Page 40 of A Certain Appeal
I’m about to ask if he still rows when another item on the table catches my eye. I wheel on Darcy, still by the desk.
“William Darcy!” I force a stern expression as I point to the catering tray, where two miniature beef Wellingtons languish alongside a few mini quiches and a trio of bacon-wrapped dates. “Are these from my party?”
“Would you believe me if I claimed I was performing quality control?” At my laugh, his lips pull in against a repentant smile. It’s even more appealing than the rowing photo. “I have a weakness for finger foods. And those Wellingtons are outstanding. I think I’ve had five.”
“There will be plenty,” I assure him, and he starts to cross the room. “Besides, I told Jane and the Twins to bring Tupperware for leftovers.”
“You take care of your own.” He stops by the door. “I need to hit the light, otherwise people can see in from downstairs. Is that okay?”
I nod, and he flicks the switch. The only illumination in the room comes from the brass-shaded lamp at his desk, the warm glow making the room feel suddenly intimate. Some nocturnal instinct has me turn away, granting Darcy the view I caught him indulging in downstairs. The thought of his eyes on me again has me leaning against the table for support.
His body heat buffets my exposed back as he reaches to my right for the curtain pull. “As promised.” The words brush the nape of my neck.How closeishe?
I’m white-knuckling the edge of the table when the curtains part. My legs almost give out altogether. “Oh,” I sigh.
The view is spectacular. From here, the tea lights twinkle like new stars, and the railing’s gauzy bunting is almost ethereal. The sight of Ginn and Tonic on the silks adds to the unearthly vibe, the pair twirling like nymphs out of mythology. The possibilities for this space are truly endless. It’s overwhelming.
After a few moments of silent reverence, I ask, “What happened after the vaudeville show didn’t pan out?”
Darcy’s next to me now; I didn’t notice him move. “Restaurants, mostly, a dinner theater for a time in the seventies. But it’s been vacantfor about ten years now. An aunt wanted to give another restaurant a go but only got partway through remodeling—”
“That explains the barn wood!” I glare at the offending scab of pine. “Ugh. Everyone was doing barn wood then.”
He glances toward the stage, brow furrowed. “What’s wrong with barn wood?”
“Nothing,” I say, deadpan, and grin. “When it’s on a barn.”
“Brutal,” he says, but it comes out with a tinge of approval.
“You asked.” I nod at the window. “So, this is it, then? No aspirations beyond an open venue?”
“It keeps the lights on.”
“Huh.” I let my gaze fall over the room below, glittering with potential. “Kind of a waste, isn’t it?”
Darcy doesn’t reply. I look over at him, and his eyes have gone distant, a slight frown on his face. He seems—hurt?
“It’s safe, though. From a business standpoint.” I have no idea what I’m saying. “That was rude of me.”Ugh. Why do I feel bad?
He blinks as though coming back to himself. “Your word choice just struck a nerve. It’s not the first time I’ve been told I’m failing to meet expectations.”
“Law school again?”
“Among other things.”
I cock my head. “If you didn’t go into law, what do you do for work? Other than Pemberley, I mean.”
“You—” His forehead creases. “You don’t know?”
“I’m comfortable with ‘Will Darcy: Man of Business,’ but I’d imagine you have a more accurate job title.”
Darcy huffs a small laugh. He still looks surprised. “I’m just used to people Googling me.”
“Sorry to disappoint?”
“Not at all. It’s refreshing. I’m a private wealth manager.”
“And are private wealth managers typically Google-worthy?”
