Chapter 3
DARCY
Living in Brooklyn isn’t everything I thought it would be.
When I was studying in Oxford, I worked a few placements in London, but none of that seemed surreal. Even when I spent a summer working for my now-estranged dad in Canary Wharf, it was just like any other day.
Here though, in New York, I feel like the smallest fish in the largest pond.
I guess that’s because I am. When Jack got traded to the Blades, he repeatedly told me life would take some adjusting if I wanted to pull off my move to the USA.
In true Darcy style, I brushed off his comments and focused on the exciting parts, like working as a junior associate editor in a fancy building for a leading fashion magazine, Glide, and searching for a place to live.
It was all about finding my own feet after a shitty end to a relationship and finally coming to terms with the inevitable breakdown of another with my dad.
I was my own version of Carrie Bradshaw, living my best Sex and the City life, free from my cheating ex. My eyes were finally wide open to my manipulative, controlling father, and I was ready to move on.
For the most part, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I even invested in a pair of Prada heels and an overly restricting pencil skirt to carry off the look at work, and in the evenings, I hit the cocktail bars, having dragged unsuspecting colleagues along with me.
But here’s the thing: New York life isn’t fully transpiring how I initially envisaged.
I’m not saying I’m unhappy or lonely exactly.
I’m simply saying … it’s different from what I imagined.
Unlike my brother, who had a whole team of guys to play and practice with multiple times a week, I’m seeking out opportunities to socialize.
If it wasn’t for Kendra, my sister-in-law; Collins Mackenzie, Sawyer’s new fiancée; and Jenna Miller, Kendra’s best friend and goalie for the New York Storm, I’d be lost. There are only so many times a twenty-three-year-old woman can turn up on her mum’s doorstep with a Chinese takeaway for two and a bottle of Pinot.
Sienna—another junior associate editor at Glide—genuinely rolled her eyes when I approached her desk an hour ago and asked what her plans were for tonight. She tried to hide her expression, but I saw it as she turned her head to eye a colleague, Penelope, a few seats down.
It was fine, I concluded. Maybe they had other plans.
Or maybe I annoy the shit out of them with my high-pitched laugh and overenthusiastic approach.
“Whatever,” I sigh under my breath, switching my bag of Chinese takeout from one arm to the other while I dig around for my door key in the ridiculously oversize cream tote bag I genuinely thought was a good idea when I bought it.
My A-level results might’ve been in UK’s top percentile, but I’m about as organized as a flock of wild geese being chased by a fox, and this freaking bag only serves to remind me of that.
Tissues—nope.
Hand sanitizer—not today.
Lip balm—ooh, the cherry-flavored one. I wondered where that had got to. In my bag, of course.
Mobile phone—not right now.
Ah, keys.
My one-bedroom apartment in Fort Greene is cozy and has everything I need.
Mum was determined for me to move into a place owned by her and my stepdad, Jon Morgan, the coach for the New York Blades.
I saw two issues with this idea. Number one: I’d never consider it as mine, even if I paid rent.
Two: While I love my brother and Kendra, like hell would I live on the floor directly above them.
I didn’t care how many times Kendra tried to convince me of the soundproofing in that building; I was absolutely going to hear my brother having sex.
Shuddering at the thought, I step into my apartment and toss my tote on a spare chair in the cozy, but tiny, living room. Next, I kick off my Prada heels and pull the tie from my hair, letting it cascade down and around my shoulders.
“Now, where the fuck is it?” I murmur to myself, gaze roving around the room, but coming up empty.
I mean, it’s possible it’s in here somewhere, likely buried under a pile of laundry I gathered together with the intention of taking it to the launderette, but never quite making it.
“There you are!” I’m across the room in a flash, pulling a puzzle book from under a stack of mail.
After a grueling week, most normal people choose to binge-watch their favorite TV show with snacks or maybe even hit the gym for a workout. I guess you could classify sudoku as a workout for the brain, but I see it as the only way to unwind.
My mind never stops, not even when I’m asleep.
I even talk in my sleep and occasionally sleepwalk.
