“To be a gentleman?”
“At least my mother raised one.”
“Give me the bags.” He sounded stern this time.
No, I was a strong, independent woman, and I didn’t need a man who didn’t need me. “Austen, if you really want to help, you can … guard the front desk. Help me out by taking keys.”
“You mean be your assistant?”
“If it isn’t too lowly? Being the slave of a slave?”
I dropped the bags and my fingers fumbled behind me until they found the doorknob. Though he guffawed, he also looked torn. He had just told Taylor that he had more important things to do than to help me, except I happened to know that he wanted to steal me off to the beach instead. I tottered through the door into the hallway, hoping it didn’t look like the handles from the luggage were digging holes into my hands. Austen retreated to the counter, taking one last backwards glance at me and shaking his head in frustration. I planned to leave him there all day if I could swing it.
Dragging the bags through the hallway to the backdoor, I readjusted them in my hands. There was no golf cart in sight and I’d have to take them through two courtyards to get them to Mary’s and Bertie’s bungalows. After the first two steps, I ran into an archway. I grunted and scrambled past it only to knock my shoulder against the rough stucco wall of the Rosing’s house. I blindly felt my way through the first courtyard, running into anything hard I could find so that by the time I reached the first bungalow, I was aching and out of breath. I dropped the luggage onto the steps, hearing Mary’s complaints inside the Uppercross. Her door was open in the back and she was shouting over to Bertie whether the former runway model liked it or not.
“It is freezing in my place.” Mary gave a loud sniff. “My nose is cold. Feel it.”
“I’d rather not,” was Bertie’s clipped reply.
I stretched out my fingers to get some feeling back in them and hauled up the luggage again, staggering over the shared patio of the two bungalows.
“Oh, there you are.” Bertie stepped from her door, the bright sunlight outside making her silhouette look like a paper doll turned sidewise. Mary also came out, wiping at her nose with a wilted tissue—her nose wasn’t dripping at all. I dropped Mary’s plastic-covered bag off first in her living room. She eagerly ripped off the plastic from it, searching through the contents until she found a thermometer. “I’m sure I have a temperature. My brain is burning up!”
Mary was making a war zone out of the Uppercross Bungalow by taking out a ton of plastic bags from her suitcase and throwing them around the room. “I can’t afford waterproof luggage,” she said. “I’m sure Taylor’s husband will give her such things after they’re married. He’s rich. I won’t mind taking a cruise with them if they paid for it,” her voice came in huffs through her exertions as she spread the plastic bags over her bed and searched around the mattress perimeter with shaking hands. “You don’t have bedbugs, do you? Horrible bloodsucking things—I saw a documentary. It would just be my luck to get them.”
I edged past her to Bertie’s place in the Southerton Bungalow and dropped the designer luggage onto the plush carpet. Bertie didn’t spare them a glance. She crossed her arms like the crossbones on a pirate flag. “My cutie needs some exercise. Please take her, J.”
J?
Before I knew it, the scrawny, white teddy bear was in my hands, and Bertie had slammed her door behind me. The puppy was smaller than my hand and wore a red-and-white-striped onesie. What was I going to do with the little rat-bear? She licked my arm with a tiny pink tongue, and my heart melted. I could always add her to the collection of stuffed animals in Mister’s kitty box.
I cradled the puppy against my neck and kissed her grape of a head while I skirted around the palm trees and fountains in the courtyard. Unhindered by bags, I made faster time on my way back. Reaching the back door to the lobby in the main building, I spied Austen still at his post at the checkout counter. He had resorted to taking out his laptop and working irritably on his bookkeeping. No wickedness in his smile, no concerned looks; and when I entered the room, he showed no undue interest in me at all.
I refused to feel bad. Nothing had been ruined between us because nothing existed there, except for the fact that we liked to get on each other’s nerves. That meant that I was ahead of the game today.
I handed him the puppy and went back to the last of the luggage.
“Jane!” he said. “A teddy bear? Really?”
