Londyn Falls Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Domenico

  dedication

  acknowledgements

  prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  epilogue

  about the author

  Copyright © 2014 Jennifer Domenico

  All rights reserved.

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

  ISBN 13: 978-0-9893828-6-1

  This book is for word lovers and book nerds. For those whose favorite place is a library or a bookstore. It’s for Anglophiles, Bostonians, history lovers, and romantics. It’s for anyone who loves a hot professor, especially an Italian one. It’s for tea drinkers and journal writers and people who love Autumn. It’s for anyone who ever thought they’d never find love. It’s for everyone who has. It is my heart, and I share it with you.

  I’ve been working on this book for a long time. For some reason, Luca and Londyn’s story wouldn’t let me go and when they finally whispered to me how it should end, I finished writing it. I adore the book, and I hope readers will too. The following are a list of people who came along for the ride.

  My beta team: Megan Broussard, Emma Allen, Beth MacMullin, Emma Fitzgerald, Brandi Wa, Katie Davis, and Allison Quattlander. You all were wonderful, supportive, and fun. Going through the beta process was a bit like a group read. I learned a lot of new Briticisms and enjoyed being named the queen of bathroom smut! All of you had a hand in creating the book it is today and I heart you all hard.

  Brad Olson with Brad Olson Photography for shooting the lovely cover image, Brittany Hertig for providing her beauty as the cover model, and Bookfabulous Designs for the cover design. The back is just as beautiful as the front. I love it so hard.

  Ashley Argyle with Inktip Editing for the painstaking work she did at every step. I loved the smiley faces, comments, and the nerd moments you had, as well as the authenticity of the academic world you added.

  Kassi Cooper with Kassi’s Kandids Formatting for “makin’ my words pretty.”

  More Words PR for supporting my work and helping me with the release of this book. You ladies rock!

  And finally, to Londyn and Luca for showing your love story to me.

  “TODAY WE’RE HERE WITH bestselling author LD Lancaster in her home discussing her phenomenal success in the publishing world the last five years. We’re very excited to be here with you today, LD, since we know you don’t grant many interviews.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my chair. I hate interviews, but my interviewer, Kate Winslow, has hounded me for over a year so I decided the easiest way to get her to go away was to give in.

  “I’m happy to have you,” I say as pleasantly as possible.

  “We’re very honored,” she says into her tiny recorder. “I can’t believe you granted this interview and in your own home. Excuse me for fangirling just a bit.”

  I smile. “Thank you for your interest in my books.”

  Kate nods and sticks a pencil through the messy auburn bun on top of her head as she glances down at a list of questions. She’s wearing a floral print sundress and she’s a tiny thing. I imagine less than five feet tall and a hundred pounds. Her personality, however, is boisterous and personable. I find it an endearing quality.

  “LD,” Kate starts, “Our listeners would love to hear what inspired you to start writing?”

  “I always enjoyed writing, even as a child. I just wasn’t sure I could ever make something of it until I was encouraged to write my first book. After my initial success, I started writing professionally.”

  “We’re so glad you did,” Kate says. “I want to talk about all your books, but first I’d like to go back to the one that put you on the map.”

  I nod. I knew from her request she intended to talk about the first book.

  “Can you answer this for us?” she continues. “You’ve always been vague on this topic, but everyone is dying to know if the characters in the first book are based on real people or invented by you?”

  I smile. With so much time past, I see no harm in discussing it.

  “The characters in the book are based on real people. I knew the girl many years ago and I was lucky enough to witness the relationship unfold. It was simply too beautiful a love story not to write down.”

  “You must have had so much in common with her, both being British and all.”

  I shift slightly. “Yes.”

  “Does she know the book is about her?”

  Smiling, I reply. “Oh yes, she knows. I have her permission.”

  “Will we ever get to meet her? How fabulous would an interview with her be?”

  “I don’t think that will ever happen. She enjoys her anonymous life, as does her professor.”

  “Understandable. If we knew who she was, she would never get a moment’s peace.” Kate takes a drink of water. “So, have you thought about writing a sequel?”

  “I’m not sure there is more to tell.”

  “Your fans think so. We’ve been hoping for another installment. Don’t get me wrong, your other books are awesome, too, but there is just something about those two that was so captivating.”

  “I agree.”

  “It must have been absolutely amazing to witness it all as it happened.”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “You were her friend?”

  My eyes shift out the window for a moment. “I knew her well. Well enough to be in her inner circle.”

  “Do you keep in touch?”

  “Yes, although time does make that harder to do.”

  Kate nods and smiles. “I love how you captured both points of view even though you were just an observer. Was that challenging for you?”

  “Every author must use some creative license, I suppose. Especially for the professor’s thoughts. He did indulge me, though, and share
some of his perspective.”

