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  Cupid’s Bow

  Snow falls hard outside the bar of a Boston hotel. Kay Westscott, a New York novelist and English teacher, is in town attending a writers’ workshop. Math professor Ann Ward is trying and failing to muster enthusiasm for a round of lesbian speed dating. When Kay spots Ann at the bar, she’s instantly attracted, and while it seems a romance writer might easily engage a single professor looking for love, Kay’s humorous flirtations do more to irritate than impress. Ann finds Kay’s pickup lines way out of line, and Kay tries to redeem herself by helping Ann rehearse for speed dating, all the while wishing it was more than just practice.

  The chemistry is undeniable, but Kay and Ann part ways, only to realize they have a lesson in love coming—if they can just find each other again.

  Cupid’s Bow

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  Cupid’s Bow

  © 2019 By Karen F. Williams. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13:978-1-63555-449-6

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: February 2019

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Bold Strokes Graphics

  Cover Design by Melody Pond

  By the Author

  As the Crow Flies

  Meeting Ms. Roman

  The Feeding

  Nightshade

  Love Spell

  Cupid’s Bow

  Dedication

  For C.C.

  They say the third time’s the charm

  For M.L. who makes the best paper airplanes

  And for K.W. whose ratio is golden.

  Cupid’s Bow

  It was late February in Boston that I met her in the lounge of the Sheraton. She sat with a rocks glass in one hand, a pen in the other, lost in a scattering of papers that covered the bar’s lacquered surface. Even though she was sitting on a stool, I could tell she was tall and thin, but beyond that, all I could see was hair. Lots of it. It was gorgeous. The track lighting overhead highlighted a thick mixture of mostly blond, strands of golden brown, a streak of gray here and there. It fell around her shoulders in soft, springy waves, the type of hair that probably bounced when she walked. I wished mine were like that, but my own dark hair lacked body and bounce and looked much better in the shorter style I sported.

  She appeared lost in thought, scribbling notes in the margins of strewn papers, the whole mess seeming to extend her personal space so that the area more closely resembled a desk than a bar. I pulled out a stool, leaving one in between us because, unlike her, I had very good boundaries in public.

  “Excuse me,” I said, before I sat. “Is this bar taken?

  It took her a moment to respond, and when she did she stared blankly over the edge of her glasses, as though she’d forgotten she wasn’t at home and wondered who had let me in her house.

  I smiled, amused by her startled expression, and in one sweeping glance noted every feature of her face. At least the half I could see. The other half was partially covered by the wave of hair falling forward from her side part.

  If pressed to choose my favorite part of a woman’s body, I admit it would be her face. It’s the one part someone can’t cover up, the part you have to wake up to, speak to, look at all the time. I knew right away I could get used to hers, particularly her mouth. Her lips were incredible, full and well defined, and there was something especially beautiful about the outline of her upper lip—so beautiful I wanted to run my finger along its shapely contour.

  “I’m so sorry.” She quickly scooped the papers into a pile to make room for me. “I was so involved I didn’t know where I was.”

  “Neither did I. I saw all this paperwork and thought I’d mistakenly walked into the hotel’s office instead of the bar.”

  “Oh, come on,” she said with an exaggerated frown. “Is it that bad?”

  I got up on my stool, but before I could say anything more the bartender came over. I’d gotten to know him by name during the weekend.

  “Hey, Rob,” I said.

  “Hi there. The usual?”

  “I’m not sure.” I looked at my watch. It wasn’t yet four o’clock. “It might be too late for a libation, too early for a cocktail.”

  “As they say, it’s five o’clock somewhere in the world.”

  “Good point.”

  “Grand Marnier margarita on the rocks, no salt?”

  “You remembered! Yes, please.” It’s amazing how generous tips can improve a bartender’s working memory.

  When he left she turned on her stool, facing me fully and tilting her head in question. “What’s the difference between a libation and a cocktail?”

  “In bartending? A libation is a drink served early in the day—with brunch, say—and a cocktail is reserved for evening.”

  “Hmm…if my memory serves me correctly, a libation is usually associated with religious ceremonies…something offered up to the gods, or goddesses as the case may be.”

  “To what end?”

  She shrugged. “Atonement, spiritual cleansing, I guess…something offered to rid oneself of bad karma or negative energy.”

  “Well then, given the residual negative energy from my last relationship, I should have two,” I joked.

  “Ha! You and me both.” Rob set my drink in front of me.

  I laid a twenty on the bar, stirred my margarita, and out of the corner of my eye caught her checking me out.

  “So,” she said matter-of-factly, “you’re a bartender?”

  “Me? No. I’m a high school English teacher by day.”

  “And by night?”

  “A novelist. I moonlight as a lesbian romance writer.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. What about you?”

  “I’m in higher education.”

