“What’s next?” he finally asked.
“Oh, right.” I shook my head. “Now we do a three-step movement. It’s actually pretty simple once you learn it. Left foot forward, to the side, come together, one, two, three. Right foot forward, to the side, come together, one, two, three. Always use the opposite foot for the next step.”
I pulled my hands from his and demonstrated the steps for him so he could watch me from behind. He moved into place at my side and mimicked me.
“Perfect,” I said after we’d done it about a half a dozen times. “I’ll go backward first so you can get the hang of it.”
I turned into his arms and my gaze met his. He looked so solemn. I gave him a tentative smile. “On the count of three,” I said, and we took off waltzing, my arm on his shoulder, his on my waist, our other hands clasped together far out to the side.
“One, two, three, one, two, three,” I whispered for several minutes before I could feel he knew what he was doing.
He swung me around effortlessly and took the backward position while I continued to count.
We danced that way for several minutes until he finally asked, “How am I doing?”
“You’re a dream,” I replied. Seriously, I’d never known anyone who’d picked up on it so quickly. Harrison and I had spent many an awkward moment stepping on each other’s feet before we’d mastered it.
“Have you done this before?” I finally had to ask after we’d made our way entirely around the space in the zig-zag pattern waltzing was famous for.
“No, but I had to do some dancing for the school play when we did My Fair Lady.”
“Oh, one of my favorites.” My gaze met his and we stared into each other’s eyes for a moment before I cleared my throat and broke the eye contact. “I think you’ve got the hang of it. Want to keep dancing and practice our lines for the acting bit?”
“Sure.”
We ran through the entire thing three times. I helped him when he forgot a line or two, but overall, I was super impressed with how much he’d seemed to memorize in one short day. “You really do have a good memory,” I said when we stopped.
Reciting the lines had helped to make the staring-up-into-his-handsome-face part less awk.
“Thanks,” he replied. “I really like that part of the book. Who doesn’t love a happily-ever-after?”
My breath caught in my throat and my heart pounded madly. Had he really just said that? “I agree completely.”
“You know my sister reads romance novels. She loves Jane Austen too,” he offered.
I felt my eyes widen while my heart continued to pound. “I knew I liked your sister.”
“Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”
I glanced around as if anyone else besides Huckleberry could hear us. “If I tell you a secret, do you promise not to tell anyone, especially Luke?”
Jeremy grinned. “Depends on how juicy a secret it is.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Okay, then, nope, not telling.”
Jeremy instantly sobered. “I’m just teasing. Of course I won’t tell.” He crossed his fingers over his heart. “Promise.”
“I love romance novels too,” I admitted, squeezing my eyes shut as if I’d just admitted to murder.
I tentatively opened one eye to gauge his reaction.
His eyes were wide. “You do?”
“Yep.” I nodded.
“You? Ms. Ph.D. in history?”
“Yep.” A hot blush spread up my neck. I’d never told anyone this secret before. Well, Ellie knew. She was the only person I’d ever admitted my secret desire to write a romance novel to. Plus, there’d been that unfortunate incident in tenth grade with Mrs. Neilson, but I’d never told Luke or Harrison or even my mom, despite the fact that my mom had been the reason I began reading romance novels to begin with. “I especially love historical romance.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Jeremy replied.
I bit my lip, unsure whether to reveal the next part. “I’ve actually always wanted to...write one.”
“Really?” His eyebrows shot up and a slow, delighted smile curved his mouth. “That’s cool. Why don’t you?”
I snorted. Not particularly graceful of me, but that was my natural reaction to the ludicrous notion of writing a romance novel. “I went to Wellesley. The alumnae association would have a fit. My professors would disown me. Let alone what they’d think of me at Everton.”
Jeremy frowned. “Who cares about all that? I say do what you want. Do what you love. That’s the key to happiness in this life, if you ask me. It’s why I quit a cushy six-figure job to become a woodworker.”
