A certain appeal, p.11
A Certain Appeal, page 11
When I get to Jane, he’s in the middle of a Gershwin piece, and I’m reminded of Wednesday’s surprise performance. We haven’t talked about the direction his song took that night, but then, I don’t think we need to. If the multiple consecutive evenings he’s spent out with Charles are any indication, Jane hasn’t had to spell things out for him, either.
“How are you doing, darling?” I take a seat beside him.
“I love these corporate gigs. Show up, look pretty—”
“You always look pretty.”
He sends me an air kiss. “I wouldn’t want to do these exclusively, but it’s nice to come up with a set list and go to town.” His fingers dance along the piano keys with a playful flourish.
“Glad I could hook you up, then.” I flick the brim of his fedora; the navy felt coordinates perfectly with his suit. “Plans for after?”
“A movie. Charles hasn’t seen My Beautiful Laundrette!” he says, clearly scandalized.
“Quelle horreur!”
“You’re more than welcome to join, but that dress says you have greater aspirations.”
I sit taller, and the fashion tape anchoring the open back of my dress tugs against my shoulder blades. Tape aside, the dress fits like a glove. Through some tailoring sorcery, Ming darted and tucked the bust of the garnet sheath into cups and transformed the scoop neckline into a daring—but tasteful—sweetheart.
Alas, it seems I’ve wasted the dress’s debut. The party has been going on for more than an hour and so far, Wickham’s a no-show. We’ve texted a few times since our drinks at Ruin, but I haven’t heard from him since yesterday’s exchange about Toby’s new hoverboard. Part of me wants to check with Toby to see if he’s gotten any word, but I refuse—whether because of principle or pride, I’m not sure.
“Go put that thing to work.” Jane bumps me with his hip, nudging me down the bench until I stand. “You’re going to spend hours organizing Ming’s costuming supplies to pay for it, anyway.”
“The party’s all coworkers and their plus-ones,” I say, though he has a point. We are celebrating a merger, after all: surely someone here’s worth a little personal merging. With that in mind, I return to the main gathering area around the lake, feeling out the vibe the way I would at the show. While it doesn’t buzz like Meryton, the crowd has a good, light energy. My performers are happy, the guests are enjoying themselves, and my boss is in a state of near-drooling adulation. I am officially off duty.
I beeline for the nearest waiter, accepting a pair of bacon-wrapped dates with a smile. His not-so-subtle appraisal of me and my dress takes some of the sting out of Wickham’s no-show. Chewing contentedly, I stroll to the railing bordering the lake with an eye on the drink server on the island across from me.
When I came to finalize the layout before the event, I had to sit down to absorb it all. It’s been years since anything I had a hand in designing has been realized, and while I can hardly take responsibility for the grandeur of the space itself, seeing the little touches I suggested was oddly affecting. The tea lights dotting the surface of the lake had been idle doodling; I didn’t realize I’d submitted them with the Work It plans. Marley, Pemberley’s manager, confided that when the owner saw them in my sketches, he insisted on tracking down floating votives to make them a regular feature.
Pride blossoms in my chest as I dwell on the votives drifting below. The lotus styling is a nice contrast to the industrial vibe of the rest of the space. The exposed steel beams and iron railing around the lake needed softening, which is why I suggested the ivory bunting. I didn’t anticipate it would serve as padding, too.
I lean a hip into the railing, drumming my fingernails against the metal. This place is being wasted as a venue for some generic event like this—even if said event has been meticulously coordinated. A proper show here would be incredible.
The bar for Red, White, and Boobs spurred a series of design concepts on the subway ride home that night. When Meryton’s limited scale couldn’t accommodate my idea for a custom chandelier for the Twins to work from, I upgraded to Pemberley. I already had the digital renderings of the current space, so it was easy enough to play with some ideas when I got home.
And on my ride into work the next morning. And during yesterday’s lunch break.
