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

by Staci Hart

  I swallowed the sticky lump in my throat.

  “She didn’t have a choice. Neither of us did. I couldn’t stand between her and her legacy, her only family, even if Liam is the devil himself. So he won—Georgie is locked in her cage, just like he likes it. I just … I couldn’t face them. Especially not in front of you.”

  My fingertips rested on my lips. I could see it clearly in my mind, the perfect alignment of what I knew of Darcy. Ultimatums and control, bending everyone around him to his will, forcing them to their knees. Separating two people in love just weeks before their wedding simply because he didn’t approve of the man his sister loved.

  Wyatt put on a smile. “Please, don’t fault either of them. I never did belong with them. Their world is so …”

  “Stuck up and starched? Colorless and cold?”

  “It’s their way. But I’m better off, you know? Plus, there are upsides.”

  “Oh?”

  “I wouldn’t have met you.”

  God, that smile had the power to melt anything in its vicinity. He reached across the table and covered my hand where it rested.

  “I guess that’s one thing we can thank Liam for,” I noted. “Even if it’s the only thing.”

  Wyatt turned my hand over with his eyes on my palm, inspecting it as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. “Let me take you out. We can forget all this mess, if you’re willing. Because I think I want to know you, Laney Bennet.”

  I waited until he met my eyes, offering a smile. “Just say when.”

  “When.”

  I laughed. “Walk me home at six? We can grab pizza on the way.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  With a happy sigh, I watched him, this man who had been so mistreated by Darcy. It was a thing we had in common, though my troubles with Liam were nothing in comparison to what Wyatt had been through.

  Darcy knew no bounds, held himself above the rules, above everyone else. And he’d robbed his sister of happiness just to soothe his own ego. I was left with the dreadful premonition that he’d do it again. But this time, the victim of Darcy’s designs would be my brother.

  And I couldn’t let that happen.

  10

  Ante Up

  LIAM

  “None of these ideas are going to work.”

  The team deflated at my statement. Of the dozen taglines they’d presented, the best was Get Your Drink On, but the nonspecific nature of the phrase put it firmly in the no column. I admitted to myself that though I had known the concept wouldn’t be easy to wrap into a single line, I’d hoped someone would have an epiphany. The answer was there—I could feel it just out of reach, like a word on the tip of your tongue—but we had definitely not hit it yet.

  “Let’s brainstorm,” I said as I stood, heading over to the whiteboard in the corner. “Word association. Let’s go.” Spread out on the board, I wrote the words book bar, romance, comics and circled them, waiting for suggestions to make a web.

  The easy ones came in fast, but they began to slow until they trickled and stopped. I turned to find the team still with silent concentration, all except one. Laney’s jaw was set, her hands a white-knuckled knot in her lap. And behind her eyes were a thousand words just waiting for an invitation to spill.

  I didn’t offer one. Instead, I turned back to the board and started calling out connections, writing them in a column I’d sectioned off at the edge of the board. After a few minutes, we were quiet again. I stepped back and eyed the board from a distance, as if some space would allow me to see it more clearly.

  It didn’t.

  “There’s something in here. Take pictures of this, and let’s hit the drawing board again. I want five new taglines tomorrow.”

  Their discontent was thinly veiled. I knew I was exhausting them—this was the third round of slogans, and it was becoming clear the typical avenues weren’t going to bear fruit. You could only come at a problem from the same angle so many times before the rut was too deep to escape. They needed a change of scenery. They needed—

  “We have five hours left in the day, and I want you to get your things and head to Wasted Words. I’ll call and let them know you’re coming. Drink. See the store and concept you’re promoting. And brainstorm. Come back tomorrow with something we can actually work with.”

  That frustration they’d been wearing disappeared—their faces cracked open with excitement. Well, except for Laney. She was a pot of boiling water with a lid that didn’t fit. But I wouldn’t take the bait for a fight from her any more than I would my sister.

  Sometimes, you just had to wait until the lid flew off.

  The team had a spring in their steps as they exited the boardroom, and Caroline stood with her crimson lips set in a smile.

  “That’s the best idea you’ve had in weeks. Want to ride with me over to the bookstore?”

  “I’m not going,” I answered, closing my portfolio.

  Her manicured golden brows slid together. “Why not?”

  “Because they can’t effectively work with me in earshot, and they can’t cut loose if I’m within a block of them.”

  “How about we go to The Polo Bar for a drink instead? Maybe we could brainstorm,” she added, seeing the word no on my face.

  The Polo Bar was notorious for celebrity sightings, and there were always photographers outside, leaving me with the distinct suspicion that she was more interested in being seen with me and the rumors that might fly as a result.

  It had been like this since I’d known her. In high school, she’d conjure up reasons for us to be seen together, fanning even a spark of a rumor to her favor. We ran in the same circle and had been through a lot together—including the loss of my parents in college—but I’d never been interested in her, and she’d always been interested in me. I cared for her enough that I didn’t want to hurt her. She was a fixture in my life, closer to a cousin than a friend.

