by Staci Hart
Mum's the Word
Staci Hart
Copyright © 2020 Staci Hart
All rights reserved.
stacihartnovels.com
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No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover by Quirky Bird
Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing
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Playlist: https://spoti.fi/2D9FwyJ
Pin Board: http://bit.ly/2s1eBCW
Contents
Author’s Note
1. Thunder and Lightning
2. Knock On Wood
3. Harbinger of Bloom
4. Bitter Pill
5. Hello/Goodbye
6. What If
7. Settle Down
8. Snares
9. The Why Of It
10. Satisfaction Guaranteed
11. Pavlovian
12. You + Me
13. Perfection Defined
14. Whistling Maisie
15. One Look
16. Ace in the Hole
17. Duh
18. Wildfire
19. Promises, Promises
20. Hear Me Out
21. Bring the Bottle
22. Enough
23. Emancipation Day
24. Reap and Sow
25. Shadow self
26. Embers
27. No Questions, No lies.
28. Queen of Ashes
29. Legacy
30. A Family Affair
31. Pocket Change
32. Can Do
Epilogue
Thank you
Pride and Papercuts, Chapter 1
Also by Staci Hart
About the Author
To those of you
Who’ve never followed your heart:
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There is magic in that place
And it’s waiting for you.
Author’s Note
Many of us can claim our love for Jane Austen, but only a few of us are foolish enough to retell her stories.
I have taken some liberties with Pride and Prejudice, and I hope you’ll allow me to imagine the Bennet sisters as unruly men (less our Lizzie) and Longbourne as a flower shop in Manhattan. And I hope beyond hope that you enjoy my nod to the Bennets, who we love so well.
1
Thunder and Lightning
MARCUS
A peal of thunder split the sky open.
Rain fell in a sheet of fat drops, the deluge too sudden for a single person on Fifth Avenue to even reach for their umbrella, never mind open one. With a swear, I held my briefcase over my head in a useless attempt to protect my suit from the torrent.
The foot traffic scattered like ants in a scrambling, tumbling blitzkrieg for cover after the mound had been kicked. But I trucked on, winding my way through the erratic crowd, which required all of my attention to navigate. Scanning the sidewalk ahead of me, I calculated the fastest path to the subway station, the trajectory of the flow of people laid out before me like a map. The lady with the stroller running obliquely for a coffee shop up ahead. A businessman still on his phone, squinting through the rain as he beelined for a newspaper stand. A pack of kids playing hooky, trotting and laughing and horsing around, the rain just another thing to note on a day of freedom.
I was so busy looking in front of me, I didn’t have a chance to dodge the small body before we collided.
We spun from the impact, a whirl of arms and hands. My briefcase hit the ground, abandoned so I could grab her. At the same moment, her newspaper, which she’d been using for an umbrella, flew into the air and opened like a soggy bird with a broken wing before spiraling to the sidewalk.
They said it was adrenaline that sped up your brain in moments like these, a rapid firing of neurons to catalog every detail. And as the moment stretched on in slow motion, I noted each one.
She was soft and small, the sound of her surprise striking a chord of recognition in me. I felt every flex and release of her arms beneath my palms, felt the curves of her body locked against me, felt the shift of her legs in perfect time with mine, like we were caught in the tango and not in a matter of physics. But it was the scent of her that slipped over me like that incessant rain—delicate, velvety gardenia so perfectly feminine, I found myself momentarily lost in the luxury of it.
I stopped us with a well-placed bracing of my foot that once again mimicked the tango, her body flush with mine and my hands—now somehow around her waist—holding her to me, holding her still.
But when she looked up, a thunderbolt split my ribs open.
It wasn’t just the bottomless brown of her eyes or the button of her nose, dashed with almost imperceptible freckles. It wasn’t the gentle bow of her lips, full and pink and parted in wonder. It wasn’t the shape of her small face or the curve of her cheek that I somehow knew would fit exactly in my palm. It wasn’t her fair hair, made darker by the rain, curling and clinging to the gentle line of her jaw.
It was all of her.
Every cell, every molecule, the whole of her was so utterly right. Had we been in a room full of people or packed in a subway car, I had no doubt I would have seen her just as I did now.
With all of me.
I didn’t know how many breaths had passed that we stood motionless in the rain before she smiled, and lightning struck again.
Figuratively and literally.
She jolted in my arms, face turning up to the sky in shock. Instinctively, I held her closer.
“Are you all right?” I asked over the rumbling rain, leaning back to inspect her for injury.
“Yes, I-I think so. Just wet and embarrassed. Did I hurt you? Oh! Your briefcase!”
