Page 25 of Desperately Seeking Mr. Darcy

“Yeah,” Zane says, giving me a quick dip of his chin. “I think I do want to go. At least, I can try.”

My eyes go wide of their own accord, and my stomach drops as his words sink in.

You are strong, you are brave, you are absolutely freaking out right now.

I thought I had him. He looked like he was second-guessing. I was sure he’d get off in Atlanta and head to Costa Rica.

“Really,” I say. It’s not a question—it’s more like,Are you freaking kidding me?

And there go my cheeks again, heating up.

Because I don’t want Zane to go with me. Because it’s Zane, and having him play Mr. Darcy makes the whole thing feel unbearable. It’s not just awkward—it’s mortifying. If he actually goes through with this, I’ll have to say the lines I’ve been practicing—tohim. I’ll be Lizzy, falling for Darcy, who’s being played by Zane. Freaking Zane.

I don’t think I can do it—and it will ruin everything I’ve been looking forward to. All the excitement I’ve felt about this trip? Gone. Now replaced with something akin to dread because it would just be so embarrassing to cosplayPride and Prejudicewith Zane. No, I need to find more ways to try to convince him to change his mind because I can’t just tell him outright to stick to his original plans—he did jump on a plane for me, after all.

I didn’t know what to say when he sat down next to me. I’ve hardly been able to speak to the man I pined over for so long—and, if I’m being honest, still have lingering feelings for. But when he said he felt stupid, I couldn’t just let him sit there and stew. I feel stupid all the time and it’s a terrible feeling. I had to make him feel more comfortable.

And then my brain and mouth finally got on the same page, and words happened. I may not be the oversharer I usually am, but at least I’m communicating with Zane, saying more words to him than I’ve said in years.

“You’ll have to do a British accent,” I say, my next attempt to deter him. Surely that will scare him off. It’s not exactly a rule at the resort—it’s more of a suggestion—but he doesn’t know that.

“’Ello, Guv’na, fancy a cuppa?” he says, a littlegotchalook on his face. “Or perhaps you’d prefer a spot of tea and a scone, madam?”

Crap. That was actually pretty good. It’s not the polished accent I’m sure we’ll be using this week, but it’s clear he can pull one off. Ugh.

“Or would you prefer an Irish one?” he asks, noticing my chagrin. “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya!”

“I got it,” I say, tamping down the frustration in my tone.

The captain’s voice crackles over the intercom, announcing we’re getting close to takeoff. A flight attendant sweeps by, collecting cups and checking seat belts. It gives me a moment to come up with another idea.

“You’ll have to wear the costume, and a nightshirt and cap to sleep in.” I try again, thinking that Zane, as long as I’ve known him, has always slept in only basketball shorts, and will probably hate the idea of having to wear a nightshirt.

“Hmm,” he says, looking as if he’s considering my words. He holds an index finger up, pointed toward the ceiling. “Maybe I’ll end up loving it and wanting to wear it when I get home.”

“Even a nightcap?” I ask, picturing him in one, the soft fabric flopping to one side, his dark curls peeking out from underneath. He’d probably look rumpled in the most annoyingly charming way, like some Regency-era rogue who can somehow make bedtime attire swoon worthy. Why does he have to look good in everything? This is not helpful at all.

I twist my lips, channeling Amelia, only she usually does that when she’s about to spring something big on someone, and I’m just trying to think of something else to make her brother change his mind.

“Will I have to share a room with a stranger?” he asks before I can come up with something.

“Yes,” I say excitedly, but then realize I’ve jumped the gun. My shoulders fall. “No. You won’t. Since Mr. Darcy is wealthy, you’ll have your own room and a valet.”

“A valet? Well,” he says, a smirk on his face, “I could get used to that.”

Why did I tell him that? I’m trying to convince him not to come, and I think I just made it sound more enticing.

“Are you done?” he asks, his slight smile emphasizing a dimple on his cheek. It’s a look I remember from a long time ago when we were close. Like he knows me. Like he gets me.

“Done with what?” I ask him.

“Done trying to make me change my mind.”

“That’s not what . . .”

“Macey.” He cocks his head to the side, a knowing look on his face.

I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortable for being called out like that, and feel heat on my cheeks. “I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into, that’s all.”

---