Kissing Mr. Darcy

by Shéa R. MacLeod

“Anyway, I’m pulling your chain, darling. I have no idea how to fix that blasted bookshelf, but that’s what they have YouTube videos for. Am I right?”

  Loot in hand, we took a cab back to Notting Hill and dragged it all up the stairs and into the flat. For the next couple of hours, we decorated, fluffing pillows, covering the hideous chair, and setting up my vanity. Kev even spent an hour on the bookshelf before declaring it a lost cause.

  “I say we toss this piece of junk and order a new one online. They’ll deliver. And I’m fairly certain, between the two of us, we can follow basic directions. Besides, they might send some lovely, brawny delivery men.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  He had a lot more confidence about it than I did, but I appreciated him helping me so much, I merely nodded. “Sounds good.”

  “Your confidence in me is reassuring,” he said drily. “Now”—he jumped to his feet and dusted off the back of his jeans—“where shall we have dinner? Somewhere nice to celebrate your arrival. I know! The Crazy Bear. Get dolled up, love. We’re hitting the town!”

  I was super tired, but I didn’t want to rain on his parade, so I threw on a petal pink, sleeveless dress with a ruffle around the bottom. I topped that with a jean jacket, silver sandals, and a simple string of pink pearls. I replaced the cross-body bag with a hot pink wristlet in the shape of a flower.

  Kev rolled his eyes. “Seriously. We’re going to have to break you of this pink habit.”

  “Why?” I asked, eyeing his pink button-down. “You seem to be fond of it.”

  “Exactly,” he huffed. “It’s my signature color.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Too bad. Get over it.”

  He put his hand on his heart dramatically. “I am wounded. Simply wounded.”

  I snickered. “Drama queen.”

  “You know it. Now come on. Reservation’s for seven. Don’t want to be late.” He dragged me out the door and down the steps to the street.

  The taxi dropped us in front of the Crazy Bear. From the outside it wasn’t anything terribly special. I had expected something more posh, but the simple brick exterior and cream awning didn’t scream “upscale” to me. Inside, however, it was another matter.

  We were early for our reservation, so the hostess invited us to have drinks in the bar. A small entry led to a sweeping staircase carpeted in red, leading down to the bar area. On either side of the stairs, the ornate, wrought iron balustrade was wrapped in clear twinkle lights. Low tables with luxurious white leather short stools scattered around the dim room, fashionably dressed patrons chatting in low tones over elegant cocktails. The left wall was brick and studded with barrel-ceilinged alcoves, each with its own table and plush benches.

  Kev led me to the bar, where he helped me perch on a low-backed white leather barstool. The rich wood bar top was smooth under my palms. Everything was glamorous, posh, and totally over the top.

  We ordered lychee champagne cocktails. The sweet lychee was the perfect complement to the tart, bubbling champagne. I felt so fancy, sitting there with a well-dressed man, sipping on an exotic beverage surrounded by the fashionable society of London. I had to resist dancing in my seat, I was so giddy with excitement.

  “Order whatever you like tonight. It’s my treat,” Kev said, clinking his glass against mine.

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  He grinned. “Think of it as my ‘welcome to London’ treat.”

  I laughed. “Okay then. Thank you.”

  We chatted about silly things, like who was hotter, Tom Hardy or Chris Pratt. I was all for Pratt. Kev insisted it was Hardy. At least we didn’t have the same taste in men so we wouldn’t be fighting over them. The thought made me giggle so hard, I nearly snorted bubbles up my nose.

  The hostess returned to show us to our table. Back upstairs, the small space was crammed with rich, dark wood tables and plush white velvet benches. The lighting was low. So low, I had a hard time reading the menu.

  “Hello, everyone. I’m your waiter, Tom.” I glanced up to see a man in black and white standing in front of our table. My jaw nearly hit the floor.

  Kev gave him a cool smile. “I think we need another couple of minutes. But we would like two more of these lychee cocktails, please.”

  “Of course, sir.” The waiter gave an elegant nod of his head and disappeared.

  “Oh my word, did you see that? He looks just like Tom Hardy!” I squeaked.

