“You were in writing club too, weren’t you?” he asked.
Wow. Yes. I had been in the creative writing club in high school. “You remembered I was in the writing club?” The man had an even better memory than he’d given himself credit for. He’d learned most of a huge set of lines in one day, and remembered that I got car sick, and had been in the creative writing club in high school.
“Yeah, which reminds me.” The candlelight gilded the right side of his features. “You’ve obviously wanted to write for a while now. Tell me again why you think you can’t write a romance novel.”
I stared past Jeremy at the buffalo skull on the nearby wall. Why did I think I couldn’t do it? Lots of reasons. I’d tried to bring it up to Harrison once. Only once. We’d been at a Barnes & Noble, and I’d slyly steered us to the romance section. I’d picked up a book by Lisa Kleypas, one of my favorite authors...who also went to Wellesley. She was the one who’d made me think that maybe, just maybe, I could write one, too. The cover had an obviously historical couple in a state of undress on it. “What do you think?” I’d asked Harrison. “It’s written in our time period.”
“What do I think?” he’d echoed, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down his nose at the book. “I think that’s trash. The real historical section is over there, you know?” He’d pointed to the history books, which of course I also loved, but I couldn’t help but be disappointed at his obvious dismissal. Since then, I kept my historical romance reading habit on the down low. e-Readers made it easy. No one had to see the cover of the book I was reading.
“Because people say they’re trash,” I offered lamely.
Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest and looked down the length of his nose at me. “Do you think they’re trash?”
“Not at all. I think they’re glorious. I’m always happiest when I’m reading one.”
“Then what makes you give a damn what other people say?” he asked as the waiter filled our glasses with more water.
My tenth-grade encounter with Mrs. Neilson flashed through my mind. At least I remembered something. I’d never forget that.
I was sixteen when I began hating my mom for getting me hooked on romance novels. The books with the steamy covers and silly names had been stacked eye-level-high in mom’s bedroom. One night, when I’d had another stupid fight with my high school boyfriend, mom had suggested I read a romance novel to make me feel better. “They always have happy endings,” she had said with a sigh and a dreamy look in her eye. That was mom’s problem. She was always thinking about what could be, not what was. She was completely unrealistic.
Happy endings? So completely unlike life. My mom and dad had finally gotten divorced when I was fourteen, after years of fights over money and my dad’s gambling habits. Mom had started reading romance novels way before she kicked Dad out, but after he’d gone, she’d really gotten into them. Like she read multiple books a week. She had a customer at the diner who read them in droves and left the used ones for Mom as part of her tip. That and her library card kept her in books year-round. She rarely had to pay for them.
I had always wondered what the books that had been off-limits to me my entire life were like, and so that night, after John and I had yet another argument about my refusal to introduce him to my family, I grudgingly took the book mom handed me. “Just read the first twenty-five pages,” she’d said. “I promise, you’ll like it.”
I’d looked at them before, of course. I’d stolen one or two and riffled through them, looking for the sexy parts. But this time I opened the book and began reading from chapter one. Before I knew it, I’d read the entire thing from start to finish. To my surprise and perhaps horror, I found out that I liked it. Really liked it. It was full of love and hate and angst and drama and hot sex. I wasn’t entirely certain my mom should’ve let me read it, but I wanted another one right away. An addict had been created. I devoured romance novels at nearly the rate my mom had. Only I had schoolbooks to read, too, and school was my first priority. I was going to be a doctor, after all.
The medical-doctor thing didn’t work out. Turns out I hated math and science—oh, and blood, and life-and-death-type stress, and a hundred other things medical doctors have to deal with on daily basis. I got straight As in all my classes, but my two favorite subjects, the ones where I got A++’s, were History and English. I could never decide which one I liked more so I continued to enjoy both of them. I did have a favorite teacher, however: my English teacher, Mrs. Neilson. She was quirky and smart and wore caftans and her hair up in a bun on the top of her head with pencils sticking out, and she sometimes spoke in a fake British accent for no reason. She made books come alive.