  “Oh, well, excuse me.” I gestured at her with my chin. “What do you teach?”

  “Mathematics.”

  “Hmm…that would make you a math professor?”

  “It would.”

  “Wow. You can’t get more unromantic than that, huh?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she said, visibly offended by my raillery. “Are you saying mathematicians can’t be romantic?”

  “Uh…yeah! A romantic mathematician? That definitely qualifies as an oxymoron. I mean, I can’t speak from experience because I’ve never dated a math teacher—specifically for that very reason—but by way of a comparative analogy, math is to romance what Chinese or German is to the Romance languages.”

  “I happen also to be German,” she said in a clipped voice.

  “A German math professor? Ah…so that explains the frost forming on your eyeglasses.” I rubbed my arms. “Oooh. You feel that chill in here, or is it just me?”

  She removed her reading glasses, slid them into the pocket of the white shirt she wore over a black top, and looked at me incredulously. “Have I just been insulted?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not that bright. I’m in lower education, remember?�
��

  “You know what?” Her face soured, like I was a wedge of lime in her mouth and she couldn’t wait to spit me out. “When it’s our turn to talk, please remind me to pass you up.”

  She’d lost me. “Pass me up for what?”

  “Aren’t you here for speed dating?”

  “Speed dating? No. I don’t do anything fast, except drive. I’m here for a lesbian writers’ conference. It ended today, but I extended my stay to see a little bit of Boston.”

  She picked up her glass and shook her head. “You really write romances?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s hard to believe. I certainly hope you’re better at writing them than you are at having them.”

  “Oh, absolutely. My fictional lovers are the best. I don’t know what it is about those women, but they have an incredible knack for saying all the right things at the right time.”

  This remark made her laugh, even if it came with a roll of her eyes.

  It was true, though. As much as I wanted an everlasting relationship, I’d never found anyone who stuck to the script, so to speak—not the way they did in my novels. Inevitably, the beauty of the romance would fade, and when the romance went out the door so did I. Now approaching middle age, I found all my relationships combined amounted to no more than an anthology of unhappily-ever-after stories.

  “So, in other words,” she said, “you only like women who follow your script? That makes you as cold and controlling as a German mathematician.” She rubbed her arms, mocking me. “Oooh…you’re right. I’m starting to feel that chill in here.”

  I laughed out loud, oddly enjoying our pejorative discourse, this rhetoric of insult. I liked her. A lot. And my romance-writer instincts were telling me she liked me, too. A little bit. Maybe. Maybe not.

  “What name do you write under?” she asked.

  “Why? In case speed dating turns out to be a flop, which it will, and you find yourself in the mood to cozy up with a good romance novel?”

  “Something like that.” She smiled, a soft, almost seductive smile, and looked me up and down appraisingly.

  “Kay Westscott,” I said.

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Yes. But tell me what interest a straight woman has in reading a lesbian romance?”

  “I’m not straight.” She rolled her eyes again. “I’m here for lesbian speed dating.”

  “You’re kidding me. Here at the Sheraton?”

  “They hold the event monthly in one of the conference rooms.”

  “Geez, between speed dating and the writer’s conference, the Sheraton is infested with lesbians this weekend, huh?”

  “A quite heavy infestation, it appears. But I’m sure management much prefers us to bedbugs.”

  This time we laughed together, and I was just about to ask her name when someone called out mine. I turned on my stool to see Michelle, a fellow writer, and her wife, Rose. They’d decided to extend their stay as well before heading back to Oregon, and being solo, I’d invited myself to tag along for an early dinner.

  “Hey, ladies,” I said as they approached. They looked at my companion and then at me, obviously eager for an introduction. “Michelle, Rose,” I said, “I’d like you to meet…um…my current wife…uh…” I cleared my throat and looked to the professor for help.

  Clearly unamused, she shook her head as if she’d had just about enough of me. “Ann,” she offered, graciously smiling, and extended her hand to each of them.

  They exchanged pleasantries, Rose asking why she hadn’t noticed her at the conference, Ann saying only that she lived in the area and wasn’t here for the conference. Michelle caught my eye just then and arched an eyebrow suspiciously. She knew me too well. I winked, and she got the hint that I wanted a little more time alone with…Ann. She gave me the thumbs-up and a moment later took her wife by the hand and dragged her along the bar to sit a few stools away from us.

  “So, Ann…” I said, returning my attention to her and holding back a smile. “You have a wonderful mouth, incredibly beautiful lips.”

  “Whoa,” the unromantic math professor answered harshly. “That’s crossing the line, don’t you think?”

  Her response came as an unexpected reprimand, and I was taken aback. “I said you have beautiful lips. I didn’t say I wanted to kiss them, did I? Not that I would be strictly opposed to engaging in such an activity if forced to do so, but I didn’t say that. What if I’d said you have beautiful ears, which I can’t see because of all that hair, or a nice nose, which you do—would that be any different? Geez…it was an honest compliment. I’m sorry.”

