“I didn’t say you were. You’re just judgey.”
“We’ve been over this.” I wanted to roll my eyes.
“Tell me,” he said, leaning closer. “What do you think her story is?”
“The waitress?” I glanced toward where she had disappeared to prepare the check. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.” Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest and settled back into the booth.
“Fine.” I shrugged and pursed my lips. “Let’s see…she’s wearing all black, skirt’s way too short, fishnets, too much eyeliner. A little Goth. She has a Janis Joplin tat on her wrist and is at least twenty-one, wearing pigtails.”
Jeremy nodded. “So, what do you think?”
I tapped my pen against my planner. “I say her parents are divorced, she’s really into astrology, and she’s studying either Psych or English, but she’s taking a break right now because she needs to find herself. Oh, and she’s really into poetry. Like really into it.”
“Wow.” He looked impressed. “You got all that from her clothes and a couple of tattoos?”
“Yes, but it’s a moot point because we’ll never—”
“Excuse me,” Jeremy said to the waitress, who had returned with the check.
I gave him a don’t-you-dare glare, which did nothing to dissuade him. The waitress was smacking gum, which made me think a Psych major was a safer bet.
“Would you answer a couple of questions for us?” he said.
“Um, like what?” Smack. Smack. Smack.
“We’re just taking a survey,” Jeremy replied. “For a Psych class.”
I rolled my eyes at that. He pulled out his wallet, extracted a twenty-dollar bill and tossed it on the table next to our check. “We’ll make it worth your while.”
“Go ahead, shoot,” the waitress said, resting her tray on her jutted-out hip and smacking her gum double-time.
Jeremy grinned. “Great. First, are you parents married or divorced?”
She leaned back and scratched her wrist and laughed. “Di-vorced,” she said. “Like totally divorced.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and gave Jeremy a semi-smug look. But I didn’t want to get too comfortable.
“What’s your astrological sign?” he asked next.
“Oh, I’m a super-Gemini,” she responded without blinking an eye. “My sun sign is Cancer, but my astrologist says my moon is total Gemini.”
“Great,” Jeremy replied, refusing to look at me. He was frowning a little. “Just one more, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” she replied.
“At the risk of this sounding like a really bad pick-up line, what’s your major?”
“Oh.” Smack. Smack. Smack. “I was totally into Psych for a while, but then things got weird with my mom and stepdad, and I had to go home for a while and well, right now I’m just kinda working and—you know—figuring things out.”
“Are you at all into poetry?” I asked, giving Jeremy the smuggiest of the smuggy-pants looks.
Her eyes went wide. “It’s, like, so, like, funny you should say that, because I totally just started reading this amazing stuff by Bukowski, and I’ve been writing a little on my own.”
“You don’t say?” I raised my eyebrows.
“Yeah, like that’s really weird. I’ve been thinking maybe I should study English instead of Psych.”
Satisfied, I tossed my own twenty-dollar bill on the table to pay the bill, and stood. “If you like poetry, you should try Shelley,” I said.
“Shelley who?” she asked, still smacking.
“Mary Shelley,” I replied.
Jeremy stood, replaced my twenty with another of his own, and put his hand on my back to usher me out.
“Thank you,” he said to the waitress.
“No problem,” she called as we walked away. “Hey, wait. Can I ask you a question?”
Jeremy stopped and turned to her. “It’s only fair.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
Chapter 8
We were out on the street when Jeremy handed me back my twenty.
“What’s this?” I asked, blinking at him in confusion.
“Never seen money before?” He grinned.
I waved the bill in the air. “I left this to pay the bill.”
“And I’m giving it back to you.”
I shifted my purse strap to the crook of my arm. “But you don’t need to pay. I know you’re watching your money and—”
“I can afford to buy you a soda. Plus, I’m about to come into thousands of dollars.”
Standing next to him really emphasized the difference in our height. “Seriously, you don’t have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything, Meg. I want to.”
