“Any reasonable ideas.” I amend.
“Hmm... it’s hard to think of one. I love your name.” This comment makes me unaccountably happy.
“Now I’m going to throw you out for a spin,” he whispers in my ear. “Then pull you back into my arms.” He does exactly as promised, and it’s a whirling delight. The black beads on my dress make a swishing sound as I move, reminding me of soft rain on water. Inside, my emotions fizz, a bewildering concoction of joy and trepidation. When I return to his arms, the expression in his eyes shifts, taking me back to that moment in his kitchen. His eyes fix on my lips. He wants to kiss me. My heart hammers; I want to kiss him. But also, I’m terrified. I am out of my depth with this man.
“Shall we go outside for a breath of fresh air?” he asks. Oh yeah, he’s definitely planning on kissing me. I’m on the brink of panic. Perhaps I should say I need to go home early. Or claim that I want to dance longer. But I refuse to back down from things that scare me.
“Yes, let’s.”
***
We swing by the coat check beforewe go to the balcony. Liam thinks I might get chilly, and I’ll want my wrap. It takes us forever to make it through the crowd. Everyone wants to talk to Mr. Darcy of Pemberley Almonds. A woman of indeterminate age, somewhere between 45 and 70, with brilliant red hair, greets Liam with double air kisses.
“Liam, who’s this?” she asks, eying me with curiosity
“Fiona, this is Lettie Benson. Lettie, this is Fiona McCombs, a good friend of my mother’s. She’s also on Pemberley’s board of directors.”
“Lettie?” she asks. “You aren’t by chance related to Lettie Benson, who married Dean Elliot?”
“Wow! No one ever asks that. I am. She’s my aunt. I’m named after her.”
“You’re the spitting image of her.” Fiona’s eyes soften with nostalgia.
“This is her dress,” I say, running my hands down the beaded skirt.
“Yes, that’s probably what made me think of her.” Fiona steps closer and admires my gown. “We were friends when I lived in Beverly Hills. So sad to lose her.”
“Yes, it was,” I answer solemnly. My aunt’s death was hard on all of us.
But Fiona has moved on to ask Liam some questions about water rights. Liam wraps an arm around me, pulling me close to his side. I savor the warmth of his body. “I’d love to talk to you about that later this week, Fiona. Right now, I’m lucky enough to be with Lettie, and I want to make the most of my time with her.”
“Oh, of course.” She smiles at us indulgently. “Have fun!”
Liam uses this same excuse with nearly everyone who wants to talk to him, and this is a lot of people. I’m surprised to be introduced to Joe Whittaker, who I recognize at once as Noah’s father. He looks like his son, just with gray hair and wrinkles. “This is one of my dad’s oldest friends,” explains Liam. Both men look uncomfortable, maybe because it’s hard to talk about William Darcy, but I sense there’s more at play. The exchange doesn’t last long. Liam uses me as an excuse to get away at least two more times before we make it to the outside terrace.
We stand shoulder to shoulder, gazing at the distant sparkling city lights in the frosty air. “Tell me the truth,” I ask. “Did you invite me because I give you a built-in escape plan?”
“It worked; everyone understood why I’d want to be alone with the prettiest woman here,” he says flirtatiously. “But, Lettie.” His voice becomes more sincere as he angles toward me. “I invited you because I wanted to be with you. You’ve made a night I’ve been dreading so much fun.”
“Even when I was teasing Dr. Debourgh.”
“That was the highlight. I live for a good debate.”
“Do you? Do you agree with your aunt?”
“I don’t read romance, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m more of a nonfiction guy.”
This does not surprise me. I should just be grateful that he reads at all. But something about his tone (maybe it’s his height) makes me feel like he’s looking down at me.
“Let me guess... you like non-fiction because you learn from it. Because you always want to improve your mind.”
“Not improving my mind per se. But I admit I’m not sure what I’d learn from a romance.”
“Perhaps that it’s bad form to call a girl tolerable,” I say, teasing.
“Are you ever going to let that go?” he says good-naturedly.
“Never.”
