My stomach is queasy, which I don’t dare tell Darcy. From the heavy food, stress of the night, Darcy’s maniacal driving, and the huge question looming over my head, my stomach can’t seem to relax.
“Why did you try to fight her, anyway?” Darcy’s voice is softer than usual, and it beckons me to glance at him. His shoulders are slightly slumped, and his typically sharp eyes look heavy and tired under the glow of the passing street lights.
WhydidI try to fight Priscilla? It’s not like Darcy is mine to protect or anything. I barely even like the man. Plus, Priscilla did absolutely nothing to me. But it was that one tiny glimpse into his sadness that so vividly mirrored my own…
Camaraderie. That’s why I tried to fight Priscilla. But he doesn’t need to know that.
“I had enough of everyone looking at you like you were a wounded puppy. That sympathetic stare they kept giving you rubbed me the wrong way. I figured she was the cause, so she was the one who needed the punishment for hurtingyou. When you left the room, I started to come after you. Priscilla ran around the table and grabbed my wrists, saying something to the effect of you needing to be alone to process. I told her you were no longer her concern and shook free of her. Then, Ren ran after you and she grabbed at me again, so I thought I would take care of Priscilla while you dealt with… whatever was going on.”
I watch him as he sits, soaking in my words. Is that a smile I see tugging at the corner of his lips? No, just a trick of the passing light in the dark. To further confirm that indeed was not a smile, Darcy grunts.
“You don’t physically assault people because you don’t like what they are doing or saying. Besides, she didn’t hurt me.”
I press the light above us to get a better look at Darcy. His hands grip the wheel so hard they are bleached white. His hair is disheveled and the tie around his neck is pulled loose. I don’t believe him for one second.
“Look at you, Mr. Marshall. She hurt you, all right. What I want to know is why tonight hurt you, but when she called off the engagement, you were okay, just angry.”
The lump in Darcy’s throat moves up and down as he swallows. He reaches up and turns off the light. “I was fine then, and I’m fine now.”
No, you’re not,I think to myself, but I don’t want to push the issue tonight. There’s another issue I need to press him about.
“So, about marrying you,” I say.
“Never mind.”
“Never mind? After all that?Never mind?” My voice inches into a higher pitch the longer I verbally process. “You mean to tellme that I vomited for no reason tonight? That I faked a possible romantic attachment to you during dinner for no reason?Never mind?”
Under the passing streetlight, I see Darcy strip his eyes from the road long enough to look at me with a raised brow. A strand of hair falls in front of his face, and it gives him a youthful look. “Unless you want to marry me.”
I desperately want to put my face against the window again to cool the burning in my cheeks. “I never said that,” I say, my voice lowering to a mere whisper.
“Then never mind.”
“What are you going to do?”
He sighs. “I guess take a go at this campaign as a single man. The reporter was right, culture has changed.”
“Culture may have changed, but you are still on the Independent ticket. Die-hard Republicans and Democrats alike will be wary of you. We at least need the conservative vote from the people who no longer want to associate with the Republican Party if you are going to stand a chance at winning this thing.” I pause to take a breath. “And that means showing you are a man of traditional values while also being open-minded. That is what the people want.”
I watch his silhouette—a hand reaching up and running through tousled hair.
“I know.” His voice is blank.
“You know I’m twenty-eight, right?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re thirty-nine.”
“And?”
His voice holds no recognition of the age gap between us. I smile. “We are eleven years apart.” Darcy still wears a blank expression. Funny. He doesn’t seem to care about our age difference. I continue. “You’re my boss. We have completely different socioeconomic backgrounds. There would be a lot of talk and speculation.”
Darcy mumbles something that sounds like there is already going to be a lot of talk, but I can’t quite make out his words. He looks my way again, and my heart constricts at the darkness clouded over his eyes. “I’ve already said never mind, Hayden. No need to list the reasons my idea was inconceivable.”
No matter the darkness, I laugh. “Okay, Vizzini.”
Darcy doesn’t laugh. Nor does he comment. But the briefest of smiles glimmers across his face, highlighted by the moonlight pouring through the window.
