by Staci Hart
“She does. Just not at dinner. If I have to hear another word about how badly the shop needs a manager, I might actually snap on her.”
I made a mocking noise. “Please. You never snap on anybody, least of all Mom.”
“It’s not just her. You needle her too.”
“Because she drives me crazy.”
“The ones we love almost always do.” He handed me a plate, meeting my gaze.
Our eyes were the thing everyone noted about us, but that was just the quality they noticed first, our hair being the second, which was black as midnight. Sometimes, I wondered what we’d all look like when we were gray, like our parents. But we’d still have those unmistakable Bennet blues. If you looked closely, Jett and I had similar smiles, and though mine tilted in the same smirk, it rose on the opposite side, as did that one eyebrow. We had the same mannerisms, the same inflection on our words. But that probably had more to do with our closeness than it did genetics.
We’d always been inseparable, but after college, I took off for a job far enough away from New York that I couldn’t hear my mother calling me home. Luke left for California, and Jett headed to the Upper West—close enough, but far enough too. But once Longbourne had gotten back on its feet and everyone found their places inside, all I wanted to do was run again. And the sad thing was that I had a feeling Jett wanted to stay and manage the shop like Mom had asked. But he’d left, and I was pretty sure it was strictly so I wouldn’t be alone.
I should just leave. Move away, I thought as I dried the plate. But selfishly, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want Jett to come back here and fall in line any more than I wanted to fall in line myself. And that was so terribly unfair, my stomach sank like a stone at the realization.
He bumped my hip with his, a dripping bowl in his hand. “I think that one’s dry.”
Inspecting it, I said, “Look at that. I think you’re right.” I set the dry bowl on the counter and took the wet one.
“You okay?” he asked again.
“Yeah, I told you, I’m fine.”
“No, not about that.”
I didn’t look at him—he’d know too much if I did. “I’m just thinking about what it’d be like if we did hang back and commit to the Longbourne life.”
“Loud.”
“And meddlesome.”
“Definitely that. It wouldn’t be so bad, though. I like being here.”
“I’d like it more without the nagging.”
“If you came back, she wouldn’t nag you.”
I gave him a look.
“Fine, but she wouldn’t nag you about that.”
I was quiet for a second, stacking the bowl and taking the next. “Do you think they really are okay? Do you think they need my help?”
“I don’t know. Maisie would, though.” He scrubbed at a spot in the bottom of a bowl. “Think you’d come back if they needed you?”
“I came back to New York, didn’t I?” I teased. “It’s not even a question. I’ll always help out, you know that.”
“I do.”
I changed the subject, eager to put that away. “How’s it going with Georgie?”
He let out a sigh and handed me a bowl. “Same as ever. We’re friends.”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the worst. Are you sure the whole work thing is real and not just something her brother made up to stop her from seeing you?”
“You’re giving him an awful lot of credit.”
“Well, he did break up her wedding. Have you talked to her about it?”
“A little, but she didn’t say much, just that that she realized he wasn’t the man she was supposed to marry. They were too different, had different goals. It was pretty clear she didn’t want to talk about it in detail, and I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t want to unpack all my baggage either. Plus, she knows you guys are talking and I don’t think she wants to interfere.”
I made a noncommittal sound.
“Anyway, I’m sure the company policy is a real thing. And Catherine de Bourgh doesn’t let anything slide,” he said in a snooty, overdone British accent.
“I guess that’s where Darcy gets it.”
Another sigh. “Honestly, Lane? I don’t know why I’m torturing myself. I keep telling myself it’s enough that we text and talk and she comes to the shop when she doesn’t have to—I think just to see me. We dance at parties and … God, do you know how many times I’ve almost kissed her? But that’s not what she wants.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I can just tell.”
“But you don’t know. Why not make a move and see what happens?”
“Because I won’t put her job in jeopardy just because I want her for myself. But I’m … I don’t know what I’d call it. Lovesick, I guess. I think about her all the time, watch the door through my shift hoping she’ll walk through it. My best days are the days I see her, but they’re my most miserable too. Because I can’t have her.”
“Listen—I get it. It’s forbidden. But it’s not like she’s a nun. Or your high school teacher. Or your stepmom.”
“Gross.”
“What I mean is, it’s not like you’re breaking some vow or law or social rule. You’re not exactly the client, are you? So I really don’t get what the big deal is. If grumpy old Cathy wouldn’t approve, don’t tell her.”
“And what about her brother?”
“Well, extra fuck that guy.”
He snorted a laugh.
“She’s a grown woman—surely, Darcy will back off. Probably after a full background check, but you’ll pass that, and then he won’t have anything to complain about.”
One of his brows jacked up as he handed me a bundle of spoons.
“Fine, he’ll always complain, but hopefully not about you. Much.”
“I don’t know, Laney. She told me from the jump, without directly saying that we couldn’t be anything more than friends. Isn’t it kinda shitty to just come out and tell her what I want when it betrays what she said in the first place?”
“I don’t know how anyone walks around without saying how they feel, so I’m probably the wrong person to ask.”
“So you’re saying I should go for it?”
