Page 10 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

I’m not one to think things happen for a reason, but I’m sort of wondering if this conversation was meant to be, because I’m now completely cured of wanting to go with someone. There are apparently worse things than having no one to play my Mr. Darcy.

I will happily go to Pride and Prejudice Park all by myself now.

ZANE

A text exchange between Zane and Amelia, Wednesday, September 11, 9:17 a.m.

Amelia:Zane, you HAVE to go with Macey! Please!

Amelia:Seriously, please go with her. I’d owe you so big! Whatever you want!

Amelia:PLEASE

Zane:Stop texting me

Amelia:PLEASE

Zane:Blocking you in 3 . . . 2 . . .

I LOOK DOWN AT MY smartwatch, which has just vibrated against my wrist, letting me know that my heart rate is above normal. I should have never turned that feature on. It started buzzing on Monday, when I realized just how badly I’d screwed up, and two days later, I’m still getting warnings.

“Zane,” my dad says, a large cherrywood desk separating us. It’s the second time he’s said my name—or maybe it’s the third. The many thoughts weaving in and out of my brain are making it hard to stay focused.

“I ... don’t know,” I finally say, voicing the loudest thought currently swirling around in my brain.I don’t know.

The words offer zero comfort, and my smartwatch vibrates again. The only other time it does this is when I’m watching the Dallas Cowboys play. Until right now, they’ve put more pressure on my heart than this job has. I really need to find a new team to root for.

“Well,” Warren Porter says on an exhale, leaning back so both arms rest on the large brown leather chair he’s sitting in. The lines between his eyes are etched deeper right now, making him look older than his fifty-five years. “That’s something you’re probably going to want to figure out.”

“I know,” I say. But what is it that I need to figure out? Whether I want to run a multimillion-dollar company my great-grandfather started? I thought I did. I’ve basically been raised to take the helm since I was young, back when my dad would take me to visit the quarry to watch the massive machinery at work. I loved seeing the cranes lifting enormous stone blocks, then seeing them transformed into something useful, and knowing that someday I would be in charge of it all.

But right now, it all feels like too much. Maybe it’s because I made a giant mistake—tens of thousands of dollars’ worth. And if it’s not fixed, those tens of thousands could turn into hundreds of thousands. The problem is, I don’t know how to fix it. When I signed the contract for Foothills Stoneworks, my family’s company, to provide all the interior and exterior stone materials for the luxury condominium buildings in Folsom with Summit Ridge Developments, I thought I was doing what was best for the company. The lawyers warned me about the clause in the contract stating we’d face penalties for delays, but I was sure we could pull it off. I didn’t anticipate the material shortage, and now, because of my carelessness—or foolishness, naivety, whatever you want to call it—we’re looking at daily penalties. Penalties that could hurt the company that’s been in my family for generations.

Now my dad’s asking if this job is really something I want to do, and honestly, how could he not? I was so confident—overconfident, even—just assuming I knew what was best without thinking through the risks. This isn’t a game, and I’m realizing the hard way that running a company isn’t just about signing big contracts and celebrating wins. It’s about making the right choices for everyone involved, even when things get complicated. And now I’ve put us in a position no amount of ambition can fix.

I feel like I’ve failed and am questioning my place here, which is scary because I’ve never considered any other path. I studied business at school, worked summers at the family company—this has always been the plan. I’ve never thought about doing anything else because this is what I was born to do. Literally. But now, sitting across from my dad in this office, the space that’s supposed to be mine one day, with all the framed awards and pictures of my heritage on the walls, I’m realizing I’m not sure what I want.

My watch vibrates again. I take a steadying breath to try and calm my racing heart.

“I think you need to take some time off,” my dad says, and my eyes shoot up from my hands, which I was staring at as they twiddled in my lap.

“What?” I ask him.

“I think you need a break,” he says. “Some time to figure this out. Whether or not you want to be here, Son.”

“Okay, sure,” I say, with really no intention of taking any time. That seems counterintuitive. “But first I need to fix the mess I got us into.”

I’m not exactly sure how I’ll do that. Beg them to let me out of the contract? Plead? Offer up my firstborn child—which, considering that I don’t have kids, or any on the way or even close, since I haven’t been on a date in a long time, wouldbe an empty promise. Plus, this hypothetical child of mine will probably be expected to run this company someday. If Foothills still exists by then. If I haven’t ruined it before even fully taking over.

My dad shakes his head. “I can handle that. I have the reputation and the history with these companies—I can deal with it.”

“Dad, this was my mistake,” I tell him. “I feel like I need to be the one to fix it.”

He shakes his head again. “What I think you need is a break.” I reach up and rub my temples. “When’s the last time you took a vacation?” he asks.

I shrug my shoulder. “I don’t know. Turks and Caicos?”

“That was four years ago,” he says, his brows pulled downward.

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