Pride and Papercuts: Inspired by Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice

by Staci Hart

  He chuckled. “So Darcy, huh?”

  “Intolerable ass. He’s very rude and very intense.”

  “And very handsome, if your mother is to be believed. I think he’s in the top five on her list of potential husbands for you.”

  “The worst ones are always the prettiest, aren’t they?”

  Lila and Kash sat across from me, and Lila leaned in. “My event firm did a De Bourgh party last year—that’s the Darcys’ aunt, right?”

  “That’s their firm,” I said. “De Bourgh and Associates. Or Douche Bags and Asses. Whatever’s your preference.”

  Lila shook her head. “Those people are something else. Catherine is heading the firm now? Do I remember that right?”

  “You do,” Jett answered. “I doubt we’ll meet her, though. We’re way below her pay grade.”

  “Count yourself lucky,” Lila said. “I would not want to cross swords with her. Working for her was hard enough, and everything went so smoothly—partly because I was terrified into my best behavior. She still had plenty to say about it, and none of it was particularly kind.”

  “So being an uppity jerk is genetic? Huh. Must have skipped Georgie.”

  “I’ll have you know,” Mom said with her nose in the air, “that Liam Darcy is one of the most eligible bachelors in New York. Surely he’s just waiting on the right girl to settle down.” She bestowed me with a pointed look.

  “And I’ll have you know that, bachelor or not, any man who called me ‘tolerable’ and suggested Jett and I were beneath them isn’t someone I’d ever refer to as eligible. Not for anything but a fist in his eye.”

  Mom blinked. “He said … are you sure you heard him right?”

  “Oh, I am most definitely sure. He doesn’t think much of us and definitely not of me. So please, do me a favor and cross Darcy off your list.”

  To her credit, she tried not to pout. “I’ll asterisk him.”

  I sighed.

  The conversation picked up when, mercifully, Tess launched into her and Luke’s plans for the next shop window installment. Once she got Mom going, Tess and I shared a look, and I mouthed, Thank you.

  They carried on, and I leaned back in my seat, unnaturally silent as I thought about Darcy, peeking into the box I’d stuffed him into. The splinter of humiliation was still there in my heart, and pain flared at the memory. His face, carved with contempt. His tone, biting and superior. He hadn’t even looked sorry when he saw me—there was no remorse, no care for me or my feelings. Only a look that said, I’m not wrong, and you know it.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t known it. I never thought of anyone above or below me, but having now been the subject of his scrutiny, I felt the acute sting of that particular cruelty.

  But it didn’t matter what he thought of me. I could tolerate him just as he’d proclaimed he’d tolerate me. We could find a place of neutrality as long as he kept his insults locked in his brain.

  And I wouldn’t be held responsible for what I did if he didn’t.

  5

  Tell Me How You Really Feel

  LIAM

  “Are you going to play nice today?” Georgie asked from the other side of my desk, her arms folded and eyes accusing.

  “I’ll play like I always play.”

  “So no.”

  “I wouldn’t alter myself for anyone, Georgie. I’m surprised you’d even suggest it.”

  “You owe Laney Bennet an apology.”

  “You’ve mentioned that.” I hadn’t exactly agreed to it. But I hadn’t told her no, either.

  “She works for our client. It’s not up for discussion, Liam. Smooth it over. If not for her, do it for me—I’d rather not spend all my free time sweeping up whatever trouble your mouth gets us into.”

  Georgie might have said it with a teasing air, but I saw through her. It went deeper than that—she wasn’t just talking about our standing with the client or the firm. There was a motive under the motive.

  “You can’t see Jett Bennet.”

  Her cheeks flushed. “I know that.”

  “Aunt Catherine would never sanction it. She’d punish you for it and me for not stopping you. And that’s without the fact that you’d be breaching company policies.”

  “I know that. I said I won’t, and I won’t. But I’ll be at Wasted Words a lot. Are you sure you’re not going to go all … Liam about it?”

