Hiring Mr. Darcy - Valerie Bowman Page 0,32
mother creeping into my head again? I took my little plastic tent and my cup and made my way over to the drink machine. I filled my cup with soda and grabbed a handful of napkins and a plastic spoon and fork before turning toward Harrison.
I pressed my lips together to remind myself to be stern. The man hadn’t even called me in the last two nights. All I’d gotten from him was a lousy lunch text. He had a lot to explain.
I marched up to our table in the corner near the window and slid my soda cup onto the top. Then I set my napkins down and the cutlery on top of the napkins before plunking my hands on my hips and glaring down at Harrison.
“Take a seat, Meg,” he said in his most professorial voice.
“Not having lunch with Lacey Lewis today?” I asked in a kinda-purposefully-snotty tone.
“That’s beneath you.”
Damn it. He knew how to get to me. He was right. It was beneath me to be jealous, but at the moment I was only feeling like a girl, not an evolved professional with a Ph.D. Instead of answering, I lowered myself into the chair across from him and did my best to keep the smug look pinned to my face.
Harrison opened his mouth to speak, but one of the employees came up carrying a tray. “Turkey and avocado sandwich and fat-free chicken noodle soup?” the young man asked.
Harrison nodded and the kid slid the tray in front of him while Harrison lifted his water bottle to make way. The kid turned and left and Harrison, ever the gentleman, let his food sit while we waited for mine.
“Go ahead, eat,” I prompted.
He ignored that. “Look, Meg. I’m really sorry about what happened. I—”
I stopped him by putting up a hand. I’d been preparing for this conversation for days. “I only have one question.” I stared him in the eye and paused dramatically. I’d already decided that this moment was perfectly acceptable for drama, whether he liked it or not.
“Yes?” he prompted, the steam from his low-fat chicken noodle soup rising between our faces.
“Whose idea was it to toss me over for Lacey?”
He gave me the impatient look he often gave me when he thought I was being too dramatic. “I’d hardly say I tossed you over. It wasn’t like that, Meg.”
“Whose idea was it?” I asked again, determined to get the answer to this particular question. It had haunted me since Friday night. I’d almost texted to ask him more than once, but decided I’d get the real truth if I could spring it on him and he didn’t have time to carefully prepare an answer. Everything Harrison said seemed carefully prepared, as if even his daily conversation he’d planned like a lecture. But I’d always liked that about him. He was organized. The type of man who had a syllabus for life. Just like I did. Why was it getting on my last nerve today?
“What does it matter whose idea it was?” he answered, the hint of impatience in his voice.
“It was clearly either you, Lacey, or Dr. Holmes, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask. I’d like to know.”
The same kid who’d brought Harrison his food returned with mine. “Loaded baked potato soup with a baguette?” the kid announced, and I winced. It sounded so much worse when it was said aloud like that...in front of my boyfriend, who’d recently dumped me for an actress.
“And salad,” I added loudly, picking up my soda to make room for my meal.
The kid left and Harrison said, “Still on your half-ass diet?”
Ouch. That hurt. “The soup is comfort food.” I shrugged and placed one of the paper napkins in my lap. “I’ve needed some comfort this week. My boyfriend dumped me.”
“I did not dump you, Meg.” This time, he sounded exasperated. “And if you must know, I believe Lacey brought up the idea of participating in the competition, but—”
“I knew it!” I declared, pointing my plastic spoon in the air.
“But,” Harrison said more loudly this time, “Dr. Holmes and I quickly agreed it was a good idea.”
“So, Dr. Holmes was there when you decided to toss me over?”
Harrison lifted his sandwich in both hands. “Frankly, Meg, this isn’t about you. It’s about what’s best for the department.”
That hurt too. But I wasn’t about to let him know it. The psychologist I’d seen in my twenties had also informed me that growing up with two parents who thought