It was Mrs. Neilson who discovered my secret addiction to romance novels, and like any responsible adult who spots a burgeoning addict, she’d saved me. I’d been sitting at my desk in her Honors English class when I pulled up my book bag to get out my English notebook, and the romance novel I was currently reading went flying across the slick tile floor to land at Mrs. Neilson’s feet. The teacher who was my mentor, the person I most looked up to in the world, leaned down and picked up the book. I held out my hand, expecting to get a mild reprimand for not concentrating on The Grapes of Wrath. She marched over to me and stared at the novel with an arched brow, holding it up by the corner as if it were a dead bug she needed to dispose of.
“Oh, Meg, I expect much greater things from you. Not reading this trash.” There it was. That word. Trash. Trash? I’d heard that word before. Many times. It was always spoken right after the words ‘trailer park’ and made my stomach tie into knots. If romance novels were trash, I didn’t want anything to do with them.
I’d gone home that day, pushed the book back onto Mom’s towering pile and never touched one again. Well, not for years at least. Not until college, when I’d been home on break, visited Ellie at the University of Wisconsin, and saw her reading one. Not only did she readily admit to reading them, she had them strewn all over her dorm room. Ellie and I talked about our favorites and shared them. But our love of them was like my dirty secret.
After that episode in English class, I’d been ashamed. Completely embarrassed. I slunk around, convinced Mrs. Neilson had lost all faith in me, despite my perfect grades and the fact that she’d told me on more than one occasion that I was a gifted writer. Two weeks later, Mrs. Neilson pushed a copy of Pride and Prejudice in front of me. She leaned down and whispered, “If you like to read love stories, read this one. It’s literature.” And that’s when my affair with the book began. Pride and Prejudice: the acceptable, smart person’s version of a romance novel. Worthy of a future doctor. A Ph.D.
Of course, Pride and Prejudice was just as fantastical a story as any of the romance novels I’d read. In real life, super-rich men who owned estates and held titles didn’t sweep you off your feet and tell you how ardently they admired and loved you. They didn’t pay off bad men to marry your flighty sister and save her from a life of ruin. And they certainly didn’t see the error of their ways and change as a result of it. No. If change were possible, my dad would have stopped gambling for my mom’s sake. I know he would have. He loved her. He looked so stricken and lost every time she berated him for losing money. He was guilty. He hated himself. I knew he did. Change wasn’t something that one just did on a whim. It took hard work. If I could just change, I would have stopped reading romance novels altogether instead of sneaking them around on my e-reader, afraid that my super-smart boyfriend who called them trash would find out I was reading one.
“Meg,” Jeremy said, tugging me from my thoughts.
“Yes?”
“You didn’t answer me. I asked you what made you care what other people think.”
I took a long sip of wine while I thought about his question. “I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. Why did I care what other people thought? Why couldn’t I be like Luke and Jeremy and follow my bliss?
The waiter came and took our matching steak frites order. A
fter he left, Jeremy ducked his head to capture my gaze and said to me, “I think you should write a historical romance novel.”
I bit my lip. “The truth is I have been studying how to write novels for several years now.”
“Really?” He sat up straighter and leaned forward, actually seeming interested in hearing more about it.
“I’ve read every book on writing craft out there,” I admitted.
“Then I’d say it’s time you started.” He lifted his beer glass to his lips.
I looked away. “I don’t know.” Write a book? Really do it? The idea thrilled me but scared me at the same time.
“It takes courage to follow your dreams,” Jeremy said.
“Oh, it’s not my dream,” I dragged out the word. “Getting tenure is my dream, of course. Writing a romance novel is just something I’ve been toying with in the back of my mind. Just for fun.”
He arched a skeptical brow at me. “For how long?”
I shrugged and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “You know...sixteen years.”
“Yep, sounds like a passing fancy to me.” He gave me a sad little smile.
I swallowed and took another sip of wine. Then I promptly changed the subject. We talked about the upcoming competition and practiced our lines quietly until the food was served. Jeremy was right. The steak frites were to-die-for. I couldn’t help but wish I’d ordered a beer instead of the wine, though. Harrison turned up his nose to beer, but being around Jeremy made me really miss the beers I’d enjoyed pre-Harrison.