“She needs to take a potty break.” I picked up the bags that belonged to Gorgeous or Beauty or whatever her name happened to mean and threw the one with a strap over my shoulder.
“I can’t believe it!”
Ann-Marie’s voice made me jump. I had been so distracted with Austen that I hadn’t noticed that she had come back to torment him. She had taken her usual spot on the sofa near the TV. “Do you know who John Willoughby is?” She whipped around to pierce us both with a look.
I wasn’t sure who she was talking to, but Austen got rid of the suspense and shook his head. “No idea.”
“Well, he’s dead! He got shot ten times. They think it’s a murder-suicide and he was trying to break up with his girlfriend. She shot him over and over and then killed herself.”
“Hmm, and that is why I stay clear of relationships.” Austen peered over the dog’s head at the books of accounts. “But you never know. Maybe he shot himself ten times and then killed her.”
Ann-Marie stumbled to her feet and dashed over to the desk. “How could he do that? That’s impossible.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“What sort of world do you live in?” Ann-Marie was practically shouting at him now. “He couldn’t even do that!”
I felt my lips twitch up, but then forced them back down. Austen’s completely inappropriate jokes weren’t funny. Ann-Marie caught sight of the wriggling animal in Austen’s hands. “Puppy!”
She quickly divested him of the wriggling creature and gave it more loving than it could possibly want. “You cute little thing. Is this yours, Austen? Hot man with puppy—that only makes you ten times hotter, you know. I always wanted a puppy.”
“Look.” I held my hands up to stop the volley of words. “Whoever takes the puppy, just make sure that she flushes after she uses the facilities outside. Then you can return her to the witch in the Southerton Bungalow for processing.”
Austen laughed. “What are the witch’s plans for the little doggy? The glue factory or a witch’s brew?”
“I … I …” He was already joking with me. I wasn’t sure what I thought about that. “I think the lady just wants to weigh down her purse with it,” I said.
“Too bad,” Austen said. “Poopsy would make a perfect little hot doggy.”
“Oh no!” Ann-Marie snuggled the puppy closer. “Don’t you listen to those horrid people. You stay with me and I’ll keep you safe.” The puppy licked her nose. She took the little rat-bear outside, continuing to talk as if the puppy might answer her back. The TV blared behind Ann-Marie, forgotten. A headline ran across the news station, reporting that a certain Will Dancey had taken a break from his music tour and was rumored to be heading to California.
That’s when I remembered that he had nowhere to stay.
I turned off the TV and whirled to face Austen. “You can’t stay in the Wood House. There’s another guest staying there.”
“The Wood House?” he asked. “You realize there are rats staying there too, and spiders and sand? Not to mention me. Sorry, it’s taken.”
“Now, wait a second. Freddy was going to clean it up to make it suitable for guests.”
He laughed at that. “Isn’t there a crummy little loft upstairs? The last time I saw it, no one was paying full price for that.”
And it was also mine. “Not funny, Austen.”
“I guess neither of us wants to give up our rooms for a guest. Look, Jane, there’s a nice hotel next door. It’s not a sin to put it to use. Put the extra gue
st in the Kellynch.” He flipped lazily through his books at the counter like I was the most boring thing on earth.
And he had not solved my little dilemma. Taylor would kill me if I put Dancey in the Kellynch, but no argument would stir Austen. And since his parents owned the place, I didn’t really have a say. My fingers landed on Bella’s luggage. There was nothing more to do but to retreat with it through the narrow hall. I trudged out the back, occasionally muttering a complaint or two every time I slammed my fingers against the wall. Courtship was dead, true gentlemen were deader—well, once I was through with Austen. Okay, the luggage was my fault, but at least I was stronger for it. Already I was getting a great arm workout.
It wasn’t too hard to find Bella out by the Norland Courtyard. Her giggles led the way there. The deep timbre of Freddy’s voice answered her soft flirtations. “You’re not afraid of bad boys, are you?” he asked her.
“Is that what you think you are?”