  “Do you think I’m blind? Of course I saw that. And his name’s Tom, too. I think I’m going to faint.” Kev fanned himself. “I may have just died and gone to heaven. Did you see that ass?”

  “How could I miss it?” It was an impressive posterior. Even in the dim light, I could tell that. “You should ask him out.”

  “Are you nuts? What if he’s not gay?”

  “What if he is?” I said, draining my drink.

  “What if he’s taken?”

  I gave him a look. “What if he’s not?”

  Kev glared at me. “You’re not going to let me talk my way out of this, are you?”

  “Nope. I mean, how often do you run across a guy who looks like that? Hello? Faint heart never won fair... man.”

  He snickered. “All right, fine. Let me make you a deal. You help me suss out if he’s interested, and if he is, I’ll ask him out.”

  “Deal.” We shook on it just as Tom returned with our drinks.

  “Ready, sir? Madame?” he asked as he set down the cocktails.

  Kev and I exchanged sly looks. “Sure,” we both chimed.

  We placed our orders, and Tom turned and left. Kev and I watched carefully.

  “Very not bad,” I giggled. “Let’s hope this one isn’t married.”

  Kev’s eyes widened. “How do you know about that?”

  “Kate, of course.” She’d told me all about Kev’s penchant for falling for married men. In his defense, he never realized they were married until after he got involved with them, but of course it always left him broken-hearted after. I felt sorry for him. And in a very Emma-like way (Austen’s Emma, naturally) I desperately wanted to help him find True Love. He deserved a Mr. Darcy, too.

  “Of course she told you.” Kev let out a groan, burying his face in his hands. “I can die of embarrassment now.”

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said, patting his back. “I completely understand. In fact, if it’ll make you feel better, I can tell you one of my dating horror stories.”

  He grinned wickedly. “Spill.”

  Mr. Know-It-All

  IT WAS MY FIRST DATE with...let’s call him Miles. I don’t know why, but that sounds like a good name for him. Anyway, we met on one of those free dating sites and chatted for a couple of weeks before agreeing to meet.

  I knew he was into healthy eating. We’d talked about it, how he only shopped at those overpriced health food stores, made homemade bread from all organic ingredients, and only ate meat from a specific farm. I figured hey, he can cook, right? That’s a good sign.

  I was going through a vegetarian phase, so I ordered a strawberry almond salad. He immediately launched into a lecture about how I shouldn’t eat the strawberries or the vinaigrette because they had too much sugar. Oh, and the almonds contained arsenic. And by the way, did I know they’d discovered lettuce was the leading cause of food poisoning?

  “Oh, really,” I asked, shoving aside a pile of lettuce. I’d sort of lost my appetite after his tirade.

  “Oh, yes. It’s quite horrible,” he said around a fork full of grilled chicken.

  After he’d critiqued everything I put in my mouth, he started talking about people who’d overcome physical disabilities to do great things and how much he admired those who didn’t let their differently abledness stop them from achieving their goals. I thought that was rather cool, so I brought up the world-famous, blind Italian tenor, Andrea Bocelli.

  “Wasn’t she on Top Model?” he asked.

  Oh. Dear. “Um, no. He is a very famous opera singer.”

 
“Oh, opera,” Miles scoffed. “I don’t waste my time with that nonsense. Totally overrated.” He proceeded to lecture me on how the real music of the world was old-school country western, which surprised me. He hadn’t seemed the type.

  I tried steering the conversation onto something else. Something safer. Like a television show. “Have you been watching Star Talk?”

  “That’s that show where they visit those planets and that guy in the yellow shirt screws all the alien chicks, right? I’m not into sci-fi.”

  This was going from bad to worse. “I think you’re thinking of Star Trek.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure I know what I’m talking about.” He rambled on for five minutes about his education, including the university he’d attended, grade point average he’d maintained, and the number of honors he’d achieved. Or maybe it was the school that had achieved them. In any case, he made it clear he thought he was far better educated than I. “And I’m really good at Jeopardy,” he said. “Everyone always says I should be a contestant because I know the answers before they do!” He guffawed loudly, slapping the table so hard, my water sloshed everywhere.