  “Did you just use my name as an adjective?”

  She gave me a flat-browed look. “You know how you get. Don’t make me spell it out.”

  “No, really—how exactly do I get?”

  A huff. “Overprotective. Presumptuous. Invasive. Rude.”

  My chair squeaked as I leaned back, mirroring her pose. “Forgive me for trying to protect my sister. Pardon me for not wanting to see you hurt again.”

  “Oh, you like to think you’re the white knight, but really, you just locked me in a tower and threw away the key. I’m a big girl. If he taught me anything, it was that I’m a terrible judge of character. But I’m still an adult. My decisions are still mine—they have nothing to do with you.”

  A defensive fire swept through me. “They have everything to do with me, George. Your feelings are my feelings. When you’re in pain, so am I. Neither of us wants to see you there again—not after what he did. We could stand to be cautious. Suspicious. But I don’t want that for you. I don’t want you to dampen your happiness. I don’t want to see you turn into a cynic. So leave the cynicism to me, but don’t get mad when we fundamentally disagree. Trust me.”

  She sighed, resigned, even though her eyes swept the ceiling. “I do. You know I do.”

  Before either of us spoke again, the door to my office opened, and Caroline Bingley strutted in.

  She was a preening white peacock with porcelain skin, wearing a pencil skirt and tailored satin shirt a shade of snow. Her flaxen hair shone, arranged in a flawless manner to match the rest of her. But it was the shrewd smile on her face that spoke the truth of her nature, which was not nearly as pure as her carefully cultivated exterior suggested.

  “I thought I’d find you two in here. Conspiring again?”

  Georgie offered her a false smile. “You know us. Always sneaking around.” She stood, heading for the door. Georgie hated being in confined spaces with Caroline, and I couldn’t blame her. Caroline could suck the joy out of a room in under a minute. “See you at the meeting.” Her eyes snagged mine and leveled me with a warning. Be nice to Laney Bennet, that look said.

  Only for you, mine said back.

  Satisfied, she left.

  Caroline rounded my desk and hitched herself half onto the surface, seeming to enjoy the few inches of height it gave her over me. It was a game she played, an unveiled offering I’d never accept. I’d seen her unhinge her jaw and swallow people before, and though I’d be a tough bite to swallow, I wasn’t interested in that fight.

  “Did you need something, Caroline?” I asked without making eye contact, jotting in the planner I kept on my desk—the hard copy to match the digital one.

  “Just wanted to make sure you were ready for the meeting. Is there anything you need before we start?”

  “I think I’ve got it under control, but thank you.”

  “Any idea what we can expect from the bookstore’s little social media girl?”

  A foreign feeling flickered in my chest. I ignored it, crossing off a few tasks I’d completed. “I don’t.”

  She waited for me to elaborate. When I didn’t, she prompted me. “You met her at their party the other night, right?”

  “I met all the store’s employees.”

  Another pause. “And what did you think of her?”

  The memory of what I’d said flashed in my mind. Perfectly tolerable. I didn’t know why I’d chosen those particular words to describe her. I only knew that I’d wanted Georgie to give up the push to get me to dance, and she wouldn’t until I made sure she knew how serious I was. But what did I really think of Laney? Over the last few day
s, I’d considered the question enough that I should’ve had an answer.

  “I only spoke to her for a few minutes, so I really couldn’t say.”

  “You are the worst gossiper on the planet, do you know that?”

  I closed my planner with a snap and sighed through my nose, annoyed. “Gossip is for the weak and insecure, nothing but speculation and hearsay. It is, by nature, subjective—there’s not truth, only a spewing fountainhead of opinion. I can’t imagine why you’d think I’d want to participate.”

  “You’re a robot,” she answered on a laugh, sliding off my desk.

  When I stood, she took my arm as she often did—a territorial gesture I’d endured since we were teenagers—but I separated us at the first opportunity. This time, it was at the opening of my office door, which I held so she would pass through first.