  Sadly, she didn’t feel the same way, and no matter how many times I said no, she wouldn’t leave it alone.

  “No thanks. I still have work to do.”

  She sighed. “You really could stand to cut loose too, Liam.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  I gave her my back, not realizing that Laney was the last one out of the room. I fell in just behind her, close enough that I could smell her soap, the intoxicating scent of magnolias I’d come to associate with her. When we stepped into the hallway, she turned for her cube, and I turned in the opposite direction for my office.

  The flash of regret I felt when she didn’t speak up surprised me—a little part of me wanted to know what was on her mind, even though I knew she was angry and we’d likely end in yet another argument. Whatever it was, I was almost certain that I’d patently disagree, and if it was about the goddamned parties again, I’d be mad. I couldn’t imagine what else it could be, not unless I’d once again said something I didn’t realize had upset her.

  It was a common mistake of mine across the board. If you asked my sister, she’d tell you more than you ever wanted to know on the subject.

  In any event, I reached my office without interruption. It had been my father’s when he was about my age, with floor-to-ceiling windows on one side and mid-century bookshelves across the back wall. In fact, it was all mid-century vintage—Eames office chair, Wegner chairs opposite a Juhl desk. My grandfather had been a collector, and my father collected in kind. I didn’t know much about furniture or art, but I understood how it made me feel. The crisp, clean lines of my office felt very much like me. Stark. Quiet. Subtle, with simple symmetry and unpretentious curves. It didn’t have to try. It just was, and when you caught sight of that secret beauty, you were granted with a rush of discovery that struck a reverent chord of recognition.

  I set my portfolio on the desk, but before I could take a seat, Laney knocked on the threshold of my open door.

  I paused, hand on the back of my chair, assessing her for signs. She looked mad, but that was one of the two standar
d looks she wore around me—the other being disdain. But there was still that tight containment she’d worn in the meeting, obvious in the stiffness of her spine, her elevated chin, the square of her shoulders. Tucked in the hook of her arm was her laptop and a manila folder.

  “Laney,” I said in lieu of a greeting, taking the opportunity to sit as I prepared myself for whatever thunder she’d successfully bottled up through the meeting. “What can I do for you?”

  “I wanted to speak with you privately, since there doesn’t seem to be space in meetings for me to bring anything up.” The subtle bite of sarcasm—another default. “May I sit?”

  With narrowed eyes, I nodded to the chairs.

  “Thank you. I wondered if we could have a real conversation about the mixers. We can’t seem to talk about it constructively, can we?”

  My jaw clenched in defense of that being my fault. Be nice, I practically heard Georgie say in my mind. She wasn’t going to blow on me, not yet, at least. Because she wanted something from me. The least I could do was listen quietly for a few minutes before telling her no. Again.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  There—a little smile at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you.” She opened her laptop and typed. “I realize I’m being persistent—”

  I stifled the urge to scoff.

  “—but I really do feel that this is an important opportunity we’re missing. I’m not suggesting we throw everything behind it, but I think there’s a way to come up with something comprehensive that includes this branch of advertising. You’re planning grand-opening events, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, these parties are grand-opening energy, but every week. They don’t just greet the people involved in the process—they make a space for the public. Automatic engagement in exchange for discounted liquor, which we already have a hundred percent markup on. But more than that, they invest in us, not only emotionally, but with their credit cards.”

  She turned her laptop around, and on the screen was a mock-up of a bus shelter ad in flat, minimal colors. A faceless man in nineteenth-century clothes stood proudly, leaning on his cane against a background of pale salmon pink. Beneath him, in bold white letters, were the words Your Very Own Rochester Is Waiting, and beneath that sat information on the regular singles night, the store’s social media handles, and a QR code.

  It was clever but vague. The design was clean, clear, appealed to the demographic, but this wouldn’t work any better than Get Your Drink On.

  But rather than say any of that, I answered her hopeful look with, “No one knows who Rochester is. Because no one’s read Jane Eyre casually in a hundred years.”

  Just like that, the soft hope on her face tightened until it was wiped away. “First of all, you’re wrong—plenty of people read Jane Eyre or have at least seen the movie. Secondly, this is just a concept. We could do something similar for the comics. Use the literary themes to first catch their eye, then bring them in with the promise of meeting someone.”

  “I realize that you have data to support what you’re suggesting. But Laney—and I need you to hear this, really hear this.” I paused to make sure she was listening. “We are not using this direction for our launch. A campaign like this is stage two. Once the store is established and running. But not before. I know you’ve been in high positions at other firms as well as being the sole marketer at the bookstore, but this is not your team. This is not your company. You are not an employee, but you are still my subordinate. And I don’t expect to have this conversation again.”

  The words had been firm but not condescending, clear without pushing her. Or so I thought—the flames beneath that boiling pot licked at the sides, the lid clattering and hissing with steam.

