4. Chapter 4
Chapter 4
A few days after hearing of Carl’s newly formed friendship with Charles Bingley, Elizabeth was at Jane’s house getting ready for a ball.
I bit my lip and stretched out my fingers. A ball? No, my characters were just regular people. This was the 21st century, where regular people go to parties, not balls.
A few days after hearing of Carl’s newly formed friendship with Charles Bingley, Elizabeth was at Jane’s house getting ready for a party. Apparently Charles had rented a house with his friend Fitzwilliam in the area for the duration of his visit, and despite his friend’s protests, Charles had insisted on throwing a housewarming party.
“Who throws a housewarming party for a house they’re renting for a business trip?” Elizabeth remarked, sitting on a stool in the bathroom as Jane curled her hair.
“It is a bit unusual, I suppose,” Jane conceded.
“Just a bit,” Elizabeth said with a half-smile. “So, what’s he like?”
“Who?” Jane asked as she turned to set down the curling iron.
“You know. Charles.” Elizabeth added, “You seemed a great deal more excited about this party after you bumped into him at the office this morning. Admit it, Jane.”
Jane quickly turned to retrieve her lipstick, but not before Elizabeth caught a glimpse of her blushing. “Well, he seemed nice.”
“Nice?” Elizabeth gave her a look. “Nice is what you call someone when there’s literally nothing else to say about someone … or when you’re hiding something. Come on, spill it.”
My brow creased as I realized the story needed some physical details about Jane, who was doing her hair and makeup while Elizabeth was, by contrast, just sitting and watching. Jane was, after all, supposed to be the pretty one. Did my writing suggest that Jane was superficial and Elizabeth didn’t care about her appearance? That wasn’t exactly my intent, at least not in those stereotyped extremes. I sighed and wondered for the hundredth time whether I could be any good at this novel writing thing. Shaking my head, I resolved to forge ahead to avoid losing momentum. That’s what revisions were for … and maybe writing classes, let’s be honest.
Before I could decide whether to keep writing or pour some wine, or both, my phone buzzed.
Annie
At the hotel bar … you should stop by!
Viviana
Which hotel?
Annie
Four Seasons of course, where Brandon and Greg are staying
I rolled my eyes. Though I liked the idea of being financially comfortable as much as the next person, I was decidedly unimpressed by luxury hotels and ostentatious displays of wealth, even by good-looking men— especially by good-looking men. Looking at the oversized clock near the couch, I yawned and told Annie I needed to sleep if I wanted to have any chance of finishing my work tomorrow morning.
After strolling to the kitchen to obtain an oversized glass of wine, I padded to my bedroom to find my pajamas. Once in bed, I retrieved my latest Austen spinoff novel from the nightstand and sipped my wine—well, Jack always said that “sip” wasn’t the right word for an action that resulted in my downing half the glass, but I didn’t have to keep it classy in my own house, let alone my bedroom (whatever classy meant anyway). The wine nearly spilled when my phone buzzed again.
Annie: You really should reconsider! Greg wants to talk…
With my brow wrinkled, I tried to digest this new information. His occasional breaks from rudeness to me never included any attempts to converse like a normal person. I sat up slowly, considering the dilemma. Getting into my pajamas and cozily reading an Austenesque novel at home—wasn’t that the very definition of happiness for a homebody with a bit of an Austen obsession?
I smoothed down my soft covers with care as I reviewed my options. Luxury wasn’t something I could usually afford, but I liked to splurge on bed covers and sheets, as I found the softness soothing. And maybe …
Maybe it helped me forget I was always sleeping alone.
A small bit of luxury then. Not like Four Seasons luxury.
Yet I pushed back the covers with a loud sigh. I had zero chance of finding my real-life Austen hero if I always stayed home.
Is this whole Gregory-as-Darcy idea just crazy, or is there something there?
I decided to find out. Perhaps this would be worth getting out of pajamas for.
As soon as I stepped into the elevator at the Four Seasons, I started doubting my decision to visit the hotel of two rich, handsome men late at night. I considered texting Jack to let him know my location, for safety reasons, of course.
Then again, most women would be thrilled at such an opportunity. I shook my head at this silliness. Soon I would see Gregory and find out where my own Austen adventure would take me. But how should I act, playing the role of Lizzie yet knowing I was playing that role? Living that role. Frowning, I puzzled over this thought— Lizzie didn’t know that Darcy was the one —and the question of how this particular piece of the story would fit with the others.
I knocked on the door and waited for several minutes, growing ever more impatient and starting to question again why on earth I’d decided to come.
“Viv!” Annie said as she flung open the door and immediately lunged for a hug. Her champagne sloshed around in the elegant flute she was holding, and I patted the dampened skin on her back gingerly before stepping back and noticing her red bikini—quite a flattering one. There was little, if anything, that didn’t look amazing on Annie, whose looks had probably carried her through much of life, at least until I decided I would be the one to draw out more from her. My mentee was smart and incredibly kind, it turned out, even though most people just noticed her lush red hair, green eyes that seemed to almost sparkle, and slim yet gently curved figure. People were annoyingly predictable, I’d realized, yet they were right: Annie was gorgeous. Not only that, but she was outgoing and often even bubbly, and people just gravitated toward her.
I’d be lying if I claimed to feel zero envy—I am human, after all.