  Our offices bustled with activity, from a galley of cubicles to glass offices of drafting tables and conference rooms. Three generations of de Bourghs had run the firm, each more powerful than the one before. The Darcys constituted the associates on the placard, joining in with my grandfather, which was how Catherine had met my uncle—our familial ties. When my uncle died years ago, everyone thought she’d pass the mantle to someone else. But they had no children, and I wasn’t old enough to step into her shoes—even now I was in the midst of working my way up. She had also been groomed for this job but chosen the life of leisure once she married my uncle, but when he died, she took his place and had been captaining the ship with success ever since.

  Unlike my uncle, Catherine had made no friends in the office—her ways were direct, strict, unbendable. Her word was gospel and her time more valuable than any of ours. Everyone in the office was afraid of her, as she’d been known to fire her employees on the spot for any reason. Questioning her in a meeting was almost certainly fatal. One word of gossip about her, you were out, whether you’d said it or not. Of course, she also cherished those who licked her boots, particularly if they were from the right family, like Caroline.

  Just another of the many reasons to abide by her rules.

  She lorded over the company with all the humility of a queen, though Georgie and I had insulation. When we had no one, we had Catherine, the last of our family. Cold and humorless though she might be, she made every Christmas special, every birthday unforgettable. She smiled most around Georgie and me, was always there for us, day or night, and would do anything short of murder for those she loved. We had lost our only family within a few years of each other, first her, then us, and loneliness and love bound us. I didn’t know how I’d have survived those first years without her.

  Her frigid, unsmiling demeanor aside, she’d shown us love through a time when we needed her most, forging our bond in steel.

  Not that I was one to talk—Georgie was the only person on the planet who truly made me laugh. No one else dared get close enough to break that particular barrier. Not even Caroline, and she’d tried harder than just about anyone.

  But she had no idea what that entailed. If she did, she wouldn’t care to try.

  Caroline talked on about something or another as we made our way to the conference room, where our team waited. But as we approached, my eyes caught the back of an inky cascade of black hair, and I couldn’t look away. Slight shoulders in a tailored shirt of blue so deep, I imagined Laney’s striking eyes shone like gems. Her head turned just enough for me to to see the tip of her nose, and her hand slipped into her hair to touch her neck, as if she sensed my attention. As I entered her periphery, her face turned to mine, and our eyes met with a click, holding for a moment.

  I broke the connection to open the door for Caroline, who strutted in like she owned the building and took the seat to the right of the head chair.

  My chair.

  I stood in front of them as they quieted. Laney’s hands were folded in her lap, fingers fidgeting with a thin-banded watch around her wrist. She was nervous.

  That unfamiliar pang in my chest stopped me again, this time with recognition. It was some strange mixture of sympathy and sorrow, a flickering regret.

  Her anxiety was my fault.

  She was nervous because of my behavior. I had insulted my subordinate and now stood before her with a demand for respect when I hadn’t given her the same courtesy.

  Georgie was right. I owed her an apology.

  When Georgie and I met gazes from her seat next to Laney, she looked borderline triumphant, recognizing my concession.

  I shrugged it off, telling myself any amends made were for the good of my team, nothing more. But that twist in my rib cage tightened at the determined set of Laney’s chin, the brightness of her challenging eyes, all coupled with that little tell of her unease that belied her fearlessness.

  “Good morning, everyone. Before we get started today, I’d like to introduce Elaine Bennet, the social marketer for Wasted Words.”

  Everyone turned to face her, offering small smiles and nods. The slightest color smudged her cheeks.

  “Please, call me Laney. I’m only Elaine when I’m in trouble.”

  A chuckle rolled through them.

  “Laney is here to advise, so please, do your best to help show her the ropes.”

  Laney’s brows clicked together. I’d said something wrong.

