Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman Page 0,47

Jeremy said. “I’ll be careful.”

The ride across town wasn’t long, and I enjoyed being up high enough to see things I never got to see in the Jetta. Besides, true to his word, Jeremy was a super-careful driver and never once did anything that made my stomach lurch. It was rare to find someone who, on the first try, understood the mechanics of what makes a car-sick person sick. I’d been trying to explain it to my father my whole life. My mother, on the other hand, who I’d inherited that awful condition from, knew exactly how to drive. Slow and steady, no sudden braking. Jeremy was perfect at it, actually.

When we got to Orsay, we pulled up to the valet. A man dressed in black pants and a white shirt open the door for me and helped me down from my lofty seat. It felt awk. Who was I, the Queen of England? Harrison and I tended to go to places like Chili’s when we went out. Not to mention the valet’s disapproving look had me totally convinced that I was way underdressed, despite the fact that Jeremy had insisted that he’d been fine in his khakis and I’d be fine in my rig out.

Once the valet had sped away in the truck, Jeremy took my elbow and escorted me toward the doors to the restaurant. The Queen of England, indeed. I gave him a tentative smile when he opened the door for me, a gesture I was quickly growing to appreciate.

I stepped inside and scanned the interior. Jeremy had been totally right. There were people wearing shorts and hats in here, but it didn’t keep the place from being any less fancy. Dark wood floors, sleek, nickel-finished light fixtures, white-tiled walls, and weird things like buffalo head skulls on the walls. Totally hipster. I liked it because it was relatively quiet and the mood lighting was perfect. Not that I needed mood lighting for a dinner with Jeremy. I did not. But I’d never liked places that were too bright.

“Mr. Remington, good to see you,” the hostess said as soon as we entered the place. The distressed-wood host stand was nearly as tall as I was, and the hostess was plenty tall enough to clear it. She looked like a freakin’ model. Sleek blonde hair pulled back in a chignon. A tight black sheath dress on, that I saw when she pulled two menus from the top of the stand and came out from around the side to say, “Right this way to your regular table, Mr. Remington.”

I gave Jeremy a funny look. “You have a regular table?” I whispered.

He shrugged and smiled, showing off his perfect teeth. “Did I mention I really love the steak frites here?”

I nudged his arm and a shock like electricity shot through mine. The dude was muscled and, well, just generally hot. Now he was possibly semi-rich and had a regular table at a hip French restaurant, too. I had grossly misjudged him. He was right. I needed to stop judging books by their covers. I was prejudiced. I was Mr. Darcy.

We settled into a side booth nestled into a corner, the flickering, golden light from a candle making it seem romantic. Just a little.

I ordered some red wine and Jeremy ordered a local craft beer. He nodded toward the menu I was holding. “I already know what I want, but let me recommend the steak frites to you.”

I eyed him over the top of the two-foot-long list of food I was studying. For some reason, fancy restaurants loved to put all their menu items on one long, leather-bound page. “They’re that good, are they?”

“The best,” Jeremy replied with a grin.

“Fine. Steak frites it is.” I set the menu aside and lifted my wine glass.

“Perfect.” He set his menu atop mine and clasped his hands together on the tabletop. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Let me hear your best English accent,” I replied.

“What?” He blinked.

“English. Accent. Go.”

“What should I say?” His accent was still purely American.

“I don’t know. How about: the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain?”

“Ah, still remember your My Fair Lady too, I see.”

“Of course.” I gave him a smug smile and took another sip of wine.

Jeremy cleared his throat and repeated the words. Damned if he didn’t sound pretty Darcy-ish. “Wow. Better than I thought.”

“I’ve been practicing,” he admitted.

“You have?” Why did that surprise me? He clearly took his job seriously and was a hard worker