Behind me, Jane starts playing “An American in Paris.” The tune’s urgency is a little out of place, but I close my eyes, letting my vision unfold in time with the rise and fall of the notes. Conceal the out-of-place barn wood at the back of the stage with a dark, solid drape. For the stage: plush red velvet curtains with gold tassels and coordinating bunting for depth. The footlights can stay, but with shells to tie in with the classic look of the curtains.
A collective gasp stirs me from my daydream. The vision peels away in time for me to watch Ginn, not to be outdone by Tonic, finish her own death spiral. She dangles in front of one of the managers from out of town—the Seattle branch, I think—and tousles his hair. He stares in naked adoration. Lord. And I thought Toby was on the verge of drooling.
I search again for a drink server. The one I spotted earlier has moved to another platform and—oh, hello—to get to him I’ll have to pass a very well-filled-out suit on the catwalk. Its owner has his back to me, head angled toward the action on the silks. I move toward my initial target while preparing to steal a better glance at the second. Not that the rear view isn’t appealing.
Appealing and . . . familiar?
I almost choke on my last bite of date. With a startled cough, I spin away, heart rate accelerating as I try to compose myself. This makes no sense. He wouldn’t be here. Unless he’s a plus-one? Or his tush has a doppelgänger . . .
One way to find out. I clear my throat, take in a breath, and turn to face Will Darcy . . .
. . . who is already looking my way.
Heat flares across my skin. I’ve interrupted enough oglers to know the signs of lingering appreciation, and Darcy’s half-second delay before he makes eye contact tells me he’s been admiring the view. He continues to study me with the same vague look the interns get when I change the Wi-Fi password: the situation is possible but incompatible with expectations.
I wait him out, glad I had a moment to process his presence before he discovered mine. Now that the surprise is ebbing and there’s no risk of my choking on finger food, exasperation takes center stage. My date no-shows, yet here we have the guy whose follow-up to condemning my favorite pastime as “manipulative” was to set my world askew. And I’ve caught him checking out my butt. What chaos god did I offend?
I’ll let the butt thing slide—the dress really is flattering, and I know my assets—but seeing him in the space I’ve devoted creative energy to feels like a violation. Part of why I ended up sketching on the ride home the other night was to distract myself from the push and pull of our argument. I’d wanted to write him off completely, but that goddamn smile before he walked out kept teaming up with the look at Meryton, and his comment about catching my peel: “I said I didn’t trust it. Not that I didn’t like it.”
And holy hell can the man wear a suit.
His eyes go wide. It is tremendously satisfying. “Bennet?”
“Darcy,” I say with all the coolness of my ten-second advantage.
The shock shifts to intrigue as he strolls my way, nodding politely to the people he has to move around. He maintains eye contact as he walks.
I roll my shoulders. He is very good with eye contact.
His attention drops down and up my figure, and I suppress a shiver.
He is also skilled at not making eye contact.
“Seeing Jane at the piano was surprising enough, then the aerialists, and now you.” He smiles, resting a hand on the railing. “No one’s going to start taking clothes off, are they?”
The candor threatens to throw me. “Nah. My boss is already enraptured.” I indicate Toby, who is probably going to need a chiropractor after tonight. Has he even moved since I walked away? “He wouldn’t know what to do with himself.”
“You’re with Work It?”
“I’m the executive assistant.”
“That—you’re EBenAdmin.” He says my email handle with meaningful realization. “You have excellent correspondence skills.”
“This is where I ask you how you know that.”
“I was cc’d on some emails. You really came through on that liability insurance.”
“Still not connecting the dots,” I say, though I don’t mind the tease. Is he being coy? The prospect tingles across my shoulders.
“As owner of the venue, it felt like I should be included in that kind of decision.”
The tingle gives way to shock. “Come again?”
“Pemberley’s been in my family for ages,” he says with a shrug. “It’s been several things over the years, but now we’re hosting events. Which I suppose you know, seeing as you rented it.”
I nod, still trying to wrap my brain around the new information. The beautiful space I’ve spent the past three days sketching belongs to him? I’m going to have to look up chaos gods when I get home, because this level of coincidence feels suspiciously divine.
“This means I was the meeting you had to get to the other day. With Jane,” he says, as though coming to the conclusion as he speaks.