His words were so solemn and sincere. His tone made me take the money and put it in my wallet. We were just standing on the sidewalk. I was not sure how to end it all, and it was frankly feeling a little datey. “The nerve of that waitress,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “How did she know I wasn’t your girlfriend?”
The truth was, I was secretly rejoicing the tiniest bit because the waitress had asked him what I wanted to know. Oh, I’d cyber-stalked him over the weekend, of course, but there was a curious complete absence of relationship status. Plus, we weren’t friends online. From the limited info I could glean with him being a friend of a friend—namely Luke—I hadn’t seen overt evidence of a GF, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. But he’d told the waitress he didn’t have one, and then he’d promptly hustled me out of there, probably trying to avoid an awkward moment with her while she asked him out on a date.
It didn’t matter, though, because I’d heard all I needed to know. At least I could rest assured that his beautiful gazelle-of-a-girlfriend wouldn’t come looking for me. That was encouraging. His nonexistent GF would no doubt be a foot taller than me and could step on me with her stilettos or pummel me with her fake boobs.
“You obviously look too judgey to be my girlfriend,” he replied with a smile. There were those perfect teeth again. I’d always had a weakness for good teeth. Must have been the damn braces. Harrison’s teeth were perfect, too. Okay, so maybe Jeremy did meet a couple of requirements from my Future Husband Checklist. Wait. What had Jeremy said about me being judgey?
“Hey, I might be judgey, but I was right,” I pointed out.
“Don’t be smug,” he replied.
I shrugged. “In addition to being judgey, I am smug.”
He shook his head. “Fine. I’ll admit sometimes what you see is what you get, but that’s not always true.”
“It’s mostly true.” I sighed.
“You’re stubborn.”
“Yes, stubborn, judgey, smug. No wonder I’m still single.”
His eyes narrowed on me for a fraction of a second. “Yeah, that reminds me, you never told me what happened with your doctor boyfriend.”
I frowned. “How did you know he’s a doctor?”
“Luke told me. He’s a history professor like you, right?”
“Right.” I nodded slowly. It felt too weird to talk about Harrison with Hotty McFox. “It’s a really long story and it’s getting late and—”
“It’s barely past seven,” Jeremy pointed out.
“Which is getting late for me on a school night.”
He arched a brow. “Are you serious?”
“Well, not seven itself.” Oh, boy. My nerd flag was flying high. “But by the time I get home, have dinner, and grade some more papers—”
“I can help with that.”
“Help me grade papers?” I gave him a skeptical look.
He pressed his lips together as if to keep from laughing. “No. The other part, dinner. I know a great pizza place a block form here. Wanna go?”
“Go?” I blinked up at him. “With you?”
“Yes.”
“To dinner?”
“For pizza,” he clarified.
“Tonight?”
He s
crubbed a hand through his dark hair. “I’m beginning to think I didn’t say that in English. Let me try again. Do you want to go get some pizza for dinner right now with me, tonight?”
“I’m...” My mind went blank. We’d finished our interaction. He’d purchased a Sprite for me. I’d been smug. We weren’t supposed to see each other again until tomorrow.
“I’m...kinda on a diet,” I finished lamely. And I was. It was true. I’d recommitted to my diet yesterday after seeing the evidence of the Häagen-Daz in the trash, and fondly remembering the half a donut from the flight, and the fact that I might just need to fit into my Regency gowns after all. Empire waists hid a lot, but they also could make a pot belly look a lot like a pregnancy.
“First of all,” Jeremy said, “you don’t need a diet.”
What? What was this? A man who said I didn’t need a diet? What sort of creature was he? Harrison would give me a disapproving frown if I so much as mentioned dessert. He never said anything, of course, because that would be rude, but he also never went so far as to say anything as crazy as I didn’t need a diet.
“And secondly,” Jeremy was saying as I tuned back into his words, “most pizza places sell salads, too, if that’s what you’re into.”