I shifted to face him, resting my hip on the counter. “When it comes to what you want and what makes you happy, I’m always going to tell you to go for it. Don’t let anyone or anything stand in your way, not even your fear of what might happen to her. That’s for her to decide, not you. What’s the worst that could happen? She says no? You can handle that. But I’m pretty sure she won’t say no.”
“Let’s hope,” he said with the smallest of smiles.
“And if Darcy gets in your way, he’ll rue the day.” I held up the spoons. “Rue the day!”
The family had been in and out while we talked, but they’d begun to gather at the smaller table in the breakfast nook, like we did when we weren’t eating. But it only worked when a few people sat on laps, which was no problem for my brothers. The three of them sat side by side with their loves in their laps like a scene out of a musical, gazing at each other with those dumb puppy looks on their faces.
It was the cutest thing I’d ever seen.
I wondered, as I often did, if I’d ever be there with them, content and in love. I imagined Jett in one of the empty chairs with Georgie in his lap and could picture it without even trying. A stir of rightness in my chest brought with it a flare of protection over Jett. Because he should get what he wanted. He deserved a love who loved him back. And I wanted that for him more than I wanted it for myself.
I’d probably end up the crazy aunt who took all my nieces and nephews to Disney World and bought them all the things their parents said they couldn’t have. I’d get some cats, even though I’d prefer dogs, really punch up the whole independent woman of a certain age bit. It wouldn’t be so bad.
I ignored the rush of fear that came with the thought of Jett moving out and moving on. But that was what we were supposed to do, and lo
gically, I knew this—the single companionship—wouldn’t last forever. And though I’d never forgive him for leaving me alone to contend with our mother, the thought of seeing him happy was too much to resist.
And I’d do anything to help him get there.
14
Death by Chanel No. 5
LIAM
It had been a week and a half since we’d started the competition, and my team and I hadn’t turned up anything of worth.
All we had to show for long days in a conference room was a pile of terrible ideas, and on seeing Laney’s team working happily together, I had a bad feeling we were well behind them. And the initial presentation was next week. We kept coming back to Get Your Drink On because it was the closest we’d gotten to the heart of what we were trying to say, even if it was stupid and would never work.
But on that third night, as I lay in bed not sleeping, something struck me. Something so simple, I knew it would work.
Get Lit.
It covered books and booze in two little words. Get your literature. Get hammered. A campaign rolled out in my mind so hard and fast, I turned on the light, reached for my notebook, and started sketching. A stack of books with a scotch on top. An illustration of a regency duke with a bourbon in his hand. I paused, pencil in hand, wondering how much of the idea had come from Laney’s, but it was the only thing that made sense. Literary heroes with liquor in their hands, like Mark Twain. But I pushed myself back to romance and comics, given those were the shop’s big sellers.
But with this concept, the team would turn out ideas—I didn’t doubt that for a second. So I put it away and shut out the light, my mind still racing with ideas when I finally fell asleep.
So this morning, the first thing I did was brief my team, brainstorm with them for a bit, and then we split up to work on some design concepts. At the moment, I was waist deep in fonts, digging into my coffers for something that would fit the direction I had in mind.
Otherwise, there was very little to report. Georgie had begrudgingly avoided Wasted Words when Jett was there in an attempt to put some space between them. I’d barely seen Laney, too entrenched in the process with my team to take my eyes off of what was in front of me. As for Wickham, I’d told myself I’d forgotten about him. But even though he was a void in my mind, he still took up space, held a shape. Despite that, he wasn’t the reason I’d spent long nights staring at my ceiling, thinking of Laney.
As the customer relations liaison for the bookstore, Georgie thought it would be a good idea to throw a cocktail party for the Wasted Words staff and our team, and though she said it was to make sure everyone was happy and let them blow off a little steam, I had a strong suspicion it was more about mending some fence between me and Laney, though I didn’t know how she thought a party would improve my mood. When it came to Laney, things had gotten better by degrees—she’d been able to tolerate me in new and promising ways now that she’d been given a voice, a team. The respect she’d craved—the respect I’d inadvertently stripped her of—she’d regained. And I knew without a doubt that I should have listened to her from the start.
Put it on my tab.
I had intentions to dance with her again at the cocktail party, but with different results. Weeks after we’d danced the first time, I could still remember how she’d felt in my arms, what the warmth of her smile had done to me. And this time, I would end it on that note, not a fight.
A flicker of caution in my chest stopped the thought. I didn’t want to dance with her just to smooth things over. I wanted her in the circle of my arms where I could keep her, even if only for the length of a song. I wanted to bask in that smile. So I did what I always did—I gave myself permission to want those things because she would never want me, and I could never have her.
I could indulge myself because nothing would ever come from it.
A knock against my doorjamb startled me, but my heart stopped when I found Laney standing in the doorway.
She was beautiful whether she wore jeans and band T-shirts and sneakers or a pencil skirt, simply because there was something so quietly elegant in the way she wore it. Something in the way she carried herself, the lines of her hands and fingers when she gesticulated, which she did often. Or maybe it wasn’t anything she did so much as that she just was. She was confident in the most genuine way, so true to herself that even the smallest action felt meaningful. There was no pretense with Laney Bennet, only the truth of her, just as she stood before me now.