Jeremy paid the bill and we’d just stood to leave when another couple brushed past us.
“Meg?”
I swiveled around. “Harrison?”
“What are you doing here?” we both asked in unison.
Harrison was with Lacey Lewis, of course. She wore a slinky black dress that exposed the kind of cleavage you saw on a red carpet, while Harrison wore slacks and a nicer shirt and jacket than he normally did. All black with a white shirt. They totally looked like they were on a date.
I wanted to be indignant, but I immediately realized that it probably looked like Jeremy and I were on a date too. I couldn’t be angry with Harrison when I was holding the same guilty stick.
“Lacey and I are having a working dinner,” Harrison said, eyeing Jeremy up and down.
“Hi, Dr. Knightley,” Lacey chirped. “Oh, this must be your brother. Didn’t you tell me Meg has a brother, Harry?” She pawed at Harrison’s sleeve. Her manicure was still red and still perfect.
She was calling him “Harry” now? What? Like the prince? I’d never heard anyone call him “Harry.” It kind of made me want to gag. Just a little.
Harrison shook his head and I added, “No, he’s not my brother. This is Jeremy. Jeremy Remington. Jeremy, this is Harrison Macomb and Lacey Lewis.”
Jeremy shook Harrison’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you,” to Lacey while she continued to watch him like a lion stalking a gazelle. She also continued to hang on Harrison’s arm, and I continued wanting to gag.
“Is this your Mr. Darcy, then?” Lacey asked in a purring tone.
“Yes.” I lifted my chin. “Jeremy is my new partner.”
“Wherever did you manage to find him?” she asked in an incredulous tone, one that made it obvious that she thought I must have tricked him into standing by my side. Boy, did I hope Lacey Lewis never found that that I was paying Jeremy.
“We’re...” I cleared my throat. “We’re old friends.”
A muscle ticked in Harrison’s jaw, but he remained silent.
“Got your lines memorized, do you?” Lacey licked her lips, nearly leering at Jeremy.
I wanted to elbow her in the gut and tell her to back off of Jeremy, the irony of which was not lost on me, considering she had her hands on my actual man.
“Nearly,” Jeremy replied jovially, moving his hand possessively to the small of my back. Oh my God. I loved him for that. With Lacey pawing at Harrison, it was just what I needed in that moment not to feel so vulnerable and lonely. I took a deep breath, feeling my confidence return.
“What do you do for a living, Jeremy?” Harrison finally broke his silence.
I groaned inwardly. Of course Harrison would ask that. He was as judgey a snob as I was. If I was Mr. Darcy, he was...also Mr. Darcy? Mr. Darcy’s similarly judgey twin brother? Hearing him ask Jeremy what he did, however, made me realize for the first time what a truly unattractive trait it was to judge people based on their profession.
“I’m a woodworker,” Jeremy replied. “Have my own business.”
Harrison’s brows lifted. “A carpenter?”
“No. A woodworker. There’s a difference.” Jeremy’s tone was polite but firm.
“He has a master’s degree in Engineering from Stanford,” I added in order to wipe the smug smile off of Harrison’s face. I knew it was wrong of me to bother to say it, but I also knew Harrison.
“Need that for woodworking?” Harrison asked, the smile still there and still smug, but a certain light had come into his eye. A sign of respect. I could tell.
“Nope,” Jeremy replied. “Just took a wrong turn when I was younger and finally straightened it out.” He obviously didn’t give care what either of these two thought of him. God, I admired him for that. Why did I care what they thought?
Lacey tugged impatiently at Harrison’s sleeve. She craned her neck to look out the front windows. “Oh, I do hope the paparazzi haven’t found us.” She sighed, a pout on her lips.
“Yep, I hate when that happens.” Jeremy cracked a smile.
“What?” Lacey turned her attention back to us and narrowed her eyes on Jeremy.
He cleared his throat. “I was kidding.”
