Page 39 of A Certain Appeal
“Hmm.”
I take another drink. “I guess you can relate?”
“A bit.” He looks over my face, attention dropping to my lips before a blink has his eyes to mine.
“Your boss...” He turns his attention to Toby, about whose neck health I am genuinely concerned. “Does he know how you spend your weekends?”
My temper flares, the question sending me back to our tense exchange in Bushwick. “Are you asking if he knows his glorified receptionist moonlights as a glorified stripper, or if he’d care if he knew?”
“I meant if Meryton is something you’re open with at Work It,” he says coolly. “Though if you’re concerned about your performance as an administrator, I suggest you add a signature to your emails. It would have saved us both some stress the other day.”
“You certainly were eager to get here,” I gripe, though his humor has taken the edge off my irritation. Plus, he’s probably right about the email signature. “A few coworkers have come in,” I say, getting back to the question. “It makes for an entertaining Monday when they see me at the front desk and their last memory is of me in my undies.”
“I’m sure they’re fine.” He raises his glass for a drink. “It’s a good memory.”
The comment dances over my skin like a shower of sparks. This guy is a custom suit full of contradictions. Me in my undies is a good memory, while in the moment I was deemed merely “tolerable.” He doesn’t “trust” burlesque, but he liked my peel.
“Who are you right now?” The question falls out of me before I can stop it.
His mouth quirks. There’s a smoldering in his eyes I can’t ignore. It aligns so closely with a look I received from imagined Darcy in a particularly ambitious groveling session that my mouth goes a little dry. I take a restorative gulp of champagne.
“Why do you ask?”
“You’re different here than you’ve been the other times we’ve met. You’vesmiled.”
He chuckles, and I wonder what it would take to get a real laugh out of him. At this point, it would feel like an accomplishment. “Am I not supposed to?”
“Rumor has it you don’t like crowds.”
He winces. “That is an understatement.”
“I’d hate to startle you,” I stage-whisper, and Darcy shifts the tiniest bit closer. His proximity has me edging nearer. “There’s over two hundred people down here. Excluding waitstaff. You sure you can cope?”
“Hmm.” The thoughtful sound is so low, my toes curl. “Now that you mention it, I think I’ve hit my threshold. Would you be interested in a better view?” He points to the second level, which I haven’t had the chance to explore. Centered on the upper floor is a large window, like an announcer’s box at a stadium. “My office.”
I toss back the last splash of my champagne, and there’s a good chance I’m flinging away my better judgment in the same movement. This is definitely a questionable decision, but I can consider my motivation later. “Lead the way.”
CHAPTER
11
Upstairs, the door to Darcy’s office is open, and he gestures for me to step in ahead of him. I’m immediately drawn to the framed black and white photograph of Pemberley’s exterior dominating the opposite wall. The venue’s name is spelled out in lights on a wide marquee, a feature that sadly no longer exists, but the distinct sunburst above the front doors is visible, and the tile on the front step is the same. The brick building’s been maintained so well that aside from the missing signage, the photo could have been taken yesterday.
“Opening night,” Darcy says from behind me. “Or close to it. Pemberley was originally a vaudeville club, but it never brought in the crowds like the Palace or places on Broadway.”
“Really?” I say, still examining the photo. “You should put all that on the website. The photo, too. It’s fantastic.”
“That’s—that’s a very good call.”
Footsteps sound against the hardwood floor, then soften to a whisper over carpeting. I turn to find him at a desk. He picks up a pen from the broad surface, then jots something down on a yellow legal pad; he knows a good idea when he hears it.
I look over the room. The space is tidy but lived-in, with a number of curios to plunder for secrets about their owner. The far wall is bisected by a deep-blue curtain—it must be the window I saw from downstairs—and below it is a table bearing a series of framed photos.Jackpot.
First is a photo of Darcy in a cap and gown beside a stern-looking, mustachioed older man I assume is his dad. Next is a shot of an elementary-age Darcy in a school uniform, standing, based on the sunburst above him, outside of Pemberley. His gap-toothed smile is brilliant. It makes my chest go a little gooey: he loved this place even then.
“Ah!” I pick up the next picture, featuring a familiar, perpetually grinning blond in what appears to be a small boat. Charles’s navy tank has “Cal” across it in yellow letters, and I realize I’ve solved the mystery of Thor’s calluses and physique: Jane’s beau is a rower. This must be his college team. I look at the rower behind him—
Darcy. The photo’s captured him midstroke, arm muscles bunched as he pulls the oars toward himself. Charles is in the same position, but the focus in Darcy’s face is far moreeffective.