Mum took me to see a doctor when I was five, concerned I wasn’t resting enough and it was affecting my development.
Turned out, I was a certifiable genius, and while other kids my age were playing in sandpits and mud kitchens, I was solving puzzles designed for preteens.
I’m forever overanalyzing things that do not need dissecting.
Prime example: why the hell did I decide to turn up at Archer Moore’s apartment out of the blue on a Sunday morning?
Yes, it was to return the credit card he’d thrust into my hand the night before, but it’s not like I couldn’t have waited a couple of hours and given it to Jack when he stopped by later that afternoon.
And when it got awkward—standing in his kitchen, drinking tepid coffee, and trying not to stare at his bare, chiseled chest—I decided to ask him if he was okay with his parents’ recent divorce.
What was I thinking?
Flicking on the kettle I had shipped from the place I shared with Liam—because he wasn’t keeping my Bugatti Vera Easy Kettle in rose gold—I dump a tea bag into a mug and wait for the water to boil.
In the forty seconds it takes for the kettle to finish its cycle, I’m already a third of the way through the puzzle, powerless to prevent my attention as it wanders back to Archer.
The second I knocked on his door, I considered fleeing the scene, only to clock his smart camera and deduce that my random visit was already evidenced.
So, I went all in, practically knocking his door down so I could explain the reason for my visit and that I wasn’t randomly stalking his home.
Despite his camera, when he pulled the door open, he looked shocked to find me standing on the other side, fighting to keep my eyes on his face and not descend to his pecs.
Fishing out the tea bag from my drink, I grab some milk from the fridge and drop a single sweetener into my brew. I bring the mug to my lips, blowing away the steam as I replay my interaction with Archer.
Had my eyes dropped to his chest, it would’ve been obvious, although I definitely wouldn’t have felt guilty for checking him out.
The guy is stacked.
Like carved-out-of-stone, erected-in-a-museum Greek god kind of perfect. Sex oozes from every pore in his body, daring women to come closer and taste his goodness.
Only he knows it. And to me, that taints the prize.
I was genuinely shocked to find him alone when I showed up. I hadn’t thought it was possible for Archer to head home by himself after a night out. There’s no shame in being a playboy, but there is an inevitable reputation that goes along with it.
Despite myself and his public image, I can’t deny the attraction I feel. While I’ve done a good job at hiding it for the large part—and especially from Archer—getting it past Jack has been harder to carry off.
Up until his and Kendra’s wedding earlier this month, my brother had said nothing explicitly about it, only throwing me the occasional side-eye. That all changed when I asked why the maid of honor—aka me—wasn’t paired up with the best man—aka Archer—for the day.
“Because while he might be my best friend and one of the most likable guys I’ve met, he’s an absolute asshole to women, and I’ll be damned if he tries it on with my baby sister. Keep away from him, Darce. For your sake and my friendship with him.”
I take a sip of tea and smile around the rim at my response, my audiographic memory replaying the conversation.
“For the record, oh, brother”—I patted him lightly on the shoulder, smiling sweetly—“I do not plan on going there with him. However, please note that if I were, your warning wouldn’t stop me. See, I possess what’s called a brain.” I tapped my temple twice. “And I have the ability to use it.”
My brother doesn’t need to worry. I’ve got the measure of the Blades goalie from Philly. We’re alike in our outgoing personalities and confidence in social situations. He’s also fun to be around, and his banter is top-tier. That’s where it ends for me.
I might be in my early twenties, but that doesn’t render me totally naive around guys, and that’s why I’m scolding myself for turning up, unannounced, at his place.
I never do shit like that.
I’ll admit, after Liam, all I want is fun. However, that doesn’t involve adding to the notches on Archer’s overloaded bedposts. Something tells me I wouldn’t feel good about that, and neither would he for going behind my brother’s back for nothing more than a hookup.
In fact, nothing about getting with a hockey player appeals to me. Any guy I see or date will have zero affiliation with my brother or stepdad. I’m my own woman, and going there invites the kind of potential complications I absolutely do not need.