  “Let’s start with a roundup,” I continued, proceeding to make my way around the table, gathering reports from the heads of our creative team and media teams, running down broad strokes for social media, print, and advertising. Concept design and production. But the most important thing—and our starting point—was tagline and messaging creation. We’d need at least two concepts to pitch to the client—three if we didn’t come up with something spectacular—complete with a graphic presentation. And once decided, we’d move into discussing media buy to propose to the accounting team.

  Laney took rapid notes as everyone gave an overview as to their focuses and overall ideas, and once finished, it was my turn to present some ideas of my own. But before I could take over, Laney raised a finger, and I nodded, giving her the floor.

  She wore a courteous smile, but her eyes sparked with excitement. “I wanted to bring up something no one mentioned, in terms of messaging. Our biggest market strategy to get people in the door? Our singles mixers.” She flipped back a few pages in her notebook. “We earn sixty percent of our revenue on mixer nights alone, and that brings patrons back during the day for coffee and to shop. No one suggested using this as an angle, but the parties are the easiest and most profitable campaigns we’ve run. I have a lot of ideas—”

  “So you propose we put our marketing weight behind themed parties?” I asked without wanting an answer, my hackles rising not only from her premature suggestions and unwelcome timing—she was here to observe, not to offer opinions—but for my elemental opposition to the idea. “While kitschy and profitable, mixers won’t introduce the store’s concept to a city.”

  “I disagree. If you’ll take a look at some of my ideas, I think—”

  “While unsurprised that you disagree, Miss Bennet, this isn’t the appropriate time for concept discussion. We currently have a plan in place that we’ve been developing for several weeks, and while I’m sure on your scale it’s been a success, please forgive me if I ask that you trust the expertise of this firm and my team.”

  At my second interruption, the angry flush on her cheeks rose, the contrast of her eyes sharp and bright as diamonds. “I have been the sole marketer in Wasted Words for a full year, and I held the position of CCO at Connor & Cook in Dallas. I’ve helped elevate the bookstore, establishing a presence beyond word of mouth. I’ve seen what works, and I’ve seen what doesn’t, and this, Mr. Darcy, is low-hanging fruit.”

  My jaw clenched so tight, my teeth squeaked. “Duly noted. Anything else?” It wasn’t so much a question as it was a dare.

  She glared at me for a second, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Georgie was practically screaming at me to shut up with her eyes, but I ig
nored her in favor of refusing to blink at Laney.

  Laney didn’t answer, sitting back in her seat to mark her abdication. But she held my gaze until I looked to the team and continued the meeting to present our next steps.

  The fork had three prongs—the romance novel angle, the comic book angle, and the book bar angle. Over the last few years, these kinds of shops had cropped up all over the country, the demographic primarily women, a large percentage of them visiting in groups, mostly book clubs or girls’ nights. So that was our focus too. The male comic demographic was simple—all they needed was a location and selection of rarities, and that they could drink beer at the same stop was the real low-hanging fruit.

  Laney kept quiet for the rest of the meeting, scribbling notes and burning holes in the pages given the intensity with which she stared at them. I wondered absently if she was doodling murderous stick figures in my likeness and determined she must be when Georgie looked over her shoulder and stifled a laugh.

  The meeting came to a close, and everyone stood, gathering their things and dispersing. I stepped back, nodding as they passed, though I wasn’t looking at them. I was watching Georgie talk to Laney.

  “You were right—she’s got a mouth on her,” Caroline said from my side. “How terribly rude, speaking out of turn, challenging you in front of your team. She’s mannerless. And I have a suspicion she’s not going to be easy to work with.”

  The words were a bucket of ice down my back. Caroline said what I’d been thinking in the moment, but from her lips, I heard just how disparaging, how wrong, they were. That foreign feeling of shame rose. Again, I’d insulted Laney, belittled her in front of a room of peers, and undercut her own expertise. I was certain someone had told me of her previous position with Connor & Cook, but it’d been long enough that the only subject we’d discussed—her job at Wasted Words—put the knowledge beneath the thick layer of disdain in having someone of unknown caliber on my team.