Page 60 of A Certain Appeal
I watch his retreat, following his blurry outline on the opposite side of the frosted glass separating the break room from reception.
Ming stands beside me. “I think we’re seeing some signs of temptation.”
I nod, biting my lower lip. There’s zero reason why he had to be the one to bring by the check. He could have sent Marley or a courier, or handled it digitally. And now we’re having drinks...
Ming flicks the side of my boob hard enough that I yelp. I cradle the assaulted breast. “Dickhead!”
She cackles. “I’m definitely putting cups in that. Later, though. If you don’t wear this out with him, you don’t deserve it anyway.”
When I get to the bar, I order a reposado, hoping that the burn will numb the guilt gnawing at my insides. Since Darcy left the office, I grappled with the decision to tell Jane about the rendezvous. Eventually, I elected not to. This is merely a business meeting taking place in a social setting. The check will be the priority.
And when that three-second transaction is complete, I’ll grill him about Charles.
And Wickham.
Darcy appears just as the sting from the first sip of reposado subsides. “Good evening.” His entire aspect is more at ease than it was at the office: broad smile, no tie, and when he hangs his jacket on the back of his chair, his sleeves are rolled up in that casual, appealing way. “How was the rest of your afternoon?”
“Fine,” I say, watching him settle into his seat. The man seems perfectly content—a far cry from the anxiety ball he was at Work It. The bizarre contrast is enough to sideline my interrogation plan. “What was with you earlier? You seemed... off,” I say, unsure how else to describe his behavior.
“A few things.” The slow spread of his smile makes my thighs clench, and I submit an order to all erectile tissue to stand down. “I still can’t believe I forgot the damn check. I guess I was distracted by the possibility of seeing you.”
The admission is kindling to my libido, reigniting the blaze from a very sexy daydream I crafted after Ming left. A throwback to those imagined grovel sessions after I first met Darcy, updated to incorporate Toby’s standing desk, adjusted to achieve the ideal height.
Rational thought cuts in like a bucket of cold water. Obviously, the“distraction” was because of Jane and Charles. I push the desk scenario aside.
“Then you had the issue with your dress and the—garter belt?” he asks.
I nod at the proper terminology while my neck warms at the reference.
“Yes.” He smiles again. “That was... quite a sight to walk in on.”
I arch a brow, unsure how to interpret this exceptional display of candor. However enjoyable my imagined desk-inclusive trysts, he’s still Darcy. Prior to this afternoon, the last time I saw the man, he rushed out of Meryton after all but confirming the worst Wickham had said about him. That was more than two weeks ago, and he’s made no effort to reach out since.
“You’ve seen me in less.Wayless,” I remind him, curling around the yellowing bruise on my ego.
“This was different.Context, as you put it. Seeing you like that in a break room on a Friday afternoon was... surprising.”
I’m tempted to suggest we arrange to make seeing me in my garter belt on a Friday afternoon a little more commonplace, but instead I ask, “And is this unexpected peek of my gams so disorienting?”
“Knowing what you’re wearing under that dress is disorienting.” His voice is rough.
I forget to breathe. His eyes stay on mine, and I go on autopilot, covering with an old standby. “All in a day’s work.”
The intensity leaves his eyes, taking the heat and my confidence with it. It’s like the dimming I saw when I evaded his design question at Pemberley, but worse. Lights out.
He nods toward my glass. “I’m going to get a drink,” he says, voice flat. “You want anything else or are you okay?”
A dull heaviness settles in my chest, but I keep my face neutral. “I’m set, thanks.”
He stands, then pats at the pockets of his trousers, first producing his phone, which he places on the table, then a folded check. He pushes it my way. “Lest I forget.Again.”
I stare after him as he strolls to the bar.What the hell was that?This guy turns on and off like there’s a switch somewhere. I make a comment even remotely like something from the show, and it’s lights out.
Darcy leans into the bar as he waits for the bartender, his closed-off expression lingering in profile. He looks my way, and I let him catch me watching. It goes against every lesson Ming ever gave on teasing, but I force myself to hold his gaze well beyond what would be considered cool or seductive. He smiles, glancing away again. Lights on.
My heart thunders. A one-and-done with him isn’t going to be nearly enough to shake whatever’s going on here. There’s evidence enough of mutual attraction; even the time we got into it atRed, White, and Boobswas kind of hot. But every experience comes with an equal and opposite counter—Newton’s Law of Flirtation and Repellence.
I want the lights-on Darcy, not the dour, dull grump-fest he switches into. Not the Darcy who’s friends with someone who hurt Jane, and certainly not the man who ruined a childhood friend.