  “Ah, yeah, the professor. Truly swoon worthy. Is he that incredible in real life?”

  “The professor is…” I pause, taking a sip of tea. “He is rather dynamic, yes.”

  “Dynamic is a good word,” Kate replies. “You know the fans on our blog call him Professor Sexy Pants.”

  I can’t help but laugh aloud. “I’m sure he would appreciate that if he knew.”

  “Well, if you see him, be sure and tell him. Some of my favorite parts in the book were when he laughed.”

  “Mine as well.”

  Kate switches gears and rambles on about many more of my books as I obligingly respond. As we chat, my thoughts trail back to the story that started it all…

  BLOODY HELL! I CANNOT believe I overslept. Stupidly, I forgot to turn on my alarm clock last night. How could I miss something this important? As much as I want to lament my forgetfulness, I can’t now. I need to rush to get ready for my interview. It took forever to get this appointment with the Foreign Languages Department and here I am, struggling to get dressed in time to catch the train.

  I can just hear my mum’s nagging voice, “Never prepared, are you, dear?” Well, on that note, she might have a point. I do have a nasty habit of showing up close to late. I like to call it perfectly on time. Rifling through my overflowing sock drawer, I grab a pair of black tights. Wait. Tights in August? Better reconsider. Glancing down at my too pale legs, I desperately wish it was cold enough to cover them up. I squeeze into my plaid knee length skirt and zip it. Shit! It’s a bit tight. No time to change though.

  I need to look extra smart today. Impressing the department head is my only goal. Not only do I want this job, I need it. It’s time to start making my own money and stop living off the stipend my parents provide. But to do that, I need to get there.

  I take one last glance in the mirror and realize I forgot earrings. Normally I wouldn’t care, but this is Harvard University for Christ’s sake. I run to my jewelry box, grab a pair of pearl earrings, and put them in. Good enough.

  In the living room, I see my flat mate sleeping on the couch. Why can’t the girl make it into her own bedroom?

  “Madeleine, wake up.” I shove the slumbering mass with my Mary Jane heeled foot.

  She rolls over, waving her arms above her head. “Wha’…what the hell, Londyn?”

  “You had too much to drink again, didn’t ya?”

  “Maybe.” She grins. “Why you up so early?”

  “Harvard? Ring a bell?”

  Madeleine sits up, her blond hair a tangled mess and the heavy eyeliner she wore the night before smeared around her eyes. The smoky eye look she was going for has morphed into more of a raccoon look. Not flattering. As usual, she’s wearing the same clothes she left in- a tight black dress that makes it clear Madeleine is not lacking in the bosom department.

  “You look awful,” I say.

  Madeleine smiles. “Maybe, but I feel incredible,” she says as she tousles her hair. “You should have seen him- gorgeous. A bit of wanker, though, but aren’t they all.”

  Seeing the remnants of two take away containers on the coffee table, I cross my arms and give a tired sigh. “Did you bring another one of your dirty boys in here again? I’ve asked you not to do that anymore. It’s not safe.”

  “What’s not safe about a quick shag between pals? I knew this one. Wouldn’t kill you to have a go every now and then, would it? These Boston boys are scrumptious.”

  I roll my eyes. “I have to go or I’m going to be late.”

  “You’ll do great. Hey, can you go to Falafel Kings and get me one of those amazing sandwiches?”

  “If I have time,” I say. “I thought you started your no-carb diet again?”

  “Ah, yeah, but I die for those sandwiches. Just a little one, no chips.”

  “Alright, then.”

  “Thanks!” She bounces off the couch and throws her arms around me. “I’m glad you wore the blue cardigan. It has that Fifties va-va-voom factor. Like Marilyn Monroe.”

  “Oh, Maddie, I’m a thousand miles away from reminding anyone of the great MM.”

  “You just did.” She grins and twists a lock of her hair around her finger.

  I roll my eyes and grab my brown messenger bag. “If all goes well, I won’t be back until well after lunch. Wish me luck.”

  “Best of British to you.”

  I cock my head at my silly friend. “I do love how colloquial you are after a trip back home to your parents.”

  “Make fun if you like, but you sound just like me with your equally Essex accent.”

  “I do not have an accent!” I laugh, but I know it isn’t true. In the great city of Boston, everyone notices it. “Seriously, I have to go. Cheers.”

  I fly out the door and down the two flights of stairs to the street. Flinging the door of my brownstone building open, I’m blasted with the hot, sticky air of Boston in the summer. I pull my cardigan off and rush the three blocks to catch the T. If I hurry, I should just make the 9:45 train to the campus.

  I don’t trust myself to drive there, as I seem to be allergic to driving, having had no less than three minor accidents and two speeding tickets in the five years I’ve been driving in the US. I couldn’t take a chance with my record and Boston traffic on such an important day.