I wasn’t into salads. Never was. Never would be. But it was true. Most pizza places did tend to also offer salad. He’d managed to refute my argument, but didn’t the man recognize the universal sign of trying to get out of something? The ceremonial offering of lame excuses?
“I really should get home, but thank you.” I took a step away, toward my Jetta.
“Oh, come on, Meg. I dare you to.”
Dare? Dare me? He dared me to go eat pizza and/or salad with him? I choked on my laugh. “Reverse psychology doesn’t work on me. I’m not five years old.”
“It’s just pizza.” His tone was low and cajoling. “Come on. It’ll take a half hour. I promise.”
Now that was an argument I could get behind, one that appealed to my sense of time-management. I sighed. “Okay, fine, but only half an hour, and no asking personal questions.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” He led the way down the street, but paused to ensure I was at his side. Which was also nice. Harrison had a tendency to walk ahead of me because his legs were so much longer, and when I asked him to wait, he’d tell me I was walking too slow.
The pizza place was a hole in the wall around the corner. When we went up to the counter and ordered, Jeremy paid and I let him. Even for a woman with a Herstory bumper sticker, I had to admit it was nice to not have to pay individually like Harrison and I always had. It just seemed more efficient when one person paid.
Jeremy ordered two slices of pepperoni and mushroom and a Coke. Turning up my nose to salad, I ordered one slice of cheese and another Sprite. The slices were huge and greasy and smelled delicious.
“What about your diet?” he asked when we sat down with our pre-made slices, nodding to my pizza.
I shrugged. “I can eat this,” I explained, taking a bite of ooey-gooey cheesy perfection.
“You can?”
I chewed and swallowed. “Yeah. It’s sort of a diet I made up. I call it the half-ass diet.”
Jeremy nearly spit his Coke. “What?”
“Um. Half-ass.” I bit my lip, feeling self-conscious about my made-up diet.
“How is it ‘half-ass’?” He took a bite of his own slice.
“I’ve been on it since June, and I’ve only lost seven pounds.”
“Better than gaining weight,” he offered.
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. But it’s slow-going. Mostly because I do things like eat ice cream and donuts when I feel like it. Oh, and pizza.” I lifted my slice and took another big bite.
“I’m sorry if bringing you here ruined your diet,” Jeremy said, watching me with obvious pleasure.
“Nah,” I replied. “Like I said, it was half-ass to begin with.”
He laughed at that. “They sell ice cream here too,” he offered.
“No way. I had enough of that the other night. Way too much, in fact. But I had a good excuse.” Damn it. Why couldn’t I stop talking about my dumb problems with Harrison? I wiped my mouth with a napkin, hoping I didn’t have an errant blob of tomato sauce on my cheek.
“Consolation ice cream, huh?” Jeremy took a bite of his pizza.
I gave him a skeptical look. “Don’t tell me you eat consolation ice cream?”
“No. Guys tend to do more of the consolation beer thing.”
“Then how do you know about break-up ice cream?”
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “My sister.”
“Oh, yeah. She was a year younger than me, right?”
“Yep, and when she and Christopher broke up in college, God, the ice cream she ate that summer.”
“Hey, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
Jeremy took a swig of Coke and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “So, I’ll ask you again, why haven’t you dumped the history professor?”
I rubbed the back of my hand over my eyes. “Do you really want to hear the story?”
“Of course. I need to make sure my competition doesn’t come crawling back to knock me out of my Mr. Darcy status and rob me of my new job.”
I swallowed. That was far too close for comfort to what I’d been thinking. Far too close to what I’d been hoping, actually.
“I don’t think that’ll happen,” I said, hating how mopey my voice sounded.
“What makes you so sure?” He took another bite of his pizza.
I wiped my greasy hands on a white paper napkin. “Because he’s going to the competition with Lacey Lewis instead.”