“What?” My mouth fell open. This was the first I’d heard of his prior career. Luke had mentioned it, but I hadn’t paid close attention. “What did you use to do?”
“I was a structural engineer. Like Luke. I worked in Silicon Valley too. We both got jobs out of Stanford.”
How in the name of Hades had I missed the fact that Jeremy had been a classmate of Luke’s at Stanford?
“You went to Stanford with Luke?” I leaned against the high table and stared at him.
“Yeah, in high school we were ridiculously competitive. Bet each other we couldn’t get into Stanford’s engineering program.”
“And you both did?”
Jeremy leaned against the other side of the table. “Yep. Graduated with honors to boot.”
“Just like Luke,” I breathed. “So, you were with him when he decided to give up his cushy six-figure job to start a band.”
“Yep, sorry to say I can’t sing or play a guitar,” Jeremy laughed. “But we got real drunk on Luke’s thirtieth birthday and had a long talk into the wee hours of the morning about working for the Man and being happy in life. We both decided that night that we didn’t want to spend one more day doing something our hearts weren’t really in.”
“So you both quit and followed your dreams?” I remembered all of this now. At least I remembered Luke’s part of it. Mom and Dad and I had desperately tried to talk Luke into getting his job back because he hadn’t told any of us he was thinking of quitting before he just upped and did it. It freaked me out royally, but my brother had always had an adventurous streak that had never quite made it to my DNA.
Jeremy glanced around his woodshop with affection. “Yep, my dream just happened to be woodworking. Couldn’t afford the land and shop out in the Silicon Valley, so we both came back here. Luckily, I had purchased a condo out there and sold it for a mint. The real estate market was insane there at the time.”
“I’ve heard it’s pretty pricey.” I studied his profile, my brain trying to put the pieces of him together again.
“I was able to pay cash for this place, started my business and built the shop, all while keeping a hefty bit of savings in my account.”
I was just nosy enough to ask. “If you’re sitting on Silicon Valley real estate money, why do you need five thousand dollars for a new band saw?”
He grinned again. “Busted.”
I wrinkled my forehead into a frown. “You don’t need the money?”
“I do. Sort of. I made a deal with myself when I began the business to keep my expenses low and not dip into savings if I didn’t have to. I’ve been trying to pay for everything out of what I earn, so when Luke told me you had a gig paying five Gs, I figured it was a great way to get my band saw and keep my savings intact. I can get the saw sooner now, if that makes you feel better.”
“I didn’t know any of that about you,” I said quietly, feeling like a complete ass. I thought about everything he’d just told me for a few seconds. Just how much money was he sitting on? Plus, he made a good point about not working for the Man and being happy. I’d thought that was flaky before, but the way he explained it actually made sense. I mean, here I was, frightened to tell my boss that I was going to compete in a festival. If I worked for myself, I wouldn’t give a toss. It would definitely be freeing. But the thought of not having a regular paycheck scared the cr
ap out of me. Maybe Luke and Jeremy weren’t flakes after all. Maybe they were just...braver than I was. It was a sobering thought.
“That’s because you like to judge books by their covers.” He nudged his shoulder against mine, gently teasing.” You’re more like Mr. Darcy than Lizzy Bennet, you know.”
Chapter 15
Saturday night
It felt like the time Luke and I had been wrestling in the front yard when I was nine, and I tripped and he landed on me. The wind had been knocked out of me. My chest ached and I couldn’t breathe. My lungs wheezed and I tried to suck in air but that just made the ache in my lungs more intense.
More like Darcy than Lizzy?
Me?
What?
Was I?
A lame, “I am?” was all I could muster. The thing was...I think I knew what he meant, but I kinda didn’t want to know.
“Yeah, but you had to know that already, didn’t you?” He cocked his head to the side and looked at me quizzically, as if he couldn’t fathom the fact that I hadn’t already been one-hundred-percent aware that I was more prejudice than pride.
