Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman Page 0,27
boss asked him to do it.”
“Yeah, well, if my boss asked me to toss over my girlfriend, I’d tell him where he could stick it.”
The tears burned even hotter. I shook my head again. Was that true? Would Jeremy really do that? “But Dr. Holmes could recommend Harrison for tenure. Harrison can’t tell him off. That would be reckless. Career suicide.”
“So what? Some things are more important than your career.”
That was near blasphemy, as far as I was concerned. “Yeah, well, some of us care about our careers.”
“So, you’re not mad at him...or upset?” Jeremy prodded.
“Oh, I didn’t say that.” I studied the pattern of smeared tomato sauce on my plate. The blood-red color reminded me of Lacey’s stupid fingernails and dumb high heels. “It was hard to hear it. Hence, the consolation ice cream. But I understand why Dr. Holmes wants him to go with Lacey. It’s good publicity for the department.”
Jeremy rubbed the back of his neck. “Some things are more important than good publicity, too.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I’ve never really been all that emotional about stuff like that,” I said, even as the tears continued to prick at my eyes.
“Only you ate a pint of ice cream after you heard the news?”
Bloody hell. The man had a point. I expelled my breath. “It was just that I’d expected him to—”
I stopped short. What? Was I about to tell Foxy that I’d really thought a guy who’d tossed me over for an actress had been about to propose? No. No. Not a good idea. I’d keep my humiliation to myself, thank you very much.
“You thought what?” he prodded.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s just...sometimes you make plans, and...”
“Everything goes to hell?” He took another swig of Coke.
“Yeah.” I pushed my crumpled napkin around my empty plate. “Everything goes to hell.”
Jeremy glanced at his phone. “Well, look at that. Half hour on the dot, Doc.”
I stood and shifted my bag over my shoulder. “Thanks for the pizza.”
“Thanks for coming with me.”
I took a deep breath. There was only one way to end the evening. “As for the job...I’m formally offering...”
“I accept,” he said with a grin.
“Great.” I grinned back, happy for the melancholy I’d been feeling moments earlier to fade. “The first thing we need to do is get started on your wardrobe.” I pulled a card from my bag and handed it to him. “Meet me tomorrow night at six. At this address.”
Chapter 9
Tuesday night
“No dogs to rescue tonight?” I asked when Jeremy showed up precisely at six at the fabric shop.
“None tonight,” he replied with a grin.
How had I forgotten, in the short span of one day, how good-looking he was? And I had not worn the cute little yellow flare skirt (with pockets) that I had on just for him. No, I had not. Nor had I used the stairs at school today all day instead of taking the elevator in an effort to lose my pizza, ice cream, and donut weight in a fruitless effort to attract Jeremy.
“I did stop by on my lunch break today to make sure Roo was okay,” he said.
“Roo?”
“The dog I saved last night.”
He took his lunch break to check on someone else’s dog? Swoon again.
“How is she?” I pushed my glasses up my nose.
“She’s good. Appreciated the bone I brought her.”
Of course he also brought the dog a present.
A jangle from the back of the shop caught my attention, and Mitchell, the tailor, came bustling into the room. “Dr. Knightley, I do declare! Why don’t ya introduce me to your Mr. Darcy?”
Mitchell was about five foot five inches tall, slim and fit, and dressed to the nines. He was in his mid-forties, but looked twenty-five, and he was the most adorable gay guy you’d ever see. He was witty, and smart, and so fun to hang out with. I had adored him from the moment I’d met him. I hoped Jeremy would like him too.
Mitchell owned his own fabric store and tailoring business. He’d been born and raised in Milwaukee, but he insisted upon speaking with a slow, gentlemanly Southern accent that sounded as if he was perpetually sitting on a wraparound porch, fanning himself and drinking a mint julep. I thought the accent was cute. Harrison hated it.
“Hi, Mitchell. This is Jeremy Remington. Jeremy, this is Mitchell Hanson. He’s a genius at inventing men’s clothing. Especially vintage stuff.”
Mitchell curtsied. “How do you do?” he said in his faux Southern drawl, eyeing Jeremy up and down with unabashed interest.
Jeremy bowed,