I glanced in the direction of her eyeline to see said briefcase—which was Italian and leather and more expensive than I’d ever admit aloud—as someone tripped over it, leaving a filthy boot print on its previously pristine surface.
With an infinite sense of loss as we separated, I righted us and let her go. “It’s not important. Come on. Let me get you out of the rain.”
She stood there uncertainly as I swept up my briefcase and swiped the side with my palm. I didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, I snagged her hand and towed her toward a coffee shop a few doors down.
As we trotted our way there, I arched over her with my briefcase to shelter her from the rain. The Bennets were a large breed where its men were concerned, and I towered over her by nearly a foot. A useful trait in many instances and, in this one, convenient.
I wanted to be as close to her as I could, for as long as I could.
It was strange and foreign, this feeling, an unlikely meeting with an improbable outcome. The rarity of such things happening to me was undefinable. My brothers would be the ones to stumble into a girl they immediately wanted to know. But I found most people tedious, and with my mother parading me around her garden club, its members salivating at the thought of yoking their single daughters to me, I generally questioned every woman in my acquaintance.
Some called it cynicism. I called it self-preservation. I knew no other way, having never been given a reason to consider an alternative. No woman had ever affected me. No one had ever stood out.
Not until a moment ago when I
’d collided with the girl tucked into my side.
And I aimed to find out the why and the how of it. I wanted answers. I wanted logic and reason, an explanation as to why I felt like I’d woken from a long and deep sleep the moment I looked into her eyes.
I wondered if kissing her would give me the answer I was looking for.
My shock at the thought left me too curious to even consider caution.
We ducked into the crowded coffee shop, panting and shaking off the rain.
She laughed, self-consciously running a hand over her hair. “I must look like a cat that crawled out of the East River.”
“Not at all,” I answered a little too quietly, covering it with a smile. “I’ve never met a human cannon before. I think you might have dislocated one of my ribs.” I patted said ribs, which felt nothing more than the ghost of her body against me.
Her face softened. “Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, just wet.”
A shiver racked her, and my smile slid into a frown.
“Let’s get coffee. Warm you up.”
Her brow furrowed, and she checked her watch. “I’m going to be late for a meeting.”
“You and me both. But running in, soaked and freezing, won’t help anyone. What do you say? Let me get you a cup of coffee as an apology.”
“For what?”
“For not seeing you coming.”
Again, she laughed, and again, I felt that fundamental familiarity. “No one ever does.”
“No, I don’t suspect they do.”
Her cheeks flushed, lips still smiling as we stepped into line. “It’s just that I’m so short,” she clarified without changing my mind. “I really am so sorry. Your poor briefcase.”
“This old thing?” I held it out to inspect it. “I was due for a new one anyway.”
“The newspaper might have done more harm than good—all I could see was my feet. I’m afraid the years I’ve been gone erased what I thought was concrete knowledge of Manhattan and how to navigate it, especially in the rain during rush hour.”
“Where were you?” I asked as we shuffled forward a step.
“England. Yorkshire, with my aunt. My mother sent me with the intent to teach me some sort of lesson, but luckily for me, my aunt doesn’t like to listen to her any more than I do. Mostly, I spent a couple years in the countryside, picking flowers,” she said on a laugh that died too quickly. “But I knew I’d have to come back.”
“I, for one, am glad. Otherwise, who would I play human pinball with in the rain?”
“I’m sure you have no trouble finding girls to bang balls with.”
A laugh shot out of me, and her cheeks flushed.
“I didn’t mean …” She sighed. “Actually, I did, but I don’t know why I said it out loud. God, why am I so nervous? I think I’ve talked to more sheep than people in the last couple of years.”
“I’ve heard terrible things about sheep. Deplorable table manners.”
“And filthy minds.” She watched me for a breath. “I feel as if I know you. Is that strange?”
My heart lurched. “Not at all.”
An impatient voice from in front of us snapped, “Next, please.”
We stepped up to the counter and ordered our coffees, receiving them too quickly to speak again. But when we were out of the way and face to face once more, the exit looming, we watched each other, searching for some reason, some logic to whatever lightning had struck us out there in the rain.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Maisie,” she answered. “Are you sure we’ve never met before?”
“There’s no way I’d forget meeting you.” I paused, overcome with sudden boldness. “When can I plan on catching you in the rain again?”
She drew a shallow breath, and a blush smudged her cheeks. “Oh, I …”
My hope sank, the answer obvious. “You have a boyfriend. Of course you do.”
