Marrying Mr. Darcy (Love Manor #2) - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,55

enjoying their discomfort.

Well, I guess that proves it. It’s universal. Even aristocratic Brits find the thought of their parents in their underwear super embarrassing.

“Even though it’s small fry, I’m super excited to finally get to talk to an actual British shop owner. I may as well pick up my bridesmaid’s dress for Phoebe’s wedding while I’m in the village, too.”

Sebastian plants a kiss on my lips. “Good luck.”

I paste on a brave smile. “I don’t need luck. I need a miracle.”

* * *

I walk through the door of Vestiti da Donna with a suitcase filled with Timothy. I know I’m being optimistic in bringing more than just samples, but who knows? Maybe this Denise person will love the label so much, she’ll take some stock today? Yeah, I know, I sound desperate. But really, I kinda am. Denise is the first person to even talk with me about Timothy, let alone meet me.

I look around. The store is smaller than I was hoping, but it’s bright and filled with stock, all the usual suspects of the activewear world. It’s a start, I tell myself as I spot a couple of middle-aged women at the back of the store, talking and laughing together. I wait, hoping they’ll be done soon. I take the time to leaf through the stock, working out which products Denise carries that will be in direct competition with Timothy.

Finally, the customer makes her purchase and leaves.

I approach the slim, almost skinny woman wearing a purple jumpsuit and pair of killer heels. “Hey there. Are you Denise?” I ask.

“I am, love, and you’re Emma Brady. We don’t get a lot of Americans through here, you know, and I’ll admit, I recognize you from the telly.”

I brace myself for the judgment. Anything from “he should have chosen Phoebe” to “you were hilarious” to my personal favorite “it’s hard to believe Sebastian Huntington-Ross chose someone like you.” Seriously, I’ve got that before. Charming, right?

She doesn’t give me any of them. Instead, she says, “I always liked you on that show from the very start. I felt awful bad for you when you fell out of that limousine. Why didn’t they let you redo your entrance? It only seems fair to me.”

I grin at her, warming to her immediately. “Thank you! Finally, someone who sees it from my perspective. They did allow me a do-over, but they didn’t use it on the show in the end.”

“Ooh, those devious whatsits. I always wonder about reality telly.”

“Believe me, it’s not that real.”

She smiles at me. “I bet it’s not, love.”

“Paula!” she calls suddenly, giving me a small fright.

“Yeah?” a bored voice calls from out the back of the store.

“Come and mind the shop. I’ve got a meeting with Emma.”

“Do I have to?” the voice groans back.

“You do.”

Denise rolls her eyes at me. “Teenagers.”

I hear a huff and an “Okay,” and the next thing Paula herself appears in the store. She’s the same build and size as Denise, and she can only be about seventeen or eighteen. The look on her face tells me this is the last place she’d ever want to be.

“Paula, this is Emma Brady. We might stock her label. Paula’s my daughter. She’s learning the ropes here at Donna.”

“Hey, Paula. It’s great to meet you,” I say with an outstretched hand.

“All right,” she replies in the English expression for “hello” (although why they can’t just say “hello” is beyond me) with as much enthusiasm as I had when faced with a plateful of Brussels sprouts as a kid. Not that Mom ever did that to me, because that would be straight up child abuse in my opinion.

Paula gives me a limp handshake then slinks past me and plunks herself down on a stool behind the counter, her shoulders sagging.

Denise shoots her a look. “Help anyone what comes in here, Paula. No sitting around and being all teenager-y, thank you very much.”

“If I have to.”

“You do.” Denise turns her attention back to me. “Come on then, Emma. Let’s have a wee chat, shall we? Greg says you’re a top bird.”

I’ve never been called a “top bird” in my life, but I can only assume it’s a good thing, and nothing to do with actual birds. I blush at the compliment. “Greg’s the best. And those chocolate chip cookies of his are out of this world.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know about those. I’m strictly paleo. Have been for years.”

I regard her out of the corner of my eye. She hasn’t got an ounce