“I’ll let you decide. Give me your phone.”
I grimaced, knowing he was typing his number into her fancy iPhone. Little fountains spurted water all around them to create an enchanting scene. Despite the romantic gesture, Freddy was a player. He’d leave her heart in a pile of splinters on the ground after he was through with her—he’d done it to so many girls that I’d lost count.
I sidestepped a potted palm and dropped the luggage at his feet. “Oh!” Bella blushed when Freddy picked them off the pavement. “But I don’t have any money for a tip.”
Tip? She wasn’t about to tip Freddy for my work, was she?
“I’m sure we could arrange something,” Freddy said. He tapped the wall of the stylish stucco building behind her and swung the luggage up the steps to the Fullerton Bungalow where she would be staying. Then without looking sheepish at all for taking all the credit for my work, he left with a cocky swagger to his step. “Text me,” he said, “but only when you’re desperate for my company.”
She watched him go with longing in her eyes. Despite Bella’s beauty, he’d leave her crying while he merrily chased after his next conquest. Wanting to save her from certain heartbreak, I gave her a bracing smile, an idea quickly taking form in my mind. “Don’t bother with a tip,” I told her—because I had one for her. “Freddy is terrible with money; too much hard living. Poor guy.”
“What? Really?” Her eyes went wide at the intrigue, which I suspected would happen—she seemed the type to go for the bad boys. Revealing who he was wouldn’t do the trick, but I knew what would.
“Yeah,” I nodded. “It’s tough watching a guy waste his life like that. He just needs a really good girl to turn him around …” Bella looked like she might be the one who wanted to do that, and I smiled because I was about to smash whatever attraction she felt for him. “He needs to find someone who gets him … out of his mother’s basement, you know? I mean, everything he earns he spends on video games, pizza, and two-liter bottles of soda. He’s gonna blow up like that guy from Supersize Me.”
“Oh.” Her nose wrinkled and she didn’t look as intrigued.
“He gives girls his number and expects them to do all the work.”
She stuffed her phone in her pocket, looking embarrassed. “How do you know?” she asked. “Did you date him?”
Now it was my turn to throw up a little in my mouth. My vivid imagination deserted me inside some weird scene that held my potential life with Freddy—instead of being me, I was this sweet, little thing—a little worn down, my shoulders hunched. I followed the brilliant Freddy around in my skinny jeans and high heels, desperately trying to get his attention. He’d call me fat while he flirted with other girls. The impression rushed through my mind like a near-death experience, and I backed away from Bella, shaking my head. I knew what would happen if Freddy chose that moment to make an appearance; I’d shove Bella at him, shouting, “Keep the girl; just leave me alone!”
Instead I gave Bella an enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say he’s a character. We’ll leave it at that.” With those mysterious words to serve as a warning, I retreated to the main building where I stole up the back, taking three flights of stairs to my room. As Austen had pointed out so rudely, mine was the crummy loft upstairs. No matter how quaint his parents tried to make the Morland Loft look in the advertisements, it was never rented out. And so Austen’s parents ended up giving it to the staff for a meager monthly fee.
But I loved it—I felt like I lived in a tree house in the middle of a Swiss Family Robinson jungle. The loft had exposed rafters, and the palms brushed against the four windowsills on all sides of me. The birds nested on the roof outside. We shared this space together, which I was okay with as long as they didn’t share their mites with me, too.
I collapsed into my beanbag and stretched my legs out in front of me, trying to process everything, but I could only concentrate on one thing. Austen was back. It was only for a month. My heart gave a little flutter. A whole month! I could actually see him again. And then what? I tried to be stern with my heart. Nothing should happen, and it wouldn’t. Austen and I had both burned that bridge together—not only that, but we had thrown gasoline on that bridge and blown on it to make the flames burn hotter and brighter.
Still, even if any chance of a future had been ruined, I had every intention of being spitefully stunning while he was here; that would show him what he let slip through his fingers. I should take a shower. Do my hair. Put on some make-up. At least some lip gloss. Starting now. Except I couldn’t get off my beanbag chair. I leaned my head back and stared up at the rafters.