“No. No, it’s not that. I want to say yes, but—”
“Then say yes.”
I waited, watched her, holding my breath through a handful of heartbeats as indecision flickered across her face. But like dawn on the horizon, she smiled.
“All right. Do you have a pen in that soggy briefcase?”
“Better yet, I have one right here.” I slipped a hand into my suit coat to retrieve the pen and slips of paper I always kept there. The one that had been closest to my heart was still dry.
Our fingers brushed when she took it and jotted down her name and phone number, the letters and numbers half connected, soft and slanting.
I took the paper, sliding it into my pocket with the reverence I’d give a treasure map. “Can I call you a cab?”
She glanced outside to the drizzling rain. “I think you’ve done enough. You stopped me from skinning my knee or spraining my ankle, and you bought me a coffee. Maybe I should call you one instead.”
“I’ll take the subway, thanks. Next time you need a coffee, let me know.”
“I think I just might,” she said over her shoulder as she walked to the door. But before we reached it, she stopped so suddenly, I almost tripped over her again. “Wait, you haven’t told me your name.”
My smile tilted as I reached around her to open the door. “Marcus.”
Her brows quirked, face cocked like a bird for a beat before she seemed to shake whatever thought she’d had away. “Well, I hope you don’t wait too long to call, considering I get hungry every night around seven.”
“Are you asking me out, Maisie?” I said with an arch smile, one she answered with the prettiest flush of her cheeks.
“Maybe I am, Marcus.”
We stepped out, facing each other under the awning. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want her to go. Because I had the feeling that the second we parted ways, whatever this was would disappear with nothing left to show for but fairy dust.
“Tell me when, and I’m there,” I said, eager to dispel the thought, to prove the notion was crazy and as quickly as possible.
“Is tonight too soon?”
“Absolutely not.” My heart chugged in my rib cage. “I’ll text you when I’m free, and we can firm it up.”
I stepped to the curb to hail a cab, filled with hope and promise. When I opened the door and she slid inside, I held her there for a brief moment with my gaze, trying to shake the feeling that I shouldn’t let her go.
“It was nice running into you, Marcus.”
“Let’s do it again.”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight,” I said, that immovable smile on my lips. I didn’t think I’d smiled so much in years.
And I shut the cab door and waited in the rain until she was gone.
I didn’t feel the chilly drizzle, didn’t notice my soggy jacket or my socks slipping in my oxfords. I didn’t feel the spring chill or mind my pruny hand in my pocket. Didn’t think twice about my scuffed-up briefcase or the meeting I was about to walk into, which would be brutal and pivotal and something I should have been preparing for.
The only thing on my mind was Maisie.
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Twenty minutes later, I was mostly dry and trotting out of the station. Every train stop had brought me closer to today’s problems by increment, leaving Maisie and our encounter sadly behind me.
Tonight. You’ll see her tonight.
I’d have already texted her if I’d had service, and now that I was off the train, I had to get to the meeting as quickly as possible. There was only time to answer one text, and that was to let our attorney know I was close.
Ben was an old friend from college and the first person I’d called when our family business was sued by our rivals. And as grateful as I was for his help, I wished I hadn’t had to call on it.
I pushed into the building, the sweeping foyer bustling and echoing with noise and movement as people came in and out. Ben shot off the bench by the door like it’d caught fire when he saw me.
“I�
��m sorry,” I said as our paths merged on our track to the elevators. “I was held up by the rain.” And my dream girl, I thought with a flurry in my chest.
His brows furrowed with worry. “Well, Bower Bouquets is already upstairs, and they’re not happy to have been kept waiting.”
“I couldn’t give a goddamn about what Evelyn Bower wants,” I snarled as we stepped into the elevator with a stream of people.
The story was long and winding and began and ended with my mother. Mrs. Bennet was known for many things, but being a savvy businesswoman wasn’t one of them. When our family’s flower shop, Longbourne, had fallen into decline, she’d taken on a contract with Bower Bouquets, selling wholesale flowers from our greenhouse to make ends meet.
The second I realized the shop was in trouble, I bought the flower shop and called my siblings home to help me turn things around. And I took on the financial burden, including contracts she’d signed.
All except one.
My mother kept the contract with Bower from us. Until we breached it, I’d had no idea. And when we had been served with a lawsuit, we’d all been unprepared.
Longbourne had been engaged in silent warfare with Bower for generations, but where our business had waned, Bower had flourished. Evelyn loved to make a fool of my mother—I had a feeling it was Evelyn’s part-time job to embarrass her—and this contract was just a new, cruel way for her to do it.