Dating Mr. Darcy - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,37

pulls. It shifts about a fifth of an inch. “Is it always this hot in Texas?”

“Yes. Well, other than when we get a shock of cold from the north in winter. Then we Houstonians all stay home and wonder what happened to our seventy-five degrees.”

“Seventy-five in winter? That’s warmer than a summer’s day where I’m from.” He collects a twig from the ground and toys with it in his hands.

“Maybe you should lose the jacket,” I suggest, then realize how flirty that may sound. “You know, to keep cool,” I add, so there’s no confusion that I’m simply trying to help his internal temperature regulate.

Which is all I’m trying to do, of course.

“Now, why didn’t I think of that?” he says with a glint in his eye. He leans in closer to me, and I can’t help but breathe in his heady scent. “You are so wise, Brady Bunch,” he says quietly.

Right on cue, those tingles kick back to life, and I’ve got to remind myself that I’m here under duress—and not for him.

I try not to watch as he stands back up and unbuttons his double-breasted jacket. I try. Really, I do. But I fail. Miserably. Please don’t judge me. Mr. Darcy is taking off his jacket right in front of me. Only the superhuman could manage to avert their eyes, and I’d put money on the fact they’d sneak a peek, anyway.

His jacket off, he folds it neatly over his arm and then places it on the ground. As he sits back down, I try not to notice the way his cream shirt falls from broad shoulders, tucked into a slim waist.

Yup, you got it: another fail.

Why does this guy have to be so darn hot? Doesn’t he know it’s distracting me from disliking him?

“Now, Emma. What will you be delighting me with this afternoon?”

I shoot him a look. Is that a flirty lilt to the way he said “delighting?” “Oh, I won’t be delighting anyone, I can tell you that right now.”

“Are you certain? I, for one, find you quite delightful.” His eyes are trained on mine in some kind of challenge.

Yup. Definitely flirty.

“I—” I begin, only to stop. I’m not sure what to say. What is this guy playing at, coming over to sit next to me, smelling all yummy, taking off his jacket, and looking the way he does right now? He’s not playing fair, that’s what it is.

But there’s a small part of me that doesn’t want him to stop.

“Thank you.”

His smile stretches across his face and his eyes linger on mine. “Whatever it is you decide to perform this afternoon, I must tell you, some of the contestants have hidden singing talents. The competition will be stiff.”

A lot like you.

I don’t say it. It’s just his way. He’s upper class and British. The guy never stood a chance.

“I can say with confidence right now, I won’t win any singing competitions. Not today, not any day.”

“That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed our conversation last night. Dinner won’t be the same without you.”

Seriously, dude! What are you playing at?

“Now, before I forget, I have something for you.”

“You do?”

He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. “I responded to that very sweet letter you wrote for me.”

I search his face for a clue as to what he’s doing. “You did?”

“I thought if Mr. Darcy received a letter from a lady, he would certainly reply. It would be considered ill-mannered not to.”

I take the paper from him and turn it over in my hand. “Okay.”

“Enjoy reading it,” he says with a fresh twinkle in his eye. “I need to do my rounds with the other contestants. I’ll see you in the living room for the performances.” He stands back up and collects his jacket from the ground. I watch as he walks across the grass toward another contestant, followed by the cameramen. In his tight breeches, long boots, and white shirt, most of the contestants stop their practicing and simply gaze at him. He really is quite something to look at.

I slump back against the tree and exhale. Well, that was confusing with a capital “C.”

I check there are no cameras on me and then open the folded piece of paper and read his letter. It’s one line.

I’m sorry to see you go, Brady Bunch.

I fold it back up again and slip it down my top. (No pockets, remember?)

I chew on my lip, a bunch of emotions springing