“My kind of place!” she laughed, unwilling to give him an inch. “Trust me. We are gonna have so much fun, you’ll pee your pants!”
He looked horrified, and she just laughed again.
Holding his hand tightly in her grasp, they pushed through the crowd. The adrenaline-inducing“Boot Scootin Boogie” songpulsed through her veins, and she practically danced to the bar with her man dragging behind.
She smiled at the memory, then sipped her wine.What an amazing night.
From resting against the edge of his barstool between his spread legs with his arms wrapped around her, to laughing as they pictured people naked, the entire night unfolded better than she expected. He, with his bourbon and she, with her martini, the uptight Fitzwilliam Darcy unraveled to the music he’d swore to hate forever. She’d never had such fun on a date before.
Some of his mannerisms surprised her but further endeared him to her. When he was nervous, he ran his hand through his hair, and when line-dancing, he looked over his shoulder at her after tricky moves as he sought her approval. He’d smile, maybe wink, then go back to concentrating on getting the steps right. He was also a natural, demonstrating a little western swagger when he danced. She learned a lot about him, primarily his deep-seated insecurity when venturing outside the tightly controlled Darcy world. It amazed her that Anne’s offspring wouldn’t be a replica of her joie de vivre spirit.
Then again, she wasn’t anything like her mother. When it came to sharing her past with William, she avoided disclosure of her screwed up family. Back in Wyoming, a boyfriend dumped her in fear of her becoming her mother one day. That shit was scary-real for men, and she didn’t want to risk losing William no matter how stable her agency, which she’d saved by the skin of her teeth. Eventually, she would tell him how she was her mother’s scapegoat for everything, especially once her sister Jane moved to Queens. She’d been living her own life away from dysfunction for far too long to start sharing it again with any of them, no matter how much she loved them. But for her elder sister she’d make the exception.
The jukebox changed to a Keith Urban ballad and William took her into his arms, holding her close. She floated, swayingto“Parallel Line,”as if the lyrics were written just for them—tonight—and what lie ahead when they left the bar and tomorrow and maybe forever. She loved him and couldn’t wait to show him just how much.
“Lizzy,” he whispered into her ear. “I’m glad we came.”
“Told you so. You’re a natural cowboy.” She grinned.
“I’m having such a great time. Thank you.”
Turning her head, she caught his lips in hers. “Me, too.” Overwhelmed by her bursting heart and euphoria, she breathed, “Do you feel it, William?”
“I feel ... so many amazing things, all of which are because of you.”
“Ditto.”
He pulled her closer, and she rested her head on his chest. Similar to when she painted, here snuggled in his embrace with his strong arms surrounding her, she felt herself. Safe. Loved. Content. Happy. Respected. Appreciated. She wanted to cry from joy.
“That naïve girl is long gone,” she whispered, allowing herself to address the endless abyss in her heart. “Fool.”I hope you at least found happiness, William.
She turned her thoughts to George, and her instinct internally screamed. She’d survived the worst childhood imaginable, salvaging what little dignity she had left before the die was cast. She’d forged a new path: her path. For all that life, horrible decisions, and persuasive interlopers threw at her, she had been the one to pull herself up by the bootstraps and go forward, desperately trying to hold onto her positivity. If life had taught her nothing else, it had taught her to listen to her instincts. She downed her wine, considering whether she would rather remain single rather than marry a self-absorbed poser for unrealistic reasons. She once swore she would only marryfor true, enduring love filled with loyalty, respect, and open communication.
Emptying the wine bottle into her goblet, she sat back in her chair, mind repeating George’s accusation of her being a failed watercolorist. She was only a failure because painting from a dark place was not her style or a place she wanted to share with the world. She also lacked the ability to leverage her internal light to do any piece justice. When Anne died and William ghosted her three times (not that she was surprised,) she had lost all inspiration.
TEN
June 10
“I have given you enough time to deliberate. Either give me your answer by the end of the day, or I’ll withdraw my very generous offer!” Darcy barked into the phone before hanging up.
He turned in his desk chair to face the eighty-story midtown view from his office window. Yes, he was in a shit mood, still angry with himself for indulging in Lizzy’s memory. With eighteen days left to his wedding, there was no room in his already complicated life to fantasize about his ex—titillating as it may be—at the right time, of course.Not titillating! Dammit! No!! It’s never the right time to think of her!
The trifecta of stress of the Sonic Defense deal falling through, the closing on the townhouse, and the fast-encroaching wedding date further exacerbated his miserable attitude. Not to mention that Beanz’s sister’s Hampton wedding was in a couple of days and he would be sharing a suite with his fiancée for the first time. Yeah, he’d better get used to it. She was going to be merciless about wanting sex before their wedding.
Picking up his mobile, he tapped Beanz’s image on the home screen. “Yeah, hey. I want to go with you to drop off the broker application. After reviewing some of my mother’s artwork, I have a few specific requirements for our representative. What time should I meet you?”
“Actually, I didn’t count on you coming with me, so I made other arrangements,” Beanz said.
He sighed. “I distinctly remember you stating that you wanted me in on the process from the onset. Now you’ve changed your mind? I thought you liked the broker?”
“I think the broker is perfectly suitable for our needs.”
“So, what’s the problem? ... Beanz ...”
“There’s no problem, butIdistinctly rememberyousaying you trusted me to handle it alone,” she protested.
“Fine. You’re right. I do trust you. Just make it clear that I’m a traditionalist because if I get saddled with a Dali or van Gogh, I won’t be happy. I don’t care how much the resale value will be.”