“Yes, well, it’s not funny.” Lacey tapped the toe of her black patent-leather high heel against the stained cement floor. “Do you have any idea what these people put me through?”
“No, actually, I have no idea,” Jeremy replied.
“We should go,” Harrison said, stepping forward.
“Yes, let’s,” Lacey said, her lips still pouty.
Just before they walked away, she turned back to me, leaned down, and said in a stage whisper, “Dr. Knightley, I hope you don’t mind me giving you some advice.” She didn’t pause for my answer. “You really shouldn’t wear maxi-dresses. They’re not the best style choice for short women.”
My mouth fell open, but no sound came out, save for a strange hitching/breathing noise. It felt like the time I’d understudied as Juliet and had to practice the part at the end where I stuck a knife in my gut. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn’t speak. Had she really just said that to me? The woman was completely audacious. Not to mention rude. I mean, I knew maxi dresses didn’t look great on short ladies, but I’d worn it to practice my waltz. She didn’t need to throw both my shortness and my poor clothing choice in my face.
I needed to reply immediately with a pithy quip. Obviously. But when being insulted by a Megan Fox impersonator, pithy quips apparently don’t roll off my tongue. Those always come later, after I’ve had something in the range of twelve obsessive hours to think about what I should have said.
My neck heated and I could feel the blush spreading up my cheeks and across my face. “That was extremely impolite of you, Ms. Lewis.” Jeremy pulled me into the crook of his arm. “Meg looks great, and I think you owe her an apology.”
Lacey pushed a dark curl behind her ear. “I was trying to do her a favor. She’s not the most stylish.”
My gaze bounced back and forth between Harrison and Lacey. I still couldn’t think of an appropriate response. “Go to hell, you over-coiffed bitch,” seemed too boorish. I raised my eyebrows at Harrison, who only repeated, “We should go.”
He led the way, and in seconds, the two had slipped outside through the sleek glass front doors.
I stood there, shell-shocked, with Jeremy’s arm still around me. “I can’t believe she said that.”
Jeremy shook his head and squeezed me a
round the waist a little as if to bolster my spirits, but his next words did anything but. “I can’t believe your spineless boyfriend didn’t defend you.”
Um, yes, the same thought had crossed my mind. But I’d already jumped ahead to my next discussion with Harrison. The one we would have when we were alone. The one in which he’d explain that he couldn’t afford to make Lacey angry because our tenure and the department’s reputation depended on her. Of course, those would only sound like excuses to Jeremy, but I did the best I could. “He doesn’t want to upset her. She’s paying him.”
“Who gives a crap? You’re paying me, too, but I wouldn’t let you speak that way to my girlfriend.”
When he put it like that it made me want to cry. I swallowed hard, mentally searching for something to make me feel better. Finally, I reminded myself that it was easy for Jeremy to say because he didn’t actually have a girlfriend. That only made me feel slightly better, however. I lifted my chin. “Excuse me for a second. I need to go to the bathroom.”
Jeremy nodded, his face softened.
I turned on my heel and hurried across the room to the corridor that led to the bathroom. I needed to get myself together and give Harrison and Lacey time to leave. I couldn’t handle another encounter with them in the parking lot.
I slid inside the bathroom, leaned back against the distressed wood door, and took a deep breath. The bathroom was hip, too. Real lavender soap. Thumping music. Blood red walls. White subway-tiled floors. I splashed some water on my face and stared at myself in the mirror. What the hell had just happened out there? Harrison had seemed a little jealous that I was with Jeremy. I could tell by his expression, but Jeremy was right, Harrison should have defended me to Lacey. I could hear him now, telling me that Lacey’s comment was a disagreement between women and it wasn’t his place to get involved. Sometimes his logic and stoicism drove me crazy. It wasn’t always the best thing to be frickin’ logical.
Minutes later, I came out of the bathroom with a fake smile pasted on my face. Jeremy put his hand on the small of my back again and ushered me out of the restaurant and to his truck. He helped me up instead of allowing the valet to and he also shut the door for me. He came around to the driver’s side and took his seat.
Hiring Mr. Darcy Page 13