Page 43 of A Certain Appeal
The two depart. I stay at the window, turning over the evening’s unexpected...everything. Darcy owns this property. Darcy, who is, in fact, a fully realized human capable of remorse and introspection. Who makes a damn compelling flirt and is in search of inspiration for this beautiful space. My attention drifts to the rowing photo: the enticing cut of Darcy’s muscles, the intensity in his expression, and that lower lip I’m finding ever more inviting.
A little shiver passes through me.Goodness.Any more inspiration on that front, and I may have a wholeotherinfatuation to satisfy.
CHAPTER
12
I’m in the break room Monday morning, rinsing an espresso cup, when Toby steps in. Beside him, Wickham leans against the door frame. I arch a brow.
Honestly, I pretty well forgot about him until now. Yesterday passed in a flurry of design schemes, peppered with bouts of totally reasonable and not at all creepy Googling of Mr. William Darcy: Berkeley graduate, crew team captain, philanthropist, and curator of a number of excellent Spotify playlists now in my rotation.
“Liz, hey!” Toby’s greeting is buoyed with relief and a hint of embarrassment. “Could you make us a couple lattes, please?”
“Can do,” I say; he’s never going to learn how to use the damn machine. Toby thanks me and continues down the hallway. Wickham turns to follow.
“Is whole milk good for you, Wickham?” I call. “Or would you prefer something with less substance?”
He blinks in surprise, then chuckles, strolling out.
Pulling each espresso only takes a few minutes. When I pour the hot milk into the second mug, I consider the rings of white disrupting the dark brown. I don’t really care about the other night, but my pride bristles; I confided in the guy, and he didn’t even have the decency to text me that he couldn’t make it. I grab a stirrer and, with a sense of tremendous satisfaction, sketch “ASS” in the frothy milk.
Mugs in hand, I strut to the conference room where the guys have holed up, first distributing Toby’s latte, then Wickham’s. He smiles and winks, and I watch as he lifts the mug for a drink. The surprised laugh that follows has him spilling on the leg of his Nantucket Reds.
Works for me.
An hour later, he stops at my desk. The coffee spill has left a gratifying dark spot high on his left thigh.
“That was some stellar foam art, Ms. Bennet. Did you take a class for that, too, or did I stoke your creative passions?”
My smile is a baring of teeth. “I’d say you got off lightly. ‘Hell hath no fury’ and all that.”
His face falls. “I’m sorry about Saturday. I—I have some history with the space where the party was. I didn’t realize Pemberley was the venue until I was getting ready and...” He sighs. “I couldn’t do it.”
This is not impressive. “You had my contact info. You could have let me know.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I knew I’d be coming by today and would be able to explain face-to-face.” He rocks forward, hands in his pockets. “Ifyou’ll let me take you to lunch?”
I purse my lips, expression purposefully bland. The “history”excuse doesn’t hold water, and there’s no reason to not text. If the plumber can text to tell me he has to cancel, there’s no reason my plus-one can’t. At the same time, he’s apologizing in person, which, while late, and more in the spirit of “two birds, one stone” than I’d prefer, is worth more than a text.
“I have a nail appointment over lunch today,” I lie. “We can do a drink after work—” Shoot, drinks would be an upgrade from the initial offer, and he hasn’t earned that. I frown, as if something I’d forgotten popped up. “It would have to be in Brooklyn if you wanted tonight.”
“Brooklyn works,” he chirps. “You’re in Park Slope?”
I nod. The N train might make this too easy. He should at least have to transfer. “Cobble Hill?”
“If all it takes to earn my way back into your good graces is the G train, you are indeed a benevolent goddess.”
“Keep working on that goddess bit,” I tell him, though my ego preens at the stroke. “I’m still on the vengeful side. A few sacrifices should edge me somewhere less volatile.”
He holds a fist to his heart, bowing low. “I am ever your humble servant.”
“Don’t grovel. We’ll meet at Clover Club at six thirty.” I dismiss him with a regal wave.
“I look forward to it.”
Head high, I gesture to the coffee stain on his leg. “And change your pants, acolyte.”
Wickham waves me over to the bar and I settle onto the vacant seat beside him. Clover Club’s tufted leather stools are beasts, twice the sizeof a normal seat. Not an efficient use of space, but I like the way they keep the bar from getting too crowded.