  “I’m not allowed to speak during meetings. I’m not allowed to speak to you privately. Apparently, I’m not allowed to have ideas or suggestions. Why am I even here if you’re just going to do whatever you want, regardless of my opinion?”

  “You’re here to be a pass-through. A gut check. You know what the client wants, and it was my impression that you were to be present without interference.”

  “Interference?” The color in her cheeks flared. “I’m the one person in this building who knows Wasted Words inside and out. I think you just don’t want ideas that aren’t yours. I saw you in that meeting—you shot your team’s ideas down just as swiftly as you did mine. How long until you push them all out of the way so you can do it yourself?”

  “Did you think their ideas were good?”

  “That’s not the point. You’re just so certain you’re the only person who can come up with answers that you won’t even let anyone else try. So how about this, Mr. Darcy? Put your money where your mouth is. We need two full concepts to propose, so let’s split up. You come up with your grand and perfect campaign, and I’ll come up with mine. We’ll split the team between us—you can have Caroline, since she seems just as impossible as you are.”

  I spent a moment puzzling out how this woman had ever survived in a corporate environment, and the only thing I could surmise was that her dogged determination and that fire in her belly produced results. But she was wrong about one thing—beneath her sarcasm was the subtext that she thought I couldn’t do it. I wondered if she knew I’d worked my way up the ranks just like anyone else. I’d fought inside of a creative team to have my ideas recognized and produced, and that was where my strengths were. In the fight. Those tools might have been a little dusty, but they were as sharp as ever, and the thought of proving her wrong held an intoxicating appeal.

  But agreeing wouldn’t just be childish—it’d be unprofessional.

  “No.”

  A pause. “No?”

  “No. This is juvenile, Laney. I don’t have to prove anything to you or anyone.”

  “Then let’s up the ante. If you win, I promise to be your perfect subordinate. I’ll be quiet. I won’t argue, and I won’t challenge you for the remainder of our time together.”

  “Are you physically capable of holding up your end of the deal?”

  She shrugged. “You’re not going to win, so it doesn’t matter. But if you won’t play, then I won’t have any motivation to keep my mouth shut.”

  Tempting. “How did you get to be so shrewd?”

  “I have four brothers. As the only female, I had to have an advantage, and it wasn’t going to be brawn.”

  I watched her. “You’re not at all afraid of me.”

  “Why should I be afraid of you? Your height or your strength? Because you have authority? Power? Or because you’re unbearably rude? You’re imposing, Mr. Darcy, but no. I’m not afraid of you.”

  Something in my heart eased at the admission, some liberation. Few people were comfortable in my presence, and to know she wasn’t intimidated by me was novel. Beyond that, as I traced the shape of her resolute face, I saw that she wanted a chance to prove herself. It was a display of scrappy underdog moxie, a hunger that bred winners. And for the first time, I recognized her drive as a strength rather than an irritation. She would lose, of course, and I would win not only the pick, but compliance and sweet silence.

  Laney Bennet, compliant. In theory, it sounded like bliss. But I wondered if it would drain her of all that made her who she was, if it would douse her fire, and found myself surprised at the aversion I felt at the thought. Laney Bennet without fire was a bird with no wings.

  But beyond my personal gains was the truth—the team was struggling, and we were on a timeline. I’d been considering how I could motivate them, and a competition would up the ante, as she’d said. Pitting them against each other would produce results, and who knew—there might be ideas we could pull from to shore up one of the campaigns enough to bring it to the top.

  And so I decided.

  “Keep the stakes between us, and I’ll consider it.”

  The look on her face was pure triumph. My eyes flicked to the ceiling.

  “That’s all I was after,” she said as she stood,
“your consideration.”

  She had no idea how much she’d been considered since I met her.

  “If we do this,” I started, “I’ll need you in the office daily, if the shop can manage without you.”

  Her face quirked in thought. “Four days? I think I need at least one in-house.”

  I nodded once. “I’ll have an answer for you tomorrow. No need to come in—I’ll be in touch.”

  She smiled, nodding once right back at me before turning to leave.

  And I watched her go, wondering if my sister would praise or pummel me for agreeing to Laney’s terms.

  Because we all knew I already had.

  11

  Imitation Superhero

  LANEY

  I was on fire.

  Music played at Wasted Words the following evening, and I sat at a booth in the bar where I’d been for several hours, working on the campaign I wanted to pitch to the team. If Darcy would just give the green light already. He’d promised me an answer today, but today was very nearly over, and I’d heard nothing.

  I didn’t know what had possessed me to challenge him yesterday. Maybe Cam should have told me she’d fire me if I didn’t do what Liam said. But the freedom of knowing there would be no consequences had made me unreasonably bold. And now all I wanted to do in the whole wide world was prove him wrong. I wanted to best him so badly, something in me crackled like electricity at the thought of winning.