5
He began to wish to know more of her. —Pride and Prejudice
Lettie’s roommate answers the door with a knowing smile.
“Hi ... umm... ” I clear my throat. It’s insane how nervous I am. “Is Lettie here?”
“Yes, Loverboy, she’ll be right out.”
“Great. Um... I’m Liam Darcy.” I put out a hand.
“Oh! I know who you are.” I’m not sure what to make of this statement, so I simply nod.
“I’m Char. Great tux, by the way.”
“Thanks.” She studies me with unsettling curiosity. I fear she can see right through me. I desperately need to shift the focus off of me.
“Do you work at UC Davis?” I ask, reading the hospital name on her scrubs.
“Yeah, I’m a surgery resident.”
“Good, good. You might know my aunt, Dr. Debourgh?”
“Dr. Debourgh is your aunt!?” Char takes two steps back. Ha! I’ve surprised the unflappable roommate.
“Please, don’t hold that against me.” I’ve heard plenty of stories from residents about my aunt. None positive.
“Dr. Debourgh is a legend. Sure, she might be a tyrant in the operating room. But she knows her stuff.”
“I’ll pay her your compliments when we see her tonight.”
“She’ll know me as Dr. Liu. Say hi from me.”
“I will. You don’t know how bizarre it is to meet a resident who has positive things to say about my aunt.”
Char laughs. “She can be a dragon. But I’m not sure she deserves her reputation. Lots of surgeons are demanding in the operating room. People complain about her more because she’s a woman and a bit eccentric.”
“True, she’s... ” I lose my train of thought because Lettie steps out of her room. And I’m in trouble, deep trouble. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Lettie Benson since the holiday party. But that was a high-emotion day. Maybe, I just imagined my attraction to her. It’s been two months, and... she is more lovely than I remember. She’s wearing a simple black evening gown that shimmers with tiny beads. It’s so Lettie, simple and classic with a sparkly twist. The way her dress catches the light reminds me of her bewitching eyes.
“Liam?” Lettie says my name, and I realize I haven’t said anything since she entered the room and yes, my mouth is slightly ajar. I snap it close. Char watches me with a smirk.
“You look... look,” I begin. My mind is a jumble. “I don’t have words.”
“Gee, thanks.” Lettie sounds sarcastic, but her eyes are full of mirth. “How about tolerable?”
“How about beautiful?” I venture. “You look beautiful.” This seems to please her. She blushes slightly and looks away.
“Shall we?” I ask, eager to escape the feel of Char’s calculating gaze.
Lettie puts on a white fur wrap before we go out to the chilly evening. I was lucky to find a parking spot right in front of her apartment. I open the passenger door.
“Nice car,” she says when I take the driver’s seat.
“It was my dad’s.” It’s a 193 Jaguar XK120. My dad was obsessed with this car and never let me drive it. Now that it’s mine, I love it far more than a man should love an inanimate object.
“I’m sorry you lost him,” she says, her voice gentle and sincere. “That must be hard.”
I want to agree. I want to tell her more. But I’ve been trained to hide my feelings, to maintain a brave face. “I manage.”
Lettie looks at me with so much sympathy that, once again, I’m tempted to tell her everything weighing on my shoulders. But she doesn’t need my sob story. I shouldn’t even have a sob story. I am fortune’s child—born to wealthy, loving parents with good health and adequate intelligence. I have nothing to complain about.
I turn on the engine. “Tell me about growing up in Iowa.”
“First, let me make it clear,” she says emphatically. “I did NOT grow up on a farm.”
“What’s wrong with a farm? I grew up on a farm.”
“You did?” she says with surprise. “Cool! Nothing’s wrong with a farm. It’s just that as soon as people hear I’m from Iowa, they imagine me driving a tractor.”
“Okay, so no tractor.” I chuckle. “What do your parents do?”
“My mom is mostly a stay at home mom, taking care of me and my two sisters. But recently she’s been working more as a costume designer for the community theatre. My dad’s a professor.”
“Really? And what does he teach?”
“He studies birds. I know, not very interesting.”
“No, that’s cool! We deal with birds a lot in my business... primarily getting rid of them.”
“My dad teaches at Iowa State, which was originally an agriculture school. So he teaches a lot of that sort of stuff.”
“So he’s an ornithologist?”
“No, he’s an avian ecologist.”
“Cool! I bet he’s fascinating to talk to.”
“You’re the first person to say that. He bores most people with bird talk.”
“I could bore him with almond talk.”
“I haven’t heard you talk much about almonds.”
“Because I’m determined not to bore you.”
“You’re definitely not boring.” Lettie’s words zip around the small space in the car between us. And for the first time, I begin to hope. My eyes dart over to her. She’s exactly what I never knew I wanted. I really like her. I can’t screw this up.
***
As luck would have it, we bump into Caroline Bingham on the steps of the home hosting the party. Home seems inadequate in this situation. Mansion or palace or fortress seems a more fitting description for this tech investor’s residence.
“Darcy!” She runs up to kiss me on the cheek. “Love that tux on you, especially with that coat.” She looks at Lettie. “Don’t you agree? Betty.”
“Caroline, this is Lettie Benson, my date.” I place my hand on the small of Lettie’s back, currently covered in the white fur wrap. “I believe you met at the Pemberley Holiday Party.”