Suddenly, the memory of Luke calling me a snob came back to haunt me. “I am,” I breathed, still a bit shaken, my voice quiet. “Aren’t I?”
“Yeah, but just like Mr. Darcy, I think you’re redeemable.” He tugged my ponytail and grinned at me.
I smiled at that. At least there was hope. “Do I need to bail your sister out of a sticky situation with Mr. Wickham to prove myself?”
“Perhaps, if the situation arises,” he replied with a wink, making the space behind my rib cage flutter. “In the meantime, want to go to dinner with me tonight? I promise, I can afford it.”
* * *
“Do you like French food?” Jeremy asked after I hoisted myself up into his silver Toyota Tacoma. I’d learned over the years that short people and trucks weren’t the best mix. Luckily, there was a sort of handle in the doorframe that I used to pull myself up. Super sexy, I’m sure. His truck smelled like oranges and was spotless. Hmm. No sign of a hoard anywhere. Not even his car. I suppose I needed to give up on that particular quest.
“French food? Are you trying to impress me and be fancy?” I asked, laughing. I was trying to seem fun, but his Mr. Darcy accusation continued to echo through my mind. I tried to push it away, but it kept returning like an unwelcome boomerang.
“No, I just adore the steak frites at Orsay,” he replied.
“Orsay? Now that is fancy!” Orsay was a hip restaurant in an even hipper part of town. It was also the place that Harrison and I were supposed to go the night he’d tossed me over for Lacey Lewis. I’d never been there. I’d only heard talk of its fanciness and hipness. I was neither hip enough nor fancy enough to go there myself. “Am I dressed up enough for it?” I asked, glancing down at my cotton dress. I mean, the dress was fine and all, but it was no pencil skirt, and I wasn’t wearing control-top panties tonight. Thank God.
“Yep. You know the hipsters. They’ll wear jeans and baseball caps even to the fanciest place these days. You’ll be one of the best-dressed people in the joint.”
“French hipsters aren’t fancy?” I blinked at him.
Jeremy shrugged. “Okay, maybe they’ll have on berets instead of baseball caps.”
“Ironic berets?” I said with another laugh.
“Of course.”
I cleared my throat. Now for the awkward convo I had to have every time I rode in a car with someone else driving. “Can you...sort of...drive carefully, please?”
He side-eyed me. “I’m not reckless, if that’s what you mean.”
“No. I just get—” I cleared my throat again.
He started the engine. “Car sick?”
I pulled the seatbelt across myself and buckled it. “How did you know?”
“I remember that time you came with me and Luke to baseball nationals, and we had to stop so you could throw up because your dad drove.”
“My dad was the worst! Wait. I threw up in front of you?” I winced. Now why the hell didn’t I remember that? Probably because in my youth, before I’d learned to control my motion sickness, I’d thrown up in front of lots of people. Gross, but true.
“I wasn’t there for the actual puking, of course,” he assured me. “We were at a rest stop. You made it to the bathroom.”
“Thank God.” Why didn’t I remember this? Had I blocked it out in some sort of merciful embarrassing-things blackout?
“Don’t worry. I remember what you said to your dad. He needed to not start and stop so often, and no inching forward at lights.”
“Yes! Otherwise it’s a total puke fest.” It was a relief not to have to explain myself to someone. Harrison had always sort of treated my motion sickness as if it was a psychosomatic illness brought on out of a surplus of emotion. As if I could control it if I merely chose to.
“Don’t worry,” Jeremy said. “I’ll be careful.”
The ride across town wasn’t long, and I enjoyed being up high enough to see things I never got to see in the Jetta. Besides, true to his word, Jeremy was a super-careful driver and never once did anything that made my stomach lurch. It was rare to find someone who, on the first try, understood the mechanics of what makes a car-sick person sick. I’d been trying to explain it to my father my whole life. My mother, on the other hand, who I’d inherited that awful condition from, knew exactly how to drive. Slow and steady, no sudden braking. Jeremy was perfect at it, actually.