Jeremy’s face scrunched into a frown, then his eyes widened. “Lacey Lewis? The actress? Holy crap, are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” I chomped on the pizza crust.
“One of the guys at work said she was in town. Studying for a role. Oh!”
“Yep. It’s true.” I popped the last bit of crust into my mouth. “Harrison’s her tutor.”
“Damn.” He blew air into his cheeks. “That sucks.”
“Doesn’t it?” I gave him the best fake smile I could muster.
“I’m sorry, Meg,” he said, somberly.
The empathetic look on his face and the sincerity in his voice made tears sting my eyes, for some reason. I shook my head, needing to restore the funny, friendly vibe from earlier.
“But I still don’t get why you didn’t dump him,” he continued. “He sounds like a dick.”
I bit my lip and sighed. “It’s not his fault. Our boss asked him to do it.”
“Yeah, well, if my boss asked me to toss over my girlfriend, I’d tell him where he could stick it.”
The tears burned even hotter. I shook my head again. Was that true? Would Jeremy really do that? “But Dr. Holmes could recommend Harrison for tenure. Harrison can’t tell him off. That would be reckless. Career suicide.”
“So what? Some things are more important than your career.”
That was near blasphemy, as far as I was concerned. “Yeah, well, some of us care about our careers.”
“So, you’re not mad at him...or upset?” Jeremy prodded.
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” I studied the pattern of smeared tomato sauce on my plate. The blood-red color reminded me of Lacey’s stupid fingernails and dumb high heels. “It was hard to hear it. Hence, the consolation ice cream. But I understand why Dr. Holmes wants him to go with Lacey. It’s good publicity for the department.”
Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck. “Some things are more important than good publicity, too.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I’ve never really been all that emotional about stuff like that,” I said, even as the tears continued to prick at my eyes.
“Only you ate a pint of ice cream after you heard the news?”
Bloody hell. The man had a point. I expelled my breath. “It was just that I’d expected him to—”
I
stopped short. What? Was I about to tell Foxy that I’d really thought a guy who’d tossed me over for an actress had been about to propose? No. No. Not a good idea. I’d keep my humiliation to myself, thank you very much.
“You thought what?” he prodded.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just...sometimes you make plans, and...”
“Everything goes to hell?” He took another swig of Coke.
“Yeah.” I pushed my crumpled napkin around my empty plate. “Everything goes to hell.”
Jeremy glanced at his phone. “Well, look at that. Half hour on the dot, Doc.”
I stood and shifted my bag over my shoulder. “Thanks for the pizza.”
“Thanks for coming with me.”
I took a deep breath. There was only one way to end the evening. “As for the job...I’m formally offering...”
“I accept,” he said with a grin.
“Great.” I grinned back, happy for the melancholy I’d been feeling moments earlier to fade. “The first thing we need to do is get started on your wardrobe.” I pulled a card from my bag and handed it to him. “Meet me tomorrow night at six. At this address.”
Chapter 9
Tuesday night
“No dogs to rescue tonight?” I asked when Jeremy showed up precisely at six at the fabric shop.
“None tonight,” he replied with a grin.
How had I forgotten, in the short span of one day, how good-looking he was? And I had not worn the cute little yellow flare skirt (with pockets) that I had on just for him. No, I had not. Nor had I used the stairs at school today all day instead of taking the elevator in an effort to lose my pizza, ice cream, and donut weight in a fruitless effort to attract Jeremy.
“I did stop by on my lunch break today to make sure Roo was okay,” he said.
“Roo?”
“The dog I saved last night.”
He took his lunch break to check on someone else’s dog? Swoon again.
“How is she?” I pushed my glasses up my nose.
“She’s good. Appreciated the bone I brought her.”
Of course he also brought the dog a present.
A jangle from the back of the shop caught my attention, and Mitchell, the tailor, came bustling into the room. “Dr. Knightley, I do declare! Why don’t ya introduce me to your Mr. Darcy?”
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