“Viviana, come join us,” Brandon shouted from beyond the door to the large suite’s balcony. The lighting was dim, but I could still see him and Gregory in a Jacuzzi.
“Hi, guys,” I said, chewing on my lip. “I’m afraid I didn’t bring my—”
“Oh, there’s tons of swimsuits in the closet—just go grab one,” Annie said, smiling and sashaying back to the balcony.
I raised my eyebrows and stepped tentatively toward the walk-in closet, which, though large, was only a small part of this spacious hotel suite—the largest I’d ever seen. My shoulders felt a little tight with low-level anxiety when I thought about putting on a swimsuit practically the moment I arrived. It didn’t help that I was probably the only sober one here tonight, my poor oversized wine glass at home abandoned after a few sips. Still, I strode toward the closet as Annie joined the men on the balcony. The closet displayed a dizzying array of one- and two-piece suits—and some with more than two pieces. Why would a couple of single men have a large collection of women’s bathing suits in their hotel room? Did they seduce hundreds of women everywhere they went? I shook my head at this fanciful thought—this was real life, not a romance novel. Was it typical for fancy hotels to supply swimwear for rooms with Jacuzzis? I didn’t know, as my experience with fancy hotels was limited to, well, this one.
Hearing Annie’s impatient shout from the other room, I reluctantly pulled a rather plain, modest one-piece and a wrap off their hangers and then headed to the adjacent restroom to change.
Minutes later, Annie and Brandon greeted me with drunken enthusiasm as I stepped onto the balcony. As I removed my wrap, Annie laughed. “Of course, you chose the most conservative bathing suit you could find. But the color suits you … really complements your eyes. You look hot, lady.”
Grinning good-naturedly, Brandon chimed in, “No disagreements here.” Elbowing Gregory, he asked, “She looks hot, man, am I right?”
Gregory looked up with a bored expression that morphed into a slow yawn when his eyes landed on me. This certainly was not the reaction I’d hoped for, but I sighed and reminded myself that Elizabeth Bennet hadn’t won over Mr. Darcy over with a swimsuit competition. I sank into the steaming water quickly, wincing as the sudden heat enveloped my skin.
“This man obviously needs another drink,” Brandon looked at Gregory, shaking his head in dismay.
Annie squealed, “Drinking game!” Obviously of a like mind, Brandon sprung out of the hot tub and went to retrieve the shot glasses as I observed his dripping wet, chiseled form. The weight bench he’d brought into his office this week came to mind. Did he spend more time working out than actually working? I chided myself for the uncharitable thought.
Not all men are jerks like Gregory .
Gregory sat up straighter and began to protest that he was—indeed, we all were—too old for drinking games. Before he could finish, Brandon handed him a shot and grinned. “Afraid of a little alcohol, old man? Let’s all take one shot to start.”
Gregory clenched his jaw and accepted the glass. “I will drink it, but no game. Play your juvenile games later when I’ve retired to my room.”
I raised an eyebrow while Annie and Brandon looked at each other with barely suppressed laughter.
Gregory then proceeded to give all his attention to his phone.
He must have some important work emails, right? Why else would he give his phone so much attention while in the presence of alcohol and women in bathing suits?
I was on the verge of saying exactly that when he proceeded to make an actual phone call, while still in the hot tub.
I inched closer in the water and whispered to my friend. “Has he been like this all evening, Annie?”
Annie giggled as she passed me a shot. “Have you met Gregory before?”
“Point taken,” I said, feeling peevish as my eyes narrowed at Gregory and then darted away. I could also play the ignoring game.
As the evening wore on and more shots were passed around, Gregory started to speak more, though he mostly ignored me even when I had, in my view, offered some reasonably intelligent contributions to the conversation. He had seemed momentarily surprised when Annie and I actually participated in a conversation about corporate social responsibility. He’d likely expected or hoped that the conversation would exclude us, but he’d forgotten that we both edited boring business tomes for his friend’s company for a living and were well versed in business jargon. His look of surprise was fleeting though, the subject abandoned almost as quickly.
When we belatedly realized our fingers were very wrinkled, having been in the Jacuzzi far too long, I was the first to step out. I’d become increasingly tired of being here, especially Gregory’s blatant disregard.
As I waited for Annie to rise, I snuck a glance at Gregory, whose eyes were not on his phone. They were … on me. My pulse jumped. He was staring at me.
But this look was something beyond staring, his eyes aflame with something I couldn’t quite name, eyelids heavy, his full lips slightly parted.
My breath becoming shallow, I recognized his look. It was want. Need. Longing. Sizzling. No, something else, something more. I was shocked at the directness, the rawness, the intensity, in his gaze. Feeling the heat, I was powerless to do anything except to stare back.
Finally, I fumbled for my towel sitting on a table outside the spa on my left side. And just like that, Gregory’s eyes snapped back to his phone, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and the moment passed. I turned around quickly, heart pounding, not trusting myself to avoid staring at him when he rose from the tub.
The rest of the evening passed in much the same way except that we sat around the bar in the suite: I snuck nervous glances at Gregory, but he continued to ignore me. The liquor made him even more arrogant and moody, if that was possible. He was particularly insufferable when we began to play cards. Stung by his hot/cold treatment and more than a little lightheaded from the alcohol and the late hour, I couldn’t wait to go home.