sighed at the mess, glanced over at Alex and shrugged, looking sheepish.

“Sorry,” she mumbled to her boss, continuing to dish out soup, smiling an apology to the girl over the counter. She grabbed some napkins out of the receptacle behind her and wiped at her apron.

“You need to stop daydreaming.” Alex came to stand behind her. Maya glanced over her shoulder at the woman, who was frowning, her arms crossed over her chest.

“I'm sorry,” Maya apologized again, grabbing another bowl and filling it, handing it across the counter to the next student in line.

“That's what I keep telling her.” The voice made Maya drop the ladle yet again as she looked up and saw her creative writing professor standing in line. She sighed, grabbing the napkin and dabbing at her apron once more.

“'Out, damned spot.'” He handed her a napkin from the top of the counter. She looked up at him when he referenced Macbeth and saw a familiar sarcastic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “No crime in spilled soup, but daydreaming romantic fantasies? Perhaps…”

“How do you know what I was daydreaming about?” She had an urge to stick her tongue out at him.

“Write what you know, Maya.” His eyes were full of knowing.

Maya flushed. “I doubt Shakespeare was ever a power-hungry woman. Soup, Professor Reardon?” She picked up the ladle and filled a bowl. She held it out to him and his hand brushed hers as he took it. She was startled by the electricity in that moment. Maya met his dark eyes and they were smiling at her, but his mouth wasn't.

“Touche!” He winked. “See you in class.” He moved up to the front of the line. Teachers didn't have to queue like the rest.

“What was that all about?” The older woman handed her a new apron, and Maya took off the dirty one, tossing it under the counter.

“Nothing. He just…” Maya looked after him, seeing his tweed coat through the myriad of bright splashes of student color. There was the man who'd dashed all her hopes with the stroke of a red pen. “He doesn't like my writing, I guess.”

Alex raised her eyebrows. “Not doing well in his class?”

“No.” Maya sighed. She'd always done well in writing classes, and she'd won award after award in high school. She'd been sure she would shine in college, and here she was a sophomore, finally in her first writing class, and she was finding out what it was like to be a little fish in a very big pond. She didn't like it at all.

“Why don't you go swipe cards up front?” Alex's eyes were kind. “You're awfully distracted today. I'll take over here.”

Maya gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.” She liked swiping cards. It was easy, and much less messy when she was caught daydreaming about her next story.

She hated the big, round table where the students sat together as they rifled through the pages of each other's work. She would've preferred to hide at the back of the classroom, tucked away in a little boxy desk.

“Hey, Maya.” Connor sat next to her-again. This was the other reason she hated the big table. Personal space was becoming an issue. Somehow his knees and feet and hands kept getting all tangled with hers under cover of the table, and she wasn't quite sure how to stop it without making a scene.

“Hi.” She pretended to be engrossed in the story they were discussing today.

It was a long, depressing piece about a girl whose father had sexually abused her, told entirely from the point of view of the girl soaking in a bathtub. At the end, she slit her wrists. Maya hated it, but she was already famous among the group for loathing unhappy endings. She was just thankful that no one put their names on their pieces, especially after her epic WWII tale of a soldier falling in love with the nurse who took care of him was ripped to shreds last month by the entire group of Salinger-wanna-be's.

“Great story, isn't it?” Connor leaned over her shoulder, and she could smell the tuna they'd served in the cafeteria this afternoon on his breath.

“Is it yours?” She glanced at him. He was what her roommate, Jen, called a “hottie"-blonde, blue-eyed, strong jaw, great cheekbones. Male model material, really. He could pose for romance novel covers, she mused. Still, in spite of everyone else's enthusiasm about Wheaton College going co-ed this year, Maya still couldn't get used to having boys in her class. All the boys her age seemed so immature.

“I wish!” He nudged her with his knee under the table. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

Maya looked up in surprise. She knew she should have been attracted to Connor, all things considered, and she thought she was supposed to be grateful for the attention, but she just wasn't.

“Studying.” She pulled her limbs in and made herself as compact as possible.

“Connor!” It was Betsy Monroe. Bouncy and blonde, she was the perfect feminine bookend for the boy sitting next to Maya.

Maya turned away from their conversation, trying to decide what to say about this story when it came around to her. Poignant was a good word. She'd try that one. She wrote her comments at the end, in her rounded, girlish handwriting. By the time she finished, Professor Reardon had come in and was looking for a place to wedge in. There were only about fifteen of them around the table.

Maya looked up when he set his briefcase next to her, popping it open and pulling out a stack of papers. She noticed what a mess it was, how unorganized, and smiled. So Mr. Reardon wasn't Mr. Perfect, was he?

“All right.” He snapped the attendance book closed and slipped it back into his briefcase. “We're going to have to go on to the next story in the queue. The author of the story we're intending to do isn't here today.”

They all looked around, trying to figure out who was missing. The stories were anonymous, but they could usually tell who wrote what.

“Which one is next?” Betsy asked.

“The Captive Bride.” Professor Reardon held up Maya's story and she shrank even further in her seat, willing herself not to blush. It wasn't working-her face already felt hot. The rest of the class was shuffling through their papers, locating the story. “So, who wants to start?”