Page 45 of A Certain Appeal
My watch buzzes. “Excuse me,” I say, though Wickham is already back to his drink, and I flick to the message at my wrist. It’s Tonic, asking if I’m home. She left a lyra at our place and needs to pick it up. I get a twinge of guilt at the prospect of an easy exit and flit my eyes toward Wickham, who studies his now-empty glass.
I don’t know what to do with this information about Darcy. If it’s true, it’s horrible. Even if Wickham’s a flake, who would lie about something like this? Then again, who would deny someone their inheritance? Barring sociopathy in one party or another, neither makes sense.
“Shoot. A friend needs something from my apartment. I don’t want to bail, though. Are you up for a walk?” I’m not sure what answer I’m hoping for but give him an apologetic smile.
“Another sacrifice for a vengeful goddess?” He raises his hand for the check. “My pleasure.”
I sit on the rim of the bathtub, tapping my teeth together. Wickham’s in my room. It’s a more intimate setting than I would have preferred, but that’s the downside of my arrangement with Jane: other than the kitchen, there’s no neutral ground. At least I picked up my undies before leaving for work.
I don’t know what I’m going to do with the guy. The business with Darcy isn’t his fault, but Saturday established a higher flake factor than I’m willing to tolerate. Even the novelty of our exchanges has worn off. It’s fun to banter with someone at the show, but going back and forth one-on-one like we do is exhausting.
I look at my watch. I’ve been in here a few minutes. Wickham may no longer be a romantic prospect, but there’s no reason to imply gastrointestinal distress. When I come out, he’s perched on the edge of my desk, eyes on his phone. I make a point of stepping on the squeaky floorboard past the threshold, and he flinches, almost dropping his phone at the sound.
I laugh. “Edgy much?”
“That floorboard is like a gunshot.” He holds up his phone. “Family drama. Another deal I’m working on. My mom’s new brother-in-law wants me to look over some of his holdings.” He rolls his eyes, sliding the phone into a back pocket. “The guy’s a total mess with his investments. I’m trying to talk him down from another disaster.”
“So you’re aman of business?” I ask, though the label doesn’t feel nearly as cheeky as it did the other night.
“Exactly.” He grins. “I should put that on a business card.”
The front door rings and I excuse myself to buzz in the Twins. They arrive a minute later, Ginn tapping on her phone, Tonic greeting me with a smile.
“Thank you for hanging on to this,” she says as I hand her the hoop. “With your and Jane’s setup, you’re the only people I can leave it with and not feel like I’m taking up valuable real estate.”
“Hell-o,” says Ginn, looking over my shoulder at Wickham. “And who areyou?”
“Girls, this is George Wickham. Wickham, these are the Twins,Ginn”—I indicate her—“and Tonic. The aerialists,” I explain, having discussed details of the show with him on the walk home.
Ginn shoulders past Tonic to take Wickham’s offered hand, and I choke back a laugh.Easy, tiger.“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
His face splits into a wide grin. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Tonic glances my way. I point discreetly between myself and Wickham, mouthing, “Not together,” though I appreciate that she checked.
Ginn has no such concerns, continuing to eye Wickham with zero regard for my potential property rights. “Are you familiar with what we do?”
“Ms. Bennet has given me some insight. However, if you’re offering to demonstrate, I’d be glad to watch.”
Ginn doesn’t so much as look at Tonic. “We do love an audience.”
“The practice space is only a few blocks away,” Tonic adds, clearly perplexed.
Another broad smile from Wickham. He turns to me. “Liz?”
“I’m in for the evening,” I say. “But you have a good time.”
“You sure?” he asks, but he’s looking at Ginn, who toys with the charm on the long necklace she wears. He follows the movement of her hand as it sways side to side, between the low—very low—V-neck of her shirt.
“Absolutely,” I insist, relieved at the successful handoff. While Wickham seems brighter than he has been most of the evening, I’m still comfortable ceding any claim.
Wickham follows the Twins out. As I close the door, he flashes me a grin. “Hell of a photo, by the way.” He winks, then trots to catch up with the girls.
Photo—oh!
I shut the door and dart back to my room. I look at the desk and—oh, God—have to laugh. In the center of the workspace is the manila folder with my Meryton designs, open to the five-by-seven print from the card shoot.
“Nicely done, Bennet.” I followed up my recent burst of inspiration regarding Pemberley with updates to a Meryton idea. The card photo was holding my place between the two sections. I pick up the picture, recalling Ming’s comment after the “thoroughly tolerable” burn:“If anyone can turn you down after the Four of Clubs, they’re not worth pursuing, anyway.”I put the photo back on the desk. “Well, Wickham, you failed Ming’s test.”
