Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman Page 0,4
up ten stairs. Even if the stairs are ridiculously steep and she has a bunch of heavy books inside the suitcase. It’s bad form.
“Okay.” He knew I didn’t like things such as having my car door opened for me or help with my luggage. He jogged over to me and kissed me quickly, half on the lips and half on the cheek. He turned to leave, and I began to hoist the case up the stairs like I was going for the crown in the Miss Ignominious pageant—which would be a much more fun pageant to watch than your run-of-the-mill beauty pageant, if you ask me.
Harrison must have turned back and seen my slow, awkward plight, because the next thing I knew, he was at my side, trying to help me with the suitcase again.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, refusing to look at him. A short semi-slap fight ensued, which I won. I needed to get my suitcase into my house and not cry. I continued my assent, my eyes focused on the shiny black door above me. The suitcase bumped my leg on each step and pushed me forward a little. Apparently graceful was out of the question.
I pulled the luggage up the remaining three steps, hoping that when I turned back, Harrison and Lacey would be long gone. I pivoted on my heel.
No such luck.
Harrison was headed for the car, while Lacey’s shining eyes gazed at me from the side window. She actually had the audacity to make a frowny face. A freakin’ frowny face. Then she waved at me. An honest-to-goodness wave. Like, “See ya around. I didn’t just take your spot and run off with your boyfriend or anything.”
“Meg, I’ll call you later,” Harrison said as he climbed into the car. “We’ll finish our talk.”
“Fine,” I shouted over my shoulder, fumbling in my purse for the key to the front door. Why did I have so much crap in my purse? No one needs four different kinds of tiny hand sanitizers, even if they are ‘buy three get one free.’ I pushed aside the sanitizers, the empty orange and pink donut bag, my purple journal, and my ubiquitous dog-eared copy of Pride and Prejudice. By the way, purse-fumbling? Also not graceful.
Then it began to rain. Because A) it was poetic, and poetic things always happen to me, and B) because the only thing less graceful than standing in front of your door, fumbling for your key in your crap-filled purse in desperation to get away from your boyfriend and his hot, famous employer as they stare at your back...is fumbling for your key in your crap-filled purse, in front of them, in the rain. Which plasters the bangs you shouldn’t’ve let your hair stylist talk you into to your wet forehead and makes you look like you are crying. Which you are not doing...yet.
I finally found the bloody key, but in my haste to put it into the lock, I dropped it in front of my feet. When I leaned over to retrieve it, the unmistakable sound of fabric ripping met my disbelieving ears. I closed my eyes. Damn. Damn. Damn.
I scooped up the key and jammed it into the lock as quickly as possible, and twisted the knob open with a jerk. I was just about to pull in my suitcase behind me and slam the door with gratifying force when I heard Lacey’s mock-concerned voice drift up to me from below. “Dr. Knightley! I hate to be the one to tell you, but your skirt ripped and your panties are showing.”
Chapter 2
When one is confronted with the news that one’s granny panties are visible, there are clearly only two choices. Laugh and quickly tuck them out of sight, or pretend you didn’t hear such information and blithely continue about your self-righteous business.
Had Harrison not just tossed me over for Lacey Lewis on the night I had hoped we’d become engaged, I would have chosen the former. However, under the circumstances, I was left with only the latter as a viable option. Head held high, I pushed my recalcitrant suitcase inside with my foot. I let the door slam satisfyingly behind me, even though I knew Harrison and Lacey and the Audi had long since purred away.
I glanced around the tiny foyer of my townhouse. A print of Monet’s Houses of Parliament hung on the wall over a cherry wood side table that held a silver bowl where I dropped my keys. The table generally housed