  I carefully mopped up the mess with my napkin, relieved none of it had gone in my lap. “Oh, really? Which are your favorite subjects?” Surely that was a safe question.

  “History is good, but I really like the science questions. Especially if they’re about space or physics. And I find quantum physics quite interesting.”

  “Oh, like Stephen Hawking.”

  “That horror writer? What does he have to do with quantum physics?”

  Chapter 2

  “YOU’RE KIDDING ME! He didn’t know who Stephen Hawking is?” Kev chortled.

  “Nope, not kidding. And he was so arrogant about it all. Like I was an idiot, and he had to school me or something.” I shook my head. “And it got worse.”

  Kev’s eyes widened. “How is that even possible?”

  “As we were leaving the restaurant, he asked me if I’d give him a blow job.”

  “No. He. Didn’t.”

  “Oh, yes he did. And that’s still not the worst of it.”

  Kev shot me a pained expression. “I can’t even imagine.”

  “He said it so loud, the entire restaurant heard him.”

  Kev put his face in his hands and groaned. “Sweetie, we have got to find you a better class of men.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  We laughed and polished off the rest of our meal, swapping more “war stories” of our dating lives. I kept my eye out for Tom the waiter, who appeared promptly as we finished our entrées.

  “How was everything?” he asked with a professional smile. Was it me, or did his eyes flick to Kev for a brief second?

  “Fabulous!” Kev gushed. “Everything was so delicious.”

  “Wonderful,” Tom said smoothly. “How about dessert? We have a lovely bitter chocolate soup I think you’ll enjoy.”

  My eyes probably grew three sizes. “Chocolate soup? Bring it on!”

  Kev sighed as Tom walked away. “Oh my, that boy has a butt on him.”

  I eyed the body part in question. “It’s a nice one, all right.”

  “Nice? They could write sonnets to his posterior.”

  I burst into a fit of giggles, drawing looks from the diners seated nearby. Let them stare. Stuffy old bunch.

  “You should do that,” I urged him. “Write a poem about him.”

  Kev snorted. “I would die. Please. There is nothing romantic about having someone write a poem about you.”

  “True,” I admitted. “Especially when it’s a limerick.”

  “Oh no.” He closed his eyes as if in pain. “Say it isn’t so.”

  “I’m afraid it is. I think it went something like this:

  ‘There was a young woman named Emma

  Who gave me such a dilemma

  She had a nice rack

  And that is a fact

  I wanted to have her for dessert.’”

  Kev blinked. “That is the worst limerick I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t even rhyme properly.”

  “I know, right?”

  “And this guy actually thought you’d go out with him? And, um, be dessert?”

  “Apparently.”

  We howled with laughter as Tom brought us our chocolate soup. It was, in a word, nirvana. Absolute bliss. The warm, thick chocolate slid rich and dark across my tongue, the tiny scoop of vanilla ice cream cutting it just enough not to be cloying. It was sweet and luscious and oh so amazing. Probably angels ate it in heaven. I literally moaned, drawing even more stares. Kev didn’t notice. He was busy moaning over his own bowl.

  When we were finished and had paid the check, I snagged Tom by the sleeve. “Hey, can I ask you a personal question?”

  He looked a little nervous. “Sure.”

  “Are you gay by any chance?”

  His mouth gaped a little. “Er, not that I’m aware of.”

  “Oh, too bad. My friend Kev would have made a lovely boyfriend,” I said, thrusting my thumb over my shoulder at Kev, who’d gone bright red.

  “That’s very...kind,” Tom said gracefully, if a bit faintly. “But I don’t think my girlfriend would appreciate it.”

  “Never hurts to ask though, does it?” I beamed at him, giving him a gentle pat on the arm.

  He chuckled. “Guess not. Thanks though. I’m flattered.” He shot an assessing look at Kev before disappearing into the kitchen.

  As we stepped outside, Kev ground out, “You better sleep with one eye open, Miss Thang. I am going to kill you for this.”

  “No you won’t, because I have decided.”

  He looked a little terrified. “Decided what?”