Austen was lost to me, but it didn’t mean that all romance was dead. I felt it. Things were a lot different here than it was at home. My parents had been realistic and longsuffering. My five older brothers were protective, and it was impossible for anything adventurous to happen to me when they guarded their little sister from anything too crazy. After moving here from Sacramento, I’d felt the possibility for adventure the instant I’d walked into the lobby of my new job.
Magic would happen at the North Abbey. There was a wedding in the works, after all—and it wasn’t just a client’s wedding, but a friend’s—that made me both guest and professional, kind of a weird position to be in. But it didn’t matter; even if Taylor’s bridesmaids were hard to handle, at least Bigley might have some nice groomsmen in the ranks. Probably no lasting relationships, but as part-guest, I could get to know them when I wasn’t on the clock. And of course, there was Bigley’s best mate, Will Dancey. He might be fun. Dancey was a rock star with a tragic past, if anyone could believe the lyrics in his songs.
What was Dancey like? He’d be a romantic, for sure, but probably distrustful of relationships. I wouldn’t even try to get past his defenses in a week—but we’d definitely have to share a moment.
Not everyone is familiar with “the moment,” but it was one of my favorite theories, a little something I’d picked up from every Jane Austen flick I’d ever watched. The moment meant I had the guy’s attention—it was that moment that I knew he was entranced with me while I was with him. It could be a look, a brush of the hand. It could happen in the middle of a dance or while playing soccer. It usually lasted only for a moment, thus the term.
Afterwards, the memory of that moment had to be carried around in my mind as evidence that romance truly did exist and that someday a guy that I loved would look at me like that every time he saw me. It would never dim. It would flavor his laughter and his heartache and his joy. His every emotion would belong to me, and mine would belong to him.
Maybe that made me weird.
Now I wanted to listen to Dancey’s songs—they were just as sappy as I was. My London-Or-Bust, old-school suitcase that I used as my knickknack drawer was within grabbing distance, and I leaned forward on my beanbag to get to my iPod from in there so that I could download Dancey’s latest album. Most of the songs involved love gone wrong, but the most popular one was heart wrenching. The girl that had inspired that one had left poor Dancey’s heart a blood
y pulp—likely she had stomped on it.
The song was called “Poppies.” The melody drifted through my ears like a haunted memory from the past:
Don’t go.
Dancing through London in a field of poppies.
Red like the color of your lips.
You’re all I see.
Don’t go.
I rested my head against the back of my beanbag, letting the music flow through me. Dancey felt what he sang. That’s what I liked best about his music—everything he said came from the heart:
I smell the flowers in the mist of your hair.
Red like blood in a broken heart.
Kiss me again.
Don’t go.
As I listened to the words flow into the chorus, I decided that the girl who had inspired this song had set Dancey’s soul on fire, or he’d never care this much about her. It reminded me of what Austen had done to me. As soon as I came to that thought, I turned off the song.
It took the spider to force my legs into action. The insect poked a big, furry head from behind my shag rug, and I shot to my feet, scurrying backwards. The spider did the same thing on the hardwood floor, but went the opposite way until it disappeared behind my flat screen TV.
My hands were shaky, but since I was up, I headed for my vanity. It was a cute little setup with a mirror and a porcelain bowl sink. I took a flat iron to the auburn curls in my hair and dabbed some lotion onto my face. Austen would kick himself when he saw me. I’d look so good he’d wish every moment back with me to make me fall in love with him. Just as I was applying the mascara, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I looked at the screen and saw it was a text from Taylor.
COME DOWN TO THE ALLENHAM LOUNGE. REDD IS HERE.
Every romantic idea in my head fled at the name. Oh no. Oh no! Not Redd. While I had been falling all over Austen last summer, Redd had done his best to distract me. And no matter how much I tried to cushion my rejection, I had crushed him. My guilt consumed me.
Jane and Austen Page 5