Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman

Chapter 1

A Friday night in August

I hate flying. In addition to igniting my rampant anxiety, it makes me pukey. I also had the misfortune of sitting next to a Level-Five sniffer on my flight home. I offered him a tissue. He declined. Later, we got into a tussle over the armrest. I won.

I spent the rest of the journey in pleasant conversation with the girl on the other side of me, who was flying to Milwaukee to visit her dad. Her parents were divorced, and while she was only thirteen, she was self-possessed and seemed zen about it.

I gave her half of my donut and explained that I wished my parents had split up long before they did. She pointed out that the upside was she got two of everything, like birthday parties and sets of Christmas presents. I told her she had her head on straight. She said she’d follow me on Instagram.

After disembarking from the plane and waving goodbye to my new kid friend, I schlepped my roller bag up the jetway and out to the waiting area to find my boyfriend of two years and eight months—Harrison Macomb Ph.D.—checking his watch and waiting for me. But my tall, blond, handsome boyfriend wasn’t alone.

Lacey Lewis stood next to him. Yes, the Lacey Lewis, up-and-coming Hollywood starlet who looks like a younger, fresher, less-affected-by-Brian-Austin-Green version of Megan Fox. She wore a huge hat and sunglasses to avoid the paparazzi who’d semi-descended on Milwaukee over the summer to keep an eye on her.

I wasn’t surprised by Lacey being there. Harrison and I were English history professors, and Lacey had hired him to teach her how to convincingly portray Lydia Bennet in yet another reboot of Pride and Prejudice soon to be filmed in Surrey.

Personally, I thought it was an unfortunate casting decision. Everyone knows Lydia Bennet doesn’t look like Megan Fox. But Lacey had gotten the part, and she and Harrison had been spending a lot of time together over the last six weeks.

She’d actually interviewed me for the coaching position first. But ultimately, she’d said she felt more comfortable with a male mentor. She’d always been a “guy’s girl.” Or something like that. That’s when the side-eyeing began. And soon after followed the jealousy. Unwanted and unexpected, but it was there in me all the same. I couldn’t deny it. Lacey was gorgeous and rich, and Harrison was handsome and smart and kind and nerdy and completely unused to being wooed by Hollywood types.

I tried to be happy for Harrison, but it hurt to lose out on one of the biggest boons Everton College had ever landed. I learned a long time ago that when you’re female, being competitive is often mistaken for being mean, while a competitive man is revered for it.

I tried to make the best of it, however, and on the few occasions I spent time with Harrison and Lacey together, I gave her a few extra pointers on how best to portray Lydia. After all, I was the one who’d read P&P so many times I could nearly recite it—not Harrison. Yet I couldn’t help but hope that, much like Jolene in the old Dolly Parton song, Lacey wouldn’t steal my man.

Every boyfriend I’d ever had had left me for someone prettier, more fun, or more…something. But Harrison seemed loyal, and he matched every single criterion on my Future Husband Checklist. He was perfect for me. A one-hundred-percent match.

I glanced at the two of them waiting on the other side of security. As usual, Harrison looked like he’d just come from a J. Crew photo shoot. He was sporting wrinkleless chinos and a collared, blue-and-white checkered shirt. He’d topped it off with a navy blue blazer with elbow patches. He always wore a jacket. Even to airports. Even on weekends.

Lacey was wearing a red suit and had matching painted fingernails. I’d long been suspicious of women who managed to match their manicures to their outfits. They clearly don’t like to nap as much as I do.

I glanced down at myself and groaned inwardly. I didn’t look nearly as well-put-together as they did. My toffee-colored pencil skirt was rumpled, and there was a run in my tights and a jelly stain on my light blue sweater that couldn’t be helped—because I always eat bad stuff like donuts to comfort me when I fly due to the whole fear-of-death thing.

To make matters worse, my belly was pooched out because pencil skirts suck if you’re five-foot-three and do reckless