  “No…I’m sorry.” She sighed. “I should have just said thank you. I get uncomfortable around aggressive women. They throw me off balance.”

  “Aggressive?” I put my hand to my chest. “Trust me, if I were aggressive I’d have you by the hand right now, taking you up to my hotel room. And you’d be going home a lot happier than you’ll leave after speed dating tonight,” I added as an afterthought. I felt rejected, wrongly accused, and turned to my margarita for comfort. “Besides,” I said, mumbling into my glass, “you look as long and lean and agile as a cheetah, so I’m reasonably confident you could outrun, if not fend off an aggressive woman.”

  “But it’s not my nature. I’m a pussycat. My instincts would have me climb a tree and hide.”

  “You don’t think I could get a cat out of a tree?”

  “Climbing up after me would be a rather aggressive move, wouldn’t it?”

  “Who said anything about climbing? I’d just put a bowl of food on the ground and wait for you to get hungry and come down. Then I’d nab you.”

  She smiled and grew quiet, almost bashful, and looked at me sideways. “Would you really have wanted to take me to your hotel room...if you were aggressive?”

  Suddenly I felt as shy as Ann looked. Our eyes locked, and when I opened my mouth to speak nothing came out.

  “What’s wrong? Is the writer at a loss for words?”

  “She is,” I said. “And it’s probably for the best. If the writer answered in the affirmative, she’d probably have to endure another reprimand for crossing the line.”

  We stared at each other, and for a moment the sexual chemistry was palpable. I ran my hands over my face, trying to sober myself from the dizzying effects of desire. “Listen,” I said, desperate to keep her company a while longer. “What time does speed dating start?”

  She looked at her watch. “Half an hour.”

  “Then I have a proposal.” I motioned to the bartender for another round. “Let me buy you a drink, and if you’ll explain the rules of speed dating, I’ll help you practice.”

  Ann was silent for a moment and then in a hesitant voice finally said, “Okay.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back and out of her face, but it only fell forward again. “Well, we split into two groups. Group A stays seated along one side of a conference table. When the moderators have us begin, people assigned to group B move from person to person in group A, switching every three minutes until everyone’s had a chance to talk.”

  “Three minutes? That’s all you get with a potential suitor?”

  “That’s all.”

  I slid off my stool to close the distance between us. “And I see you’ve been making up questions?” I asked, nonchalantly occupying the stool that had separated us.

  “Some are mine. Others I’ve taken from a book of speed-dating questions.”

  “There’s actually a book for serial speed daters?” I gestured toward the thin paperback partially covered by her papers. “Is that it?”

  “I’m not a serial speed dater. This is only my second time.” She finished her first drink and pushed the empty glass away.

  “Well, since you’re back for a second run, let’s hope tonight goes better than the first.” I straightened myself and rubbed my hands together as the bartender brought our drinks. “Ready when you are.”

  Ann checked her watch. “All right. I�
��ll ask you questions for a minute or two, and then you can ask me a few.”

  “Got it.”

  Ann faced me squarely. “What do you consider one of your best qualities?”

  “Hmm…my best qualities? Let’s see…” I took a deep breath and exhaled. Suddenly under pressure, I couldn’t think of one good thing about myself. “Gee…that’s a hard one.”

  “It’s a simple question, Kay.” She glanced at her watch. “You’re taking way too long.”

  “That’s because you’re putting me on the spot…asking me to brag.”

  “It’s not bragging. Just say something positive about yourself.”

  “Um…” I threw my hands in the air. “I’m generous. How’s that? Generous to a fault.”

  “Good. And what would you consider one of your biggest faults?”

  Another hard one. I scratched my head, then reached for my margarita, but she stopped me before I could get the glass to my lips and almost made me spill it.

  “Put that down,” she ordered me. “No drinking during speed dating. It takes up time.”

  “This is so ridiculous. How can anyone do this in three minutes? I feel like you’re clocking me with an egg timer.”

  “Well, you’re almost poached, and you’ve only answered one question. Come on…think…one fault,” she said, keeping me focused.

  “Okay…I’m generous.”

  “You already said that. It’s not a fault.”

  “Yes, it is. I said I’m generous to a fault.”

  Ann pushed her hair out of her face again and shook her head sympathetically. “You’re doing terribly.”

  “I know. Ask me another.” I squirmed on my stool. “Something easy.” While she sorted through her papers, I defiantly grabbed my glass again and took a big gulp. “I’m sorry, but I really needed that. The pressure of three minutes is paralyzing my brain. Who came up with this three-minute rule, anyway? Whatever happened to a leisurely three-hour dinner date where a couple can engage in relaxed conversation?”