She was a vision framed in the black threshold, wearing wide-legged navy pants with a high waist that gave the illusion that she was taller than her height. I’d noticed she favored blue and wondered more than a few times if it was because of the effect it had on her eyes, amplifying them to a shade so vibrant, it was almost unnatural. Her white button-down might be satin—it held a radiant sheen, highlighting the shape of her.
But perhaps the best part was her smile, a smart, tilted expression that elicited a tug at the corner of my lips in answer.
“Am I interrupting?” she asked.
I closed my computer. “Not at all.” I gestured to the chairs.
“Thank you,” she said as she walked in and took a seat. After a deliberate inhale, she said something I didn’t expect. “I know we’ve had our differences, but I wanted to thank you for giving me a chance.”
At that, a tug at my lips persisted. “You bet me. Using bait you knew I’d take.”
She gave me a nonchalant shrug. “I didn’t honestly think you’d take it. You’re not an easily persuaded man.”
“No, I am not.”
“Anyway, your team is talented, and it’s reminded me of what I’ve been missing since leaving Connor & Cook. So thank you for trusting me with them. I hope you won’t be mad when I win.”
A laugh burst out of me before I could stop it.
She just kept on smiling, though her forehead quirked in some combination of amusement and assessment. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before.”
“Commit it to memory,” I said with the remnants of laughter on my face.
“Already done. Are you guys still stuck?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I really would.”
“Then I guess it’s going to be a long week for you, Miss Bennet.”
She sighed for show, flicking her eyes to the ceiling. “Well, at least I tried.”
For a moment, we watched each other, the silence pregnant with unspoken thoughts. When she stood, so did I.
“Thanks again, Mr. Darcy,” she said, and oddly, I found myself disappointed she hadn’t said my first name.
“You’re welcome,” I said, walking around my desk. “And you should know, I’m sorry too. For my behavior. I’m … unaccustomed to meeting new people, in part because it never seems to go well.”
“I can’t for the life of me imagine why,” she teased. Her eyes were on mine, our gazes locked with such intensity, when she moved to step away, she bumped into one of the chairs and wobbled, tilting dangerously in my direction.
Without thinking, my hands shot out to steady her—one cupping her closest elbow and the other her closest hand. It was only a second, maybe less. But I felt the silk of her shirt, warmed by her skin. The lightness of her small hand in mine. The soft flesh of her palm and the long shape of her fingers. I could smell the crisp, quiet floral of her soap and see the silver flecks in her irises until they were swallowed up by her pupils.
“Oh!” she breathed as a blush smudged her cheeks, and she righted herself.
When she stepped back, my hands fell to my sides, my thumb stroking my palm where her hand had been.
“Excuse me,” came a sharp voice from the direction of my door.
Laney whipped around like we’d just been caught in flagrante, and I glanced around her to find my aunt in the doorway.
Catherine de Bourgh was stiff and starched as always, her nose with a permanent upward tilt and her eyes cold, assessing, and trained on La
ney.
“I’m not interrupting, am I?” she asked in such a way that promised a consequence if the correct answer wasn’t given.
“Not at all,” I said easily, and when she met my gaze, that cold exterior cracked, exposing warmth and care.
She smiled. “I trust we’re all well?”
“Very well, thank you, Catherine. May I introduce you to Laney Bennet, our team member from Wasted Words?”
Laney extended her hand with a lovely smile on her face. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. de Bourgh.”
Catherine’s chill was back with the crack of a whip, her icy eyes on Laney. “Bennet? Where are you from, girl?”
Laney’s smile fell with her hand. “I … Greenwich Village, ma’am.”
Catherine drew a breath that brought her chin and chest together. “You’re Rosemary Bennet’s child?”
It was an accusation disguised as a question.
To her credit, Laney looked more confused than intimidated. “Yes, I am. Do you know my mother?”
“I do,” she snapped. “If you’ll excuse us, I need to speak with my nephew.”
“Of course,” Laney said, arranging her face into what I would have called a smile if I’d never seen the real thing. And then she headed out of the room without looking back.
I moved back to my desk, puzzling over some context I’d missed..
The moment she was gone, Catherine approached my desk in a rush of fury and Chanel No. 5.
“A Bennet?” she hissed. “What in God’s name is that doing in my building?”
My eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“A Bennet. As in the Bennets who own Longbourne. The same Bennets that put Evelyn Bower in jail.”
Slowly, pieces clicked together. Evelyn Bower, Catherine’s oldest friend. I remembered the two women shoving Evelyn’s poor, shy daughter, Margaret, in my direction like a prize mare at a number of parties. We’d only endured the setup because neither of us was inclined to talk to anyone—we could silently sit and simultaneously fulfill our duty without saying a word. Catherine and Evelyn had been thick as thieves, running their empires since before such a thing was considered possible—Evelyn at Bower Bouquets and Catherine here at the firm. The news break when Evelyn had been arrested took over the news cycle for a week, even longer when she’d gone to trial.