“That’s why you were in such a rush.” I grimace. “I hope you were coming in anyway.”
“There’s always something to do around here,” he says with a half smile. “I appreciate that you cited it as a family emergency.”
“It was.”
He nods slowly, eyes roaming my face. “You put a lot of personality in those emails. Professional, but just enough cheek to keep them interesting. I looked forward to receiving them.”
Flirting. This is definitely flirtation. But Darcy? Mr. Tolerable himself, flirting? He who doesn’t “trust” my beloved avocation? It rouses a prickle of annoyance, though the sensation is outmatched by the sudden coil of pleasure twining in my belly.
Which is also annoying.
“Ah! Finn!” he calls to a server bearing a tray of champagne flutes.
The waiter, a young guy with a head of unruly copper curls, stops and smiles. “Will! Good to see you. Would you and the lady like a drink?”
“Bennet?”
“Sure.”
Darcy takes a champagne flute from either side of the tray, mindful to keep the waiter’s load balanced. He hands me a glass and I nod my thanks.
“Is this your last semester at NYU, or will you have another left?”
“One more,” Finn says. “The workload’s been brutal. But the internship is going well. I can’t thank you enough for that.”
“No trouble,” says Darcy. He turns a little, making me more a part of the conversation. “I did my family the disservice of failing to go to law school myself. It would have been a crime to waste those connections. Besides”—he points to Finn—“you did the work.”
Finn nods, going pink in the cheeks. “Thanks anyway,” he insists, and raises his tray. “Sorry, I gotta keep moving these. Great seeing you. I’ll tell Fitz you said hello.” He sends me another little nod and moves on.
“Finn’s interning at my uncle’s law firm,” Darcy explains. “I’m sure Fitz is running him ragged, but it’s great experience.” He lifts his glass. I tip mine against it and echo his offered, “Cheers.” We watch one another as we drink.
“I take it you booked the night’s entertainment?” he inquires.
I shrug, dwelling on the decency—hell, generosity—of his hooking up that waiter. “It would be a crime to waste the connections.”
“I never would have thought about employing the space the way you are. You have a creative perspective.”
“I have experience in design.” The temptation to go into detail collides with my better judgment. I’m not about to admit to the hours I’ve spent fantasizing about remodeling this room, not when he’s been so dismissive of what I’d like to see play out on its stage. “Between that and working at Meryton, I can’t look at a crossbeam without considering how Ginn and Tonic might use it to scare the hell out of people.”
“That spiraling move is harrowing,” he says, and while he’s smiling faintly, I catch a flicker of disappointment in his dark eyes. “Made me glad I insisted on the landing pad.”
I laugh; he was persistent. “If you’re going to let aerialists perform here, you may want to invest in your own. Lugging that thing up from Brooklyn earned me a few enemies on the Two train.”
“The mat’s yours?”
“It’s a bouldering mat. For climbing.”
“That’s right. One of those varied interests of yours.”
He remembers. A pleasant sparking zips up my spine. I crane my neck and locate a corner of the black mat through the legs of the guests. “I don’t know why I moved with it. I only ever climb indoors now. But guests say it’s not bad to sleep on. I can’t guarantee it’s totally up to the standard of some insurance policies, though. If you see the owner”—I hold a finger to my lips—“it’s probably best to play dumb.”
He fights a smile, which does as much for his features as actually smiling does. His eyes make another heart-stopping pass over me. “Jane’s an excellent pianist.” He turns, leaning against the railing. I shift, too, getting a view of Jane chatting with the head of Work It’s HR. Jane carries on playing and laughs at something she says, not missing a note. “Juilliard, right?”
I nod, though the question threatens to rub me the wrong way. While I’m not surprised that it would have come up in conversation between Jane and Charles, I doubt my humble Jane would have shared it with Darcy. More likely, Charles felt compelled to announce his boyfriend’s pedigree to build Jane up for Darcy’s approval.
I wonder how much Darcy might know. “Jane comes from a long line of doctors, so there was some grumbling.”
“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’ve smiled.”
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.”