  I hurry through the turnstile just in time to get on the train and find a seat. Sinking down into my spot, I lift my thick hair off my neck, brushing stray brown strands from my sweater, and straighten my skirt. I glance down at the gold watch on my wrist, a birthday gift from my big brother.

  Staring out the window, I think about Devon. I could not be more proud of him. Graduating five years ago with his medical degree, he went straight to Harvard to work in their research center instead of a hospital. As long as I could remember, Devon Harper was sure he could find a cure for cancer. If anyone can, I think it very well could be him.

  I have to admit, if it weren’t for him, my résumé might not have been the one to rise to the top of the stack at Harvard. For that, I am grateful. When it’s all said and done, though, I am still the one who has to win over the department head.

  I open my messenger bag and take out the papers I need to find the building, Boylston Hall. I’ll be meeting directly with Professor Luca Di Roma, possibly the most intimidating man on the planet to me. Devon’s lecture giving me tips on dealing with his combustive personality only served to make me even more nervous. Although Devon has had minimal interaction with the professor, he heard firsthand about his reputation from a colleague who used to work closely with him. In fact, it’s well known the professor is overbearing, ridiculously intelligent, and extremely passionate about his work. And here I am, applying to be his assistant.

  Not that my dream job involves getting coffee and typing papers for a maniacal professor, but I have to start somewhere. As accomplished as I am academically, I am clueless professionally. In my mind, I’ve convinced myself that working closely with the professor will lead to future job opportunities where I could use my degree. As soon as I figure out what I want to do.

  The train arrives at my stop, just steps away from Harvard Yard. The courtyard is quiet still, the flood of students not arriving for nearly a month. When I see the building, I sigh in relief. Thank goodness Boylston Hall is easy to find on this big campus, as I only have three minutes to spare. I stop for a moment and put my cardigan back on, collecting my thoughts before walking in. “Here goes nothing,” I say to no one in particular.

  I walk into the vast hall and follow the directions I wrote down. Climbing to the top of the stairs, I turn left, my heels clicking loudly on the tiled floors. Down at the end of the hall, I find his office and knock softly. Hearing no response, I twist the knob slowly.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  Luca Di Roma sits in his large leather chair behind a massive mahogany desk that looks as old as Harvard itself. He’s staring out the window into the courtyard, his back turned to me.


  “You’re late,” he says without turning around.

  I look at my watch, flustered. It’s not possible. “I thought I was on time. I apologize,” I murmur.

  He swings around and glares at me. “I don’t tolerate lateness, Miss Harper; it’s extremely rude.”

  A hot flush creeps up my neck and onto my cheeks, causing my skin to become clammy. This is not the first impression I wanted to make. I stand awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of what to do next. Devon reminded me to smile, but it doesn’t seem possible right now.

  “So,” he says as he taps his fingers on the desk, “Let’s not drag this out further. Sit down.”

  I start to walk towards the chair and trip slightly on a floor rug, spilling the papers in my hand across the floor. “Goodness, I’m sorry,” I practically stutter from embarrassment. Why is this happening!?

  I kneel down and collect my papers quickly, silently cursing my clumsiness. It’s only worse when I’m nervous. Standing up again, I clutch my papers and stare at the imposing man who is suddenly standing before me.

  “I’m sorry about that,” I say.

  The professor continues to glare at me, withering away any remaining confidence I might have summoned. “Sit down,” he says, impatiently. “Are you always so flustered, Miss Harper?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m just a bit nervous is all.”

  “You should be,” he replies stiffly.

  I shift my eyes up to meet his and see disapproval all over his face, but my fear is momentarily replaced by distraction as I gaze at his features. My eyes linger for just a moment on his thick, black hair. He has one of those Roman noses I fancy and a chiseled chin. His features are so well placed and pleasing, he looks as if he were sculpted by Michelangelo himself. I imagine I would find him quite attractive if he wasn’t so damn frightening.

  As he continues to stare me down, I can’t help but gaze up into his caramel colored eyes, framed nicely by black rimmed glasses. Although their color suggests warmth, they stare back at me cold, empty, and humorless. His impeccable attire reflects his aloofness- black pressed slacks and a crisp baby blue button down shirt tucked in neatly. He wears a tie, which I find odd since there are obviously no students around yet. Perhaps he dressed up to interview me?

  The professor doesn’t look like he could be older than thirty, but I know he’s thirty-five. I know everything about his career. He specializes in teaching Italian studies and is one of the youngest professors to earn his position as a department head. He’s written several books on Italian literature that I admire very much. I’ve devoured every word written about his impressive academic abilities, but have found very little information about his personal life. I wonder what he’s like away from work.