When we got to Orsay, we pulled up to the valet. A man dressed in black pants and a white shirt open the door for me and helped me down from my lofty seat. It felt awk. Who was I, the Queen of England? Harrison and I tended to go to places like Chili’s when we went out. Not to mention the valet’s disapproving look had me totally convinced that I was way underdressed, despite the fact that Jeremy had insisted that he’d been fine in his khakis and I’d be fine in my rig out.
Once the valet had sped away in the truck, Jeremy took my elbow and escorted me toward the doors to the restaurant. The Queen of England, indeed. I gave him a tentative smile when he opened the door for me, a gesture I was quickly growing to appreciate.
I stepped inside and scanned the interior. Jeremy had been totally right. There were people wearing shorts and hats in here, but it didn’t keep the place from being any less fancy. Dark wood floors, sleek, nickel-finished light fixtures, white-tiled walls, and weird things like buffalo head skulls on the walls. Totally hipster. I liked it because it was relatively quiet and the mood lighting was perfect. Not that I needed mood lighting for a dinner with Jeremy. I did not. But I’d never liked places that were too bright.
“Mr. Remington, good to see you,” the hostess said as soon as we entered the place. The distressed-wood host stand was nearly as tall as I was, and the hostess was plenty tall enough to clear it. She looked like a freakin’ model. Sleek blonde hair pulled back in a chignon. A tight black sheath dress on, that I saw when she pulled two menus from the top of the stand and came out from around the side to say, “Right this way to your regular table, Mr. Remington.”
I gave Jeremy a funny look. “You have a regular table?” I whispered.
He shrugged and smiled, showing off his perfect teeth. “Did I mention I really love the steak frites here?”
I nudged his arm and a shock like electricity shot through mine. The dude was muscled and, well, just generally hot. Now he was possibly semi-rich and had a regular table at a hip French restaurant, too. I had grossly misjudged him. He was right. I needed to stop judging books by their covers. I was prejudiced. I was Mr. Darcy.
We settled into a side booth nestled into a corner, the flickering, golden light from a candle making it seem romantic. Just a little.
I ordered some red wine and Jeremy ordered a local craft beer. He nodded toward the menu I was holding. “I already know what I want, but let me recommend the steak frites to you.”
I eyed him over the top of the two-foot-long list of food I was studying. F
or some reason, fancy restaurants loved to put all their menu items on one long, leather-bound page. “They’re that good, are they?”
“The best,” Jeremy replied with a grin.
“Fine. Steak frites it is.” I set the menu aside and lifted my wine glass.
“Perfect.” He set his menu atop mine and clasped his hands together on the tabletop. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Let me hear your best English accent,” I replied.
“What?” He blinked.
“English. Accent. Go.”
“What should I say?” His accent was still purely American.
“I don’t know. How about: the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain?”
“Ah, still remember your My Fair Lady too, I see.”
“Of course.” I gave him a smug smile and took another sip of wine.
Jeremy cleared his throat and repeated the words. Damned if he didn’t sound pretty Darcy-ish. “Wow. Better than I thought.”
“I’ve been practicing,” he admitted.
“You have?” Why did that surprise me? He clearly took his job seriously and was a hard worker and not a bad actor, I’d discovered. Jeremy Remington had depths to him. Depths I’d brushed off when I’d assumed he was merely a deadbeat. Because...I was Mr. Darcy.
“Yep, plus I played Jack in the high school version of The Importance of Being Earnest when I was a sophomore, and Mrs. Randall insisted we use English accents. This isn’t my first time at the English-accent rodeo.”
“Oh, right, Drama Club in high school.” His sophomore year, I would have been in the eighth grade. “Am I forgetting anything else?” I asked, only half-joking. “Like did we play Cinderella and Prince Charming together and I’m not remembering it?”
He laughed at that. “If that happened, I don’t remember either.” He took a sip of his beer, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. I had a weakness for men who used napkins correctly. His was also correctly placed in his lap. Sigh.
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