Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman Page 0,46

been knocked out of me. My chest ached and I couldn’t breathe. My lungs wheezed and I tried to suck in air but that just made the ache in my lungs more intense.

More like Darcy than Lizzy?

Me?

What?

Was I?

A lame, “I am?” was all I could muster. The thing was...I think I knew what he meant, but I kinda didn’t want to know.

“Yeah, but you had to know that already, didn’t you?” He cocked his head to the side and looked at me quizzically, as if he couldn’t fathom the fact that I hadn’t already been one-hundred-percent aware that I was more prejudice than pride.

Suddenly, the memory of Luke calling me a snob came back to haunt me. “I am,” I breathed, still a bit shaken, my voice quiet. “Aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but just like Mr. Darcy, I think you’re redeemable.” He tugged my ponytail and grinned at me.

I smiled at that. At least there was hope. “Do I need to bail your sister out of a sticky situation with Mr. Wickham to prove myself?”

“Perhaps, if the situation arises,” he replied with a wink, making the space behind my rib cage flutter. “In the meantime, want to go to dinner with me tonight? I promise, I can afford it.”

“Do you like French food?” Jeremy asked after I hoisted myself up into his silver Toyota Tacoma. I’d learned over the years that short people and trucks weren’t the best mix. Luckily, there was a sort of handle in the doorframe that I used to pull myself up. Super sexy, I’m sure. His truck smelled like oranges and was spotless. Hmm. No sign of a hoard anywhere. Not even his car. I suppose I needed to give up on that particular quest.

“French food? Are you trying to impress me and be fancy?” I asked, laughing. I was trying to seem fun, but his Mr. Darcy accusation continued to echo through my mind. I tried to push it away, but it kept returning like an unwelcome boomerang.

“No, I just adore the steak frites at Orsay,” he replied.

“Orsay? Now that is fancy!” Orsay was a hip restaurant in an even hipper part of town. It was also the place that Harrison and I were supposed to go the night he’d tossed me over for Lacey Lewis. I’d never been there. I’d only heard talk of its fanciness and hipness. I was neither hip enough nor fancy enough to go there myself. “Am I dressed up enough for it?” I asked, glancing down at my cotton dress. I mean, the dress was fine and all, but it was no pencil skirt, and I wasn’t wearing control-top panties tonight. Thank God.

“Yep. You know the hipsters. They’ll wear jeans and baseball caps even to the fanciest place these days. You’ll be one of the best-dressed people in the joint.”

“French hipsters aren’t fancy?” I blinked at him.

Jeremy shrugged. “Okay, maybe they’ll have on berets instead of baseball caps.”

“Ironic berets?” I said with another laugh.

“Of course.”

I cleared my throat. Now for the awkward convo I had to have every time I rode in a car with someone else driving. “Can you...sort of...drive carefully, please?”

He side-eyed me. “I’m not reckless, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I just get—” I cleared my throat again.

He started the engine. “Car sick?”

I pulled the seatbelt across myself and buckled it. “How did you know?”

“I remember that time you came with me and Luke to baseball nationals, and we had to stop so you could throw up because your dad drove.”

“My dad was the worst! Wait. I threw up in front of you?” I winced. Now why the hell didn’t I remember that? Probably because in my youth, before I’d learned to control my motion sickness, I’d thrown up in front of lots of people. Gross, but true.

“I wasn’t there for the actual puking, of course,” he assured me. “We were at a rest stop. You made it to the bathroom.”

“Thank God.” Why didn’t I remember this? Had I blocked it out in some sort of merciful embarrassing-things blackout?

“Don’t worry. I remember what you said to your dad. He needed to not start and stop so often, and no inching forward at lights.”

“Yes! Otherwise it’s a total puke fest.” It was a relief not to have to explain myself to someone. Harrison had always sort of treated my motion sickness as if it was a psychosomatic illness brought on out of a surplus of emotion. As if I could control it if I merely chose to.

“Don’t worry,”