  “I am going to be your wing woman.”

  “Oh, dear heaven. London, brace yourself.”

  They could probably hear us laughing clear over on Primrose Hill.

  Chapter 3

  THE ZESTY AROMA OF freshly brewed coffee tickled my nose as I pushed through the door into Milk & Bean, Kate’s favorite coffee shop. I supposed it was my local coffee shop now, seeing as how it was only a few blocks from the new flat. Frankly, I preferred tea, Earl Grey to be specific. It seemed so much more... British.

  It was a weekday, late morning, too early for the lunch crowd and too late for the yummy mummies with their monster prams and rambunctious toddlers. A perfect time to meet Kate and catch up.

  The shop was quiet, only a few tables taken up by harried looking people hunched over their laptops. One woman with a mega afro and hot pink reading glasses perched on the end of her nose mumbled to herself as she punched wildly at computer keys with long gold nails. A man in a cheap navy suit, sitting at the table next to her, kept sneaking glances at her, his cheeks flushed as if he was trying to get up the nerve to speak. I grinned. It was such a wonderfully homey tableau, bursting with the promise of romance and adventure.

  Milk & Bean was like something right out of post-WWII era. Retro metal tables with white Formica tops and matching red-and-white vinyl upholstered chairs scattered across the middle of the small space while classic booths took up the corners and walls. Coffee was served in antique cups in dusty rose and aqua. Jazz from the 1940s drifted over the speaker system, adding to the vintage vibe.

  I didn’t see Kate anywhere, but I was dying for some caffeine so I walked over to the counter. I’d expected to see Sophie, the blonde owner of Milk & Bean and its barista. She’d always been behind the long bar every time I visited Kate. Instead I found a reprobate.

  Honestly, that is quite literally the first word that came into my head when I saw him: reprobate, followed by heartbreaker, player, and lothario, in that order. There might have also been a Casanova in there somewhere. Definitely perfect for the role of Mr. Wickham, the villain of Pride and Prejudice.

  He certainly looked like all the above, with his wild brown curls that were just a tad too long and his ice blue eyes that raked my figure from top to toe with only the slightest pause on my ample
bosom. His full lips quirked in a satisfied grin and his tongue slipped out to wet them. His black T-shirt was a little too tight and his fitted jeans were a little too worn in certain delicious places. The most amazing biceps bulged under his shirt sleeves.

  Wait. Delicious? Amazing? No. He was far too handsome for his own good, and that was a fact. Looked like he knew it, too.

  “What can I get you, love?” he asked, leaning against the counter, giving me bedroom eyes. His voice was a warm purr with a rich, London accent that drove me crazy. Goodness, he was attractive.

  I gave my head a slight shake to clear it and told myself to stop mooning over him. He was no genteel Mr. Darcy, that was for sure. If the look in his eyes was anything to go by, I had better watch my step. I hadn’t come to London to fall for some bad boy who worked in a coffee shop. I had bigger plans.

  I cleared my throat. “I’d like tea, please. Milk and sugar.”

  He lifted one wickedly curved eyebrow. Why was it men always had the longest, thickest lashes? It really wasn’t fair. My own were rather short and stubby and required copious amounts of mascara to look their best.

  “You know this is a coffee shop, right?” The ice blue eyes raked me again, heating my blood by at least a hundred degrees. I suddenly felt hot and flustered, and it irked me.

  “Are you saying you don’t have tea? What sort of café doesn’t serve tea?” I asked haughtily. When in doubt, channel Lady Catherine de Bourgh. The haughty woman from Pride and Prejudice was the perfect role model for putting dodgy characters in their proper place.

  “Didn’t say that. Just saying I never understood a person who went to a coffee shop and ordered tea. Like going to a flower shop and ordering vegetables.”

  I’d never thought of it that way. I supposed he was right, but I wasn’t about to let him know that. “If you must know, I’m meeting my cousin. Otherwise I would find a more appropriate place for tea.” I lifted my chin a tad to show him he didn’t bother me one bit. Meanwhile a voice in my head chanted Liar, liar, pants on fire. I told it to hush.