Pride and Papercuts (The Austens #5) - Staci Hart Page 0,18
didn’t have a paper, so I made one myself.”
“You didn’t,” I said on a laugh.
I watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, unsure why that knot was so sexy. “Did too. When the principal shut it down, I ran a First Amendment protest. Got the whole school to stand silently in the cafeteria with gags on, holding protest signs. The next semester, an official school paper was formed, and yours truly was the editor in chief.”
“How resourceful.”
“What can I say? I’ve come up with all kinds of creative ways to get what I want.”
There it was again—that promise. I laughed to cover the hot blush on my cheeks as he took another drink.
“How about you?” he asked. “What do you do?”
“I’m in marketing—a social marketing director. Unlike you, I did not birth any movements, but I’ve always loved art and aesthetics. If my mother had her way, I’d be running our family’s flower shop.”
“Flower shop? Wait, Bennet … you’re one of the Longbourne Bennets?”
“You know who we are?” I asked, amused.
“Sure. We covered the whole Longbourne-Bower feud through to the end. You guys are low-key famous, didn’t you know?”
“That is so weird.” A chuckle. “But yes, I’m one of those Bennets. I actually did their marketing until the big corporate team took over.”
“You couldn’t head it up?”
His curiosity wasn’t judgmental, but I felt the prickle of defensiveness all the same.
“They had things well in hand, and Wasted Words needed somebody. So Jett and I moved to the Upper West to be close to work, and here we are. Now I’m part of the marketing team for our expansion. I mean, in theory, at least.”
“Ah, hence the connection to Darcy. Cooper called that one in too, huh?”
“Yet another resourceful guy. I don’t know how he does it all. The other owner, Rose, is on maternity leave, so I’m afraid you won’t meet her. Unless you’re planning on sticking around?”
“You know, I think I just might.”
I watched him tip his pint glass, the golden liquid disappearing past lips I found myself very much interested in. When he set the empty glass on the bar, the foam slid down the walls to the bottom as he stood, grabbing his bag.
“If I wasn’t gonna see you soon, I’d ask you out.” He laid a twenty on the bar, but his gaze was on me.
“Well, tell me when so I can print up pins for our new anti-Darcy club.” My heart fluttered in my rib cage like I was a teenager.
“The mixer. That is, assuming you’ll be there.”
“And if not?”
“Then I need to know so I can ask you to dinner.”
“You can ask me to dinner anyway, you know.”
His head bobbed side to side in mock thought. “I could, but this is more exciting, isn’t it?” With that smile firmly in place, he backed away. “See you there.”
“I suppose you will,” I answered. He walked backward a few paces, before turning for the door.
And I smiled down at my drink, undeniably optimistic despite Liam Darcy’s best efforts.
7
Inconvenient Truths
LIAM
Georgie didn’t utter a single word the entire car ride home.
I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye as we sat in the back of the Mercedes and found her in the same immovable position she’d been in since we’d climbed in—arms folded and jaw set, her fiery gaze locked somewhere beyond the window.
And just like her, I maintained my silence, knowing she’d blow up on me when she couldn’t keep it to herself anymore. Asking her what was wrong—especially since I knew exactly what was wrong—would be a fatal mistake, one I’d made enough times to know better.
So the silence continued from Midtown and up the length of Madison Avenue. Even when we rounded the block to Fifth and pulled up to our building, she said nothing, only beat the doorman to opening the car door, making sure to slam it in my face before I could follow her. With a sigh, I opened it again. The doorman took it from me, offering his apologies, which I assured him were unnecessary. And I followed my sister inside.
She’d gotten enough of a lead on me that I barely made it into the elevator with her. Her nose was in the air, her cheeks rosy and lips flat as she studiously ignored me up fifteen floors, the only sound the dinging demarcating each one. Once at our floor—the top floor—the doors opened, and she blew up to the front door, unlocking and throwing it wide.