“Silly me, I’m terrible with names.” I don’t buy this for one minute. Caroline’s great with names. I’m guessing she said the wrong name on purpose to put Lettie in her place. I’m not impressed.
Caroline narrows her eyes, studying Lettie’s dress. “Is that Christian Dior?”
“Yes, vintage. The fur is fake, though.” Lettie seems just a little nervous.
“And how? . . . where . . . did you get this dress?” asks Caroline.
“It belonged to my aunt.”
“She had great taste; who was she?” Caroline follows us closely as we walk into the mansion, which resembles a French chateau.
“Just an Iowa farm girl who married a TV star. Have you ever seen Kellylynch Farms ?”
“OMG! Yes! Buck Harrington can get it.”
Lettie winces. “He’s my uncle. Dean Elliot married my dad’s sister.”
“No freaking way!” squeals Caroline. “Buck Harrington is your uncle? Wait!!! That means... ”
“Yep, April Rain is my cousin.”
“You... and April Rain... are related?” Caroline is kind of falling apart here. And I get it. April Rain is a big deal. “Have you met her?” Caroline sputters.
Lettie gives her an incredulous face. “Um, yeah, she’s my cousin. We were roommates in college.”
Caroline quickly pivots. “Does she have a stylist? Do you think she’d like one?”
“She did, but not right now. She’s finishing up her senior year at Iowa State. She mainly wears sweats and hoodies.”
“Maybe after she graduates, you could mention me.”
Lettie smiles and nods. “I’m not certain what her plans are, but I’ll keep you in mind.”
“I do the shopping for Darcy, you know.” Caroline puts a hand on my cashmere coat. Lettie’s eyes flash with disdain. Is it for the coat or for me paying someone to dress me? For the record, my mom hired Caroline “to spiff up my wardrobe” right after my dad died. I think she hoped if Caroline and I spent more time together, we’d find we were made for each other. Which was ridiculous since Caroline has a longstanding boyfriend. They broke up around Thanksgiving. But they’re back together again, which explains why Caroline’s paying more attention to my date than me. Fine by me; it’s clear that we were never a good fit. For one, I don’t want her to dress me for the rest of my life. Her taste is a bit expensive. When I balked at the price of some items, including the coat I’m wearing tonight, she tattled on me to my mom, who in turn reminded me that I need to look like a CEO to convince the board I can be one.
After my dad’s death, I took over his position, but only as an interim CEO. I don’t know who else the board wants for the job—if anyone at all. I think they’re just concerned about my age and inexperience. If it had been up to me, my mom would be the new CEO. But she’s made it clear that she’s finished with the family business. I still hope that Georgiana will change her mind and want to help me lead the company, but after the whole Noah debacle she’s lost her confidence.
We stop at the coat check. As I help Lettie out of her wrap, Caroline stops to admire Lettie’s dress all over again.
“I just can’t get over it. The beadwork—everything. Oh! and the shoes. Can I get a better look?” she asks.
Lettie lifts her leg and points her toe, pulling up the hem as she does so. I notice that the dress has a thigh slit and Lettie’s wearing black fishnet stockings.
“This dress is wasted on you! You can’t appreciate it,” Caroline says, still ogling the dress.
“That might be true,” Lettie replies with good humor. “April sent me a bunch of evening gowns to try on for tonight, along with shoes and accessories.”
“What other dresses did she send?” Caroline asks, practically salivating.
“I can show you pictures.” I can’t help but appreciate how friendly Lettie is to Caroline, even though earlier, she pretended not to know her name. Apparently, she’s not one to hold a petty grudge. Caroline huddles with Lettie to see the photos on her phone.
And so, I find myself walking into the party, trailing behind my date and Caroline Bingham. I inwardly smile at this surprising turn of events. The moment I saw Caroline on the steps, I knew she would interfere with my date tonight. But I feared she’d flirt with me, not mooch up to Lettie. More than once, I find myself introducing both Lettie and Caroline to acquaintances. After tonight, my reputation as a player will be locked up. Thanks to Caroline, it looks like I brought two dates.
“Liam darling,” my Aunt Kate calls from across the room. Inwardly, I groan. I love my aunt, but she can be a lot. She has already scared away more than one romantic interest. As her particular favorite, she has promised (or should I say threatened) to select an acceptable wife for me. She has strong opinions about whom I date. I fear she won’t approve of Lettie, not because there’s anything objectionable about Lettie or that this is anything more than a casual first date—which I have to remind myself frequently. It’s just that anyone that I so much as have coffee with my aunt feels it’s her duty to vet. On the bright side, Caroline, who has already suffered my aunt’s inquisition, makes her excuses and flees. Good riddance! I have no desire to spend the whole evening playing third wheel to my date and Caroline Bingham.
“Liam! Don’t you look devilish.” Aunt Kate hugs me, and I’m surrounded by the heady scent of Chanel No. . She kisses me on both cheeks. I pull out a handkerchief to wipe off the inevitable lipstick. Aunt Kate is wearing what she calls the Debourgh diamonds, a diamond collar and matching earrings from Cartier that she bought for herself on her 0th birthday. Her jewels are so gaudy they look like costume jewelry, but I happen to know they’re real. She has promised to give them to my sister. But when she’s upset with Georgie, she tells her that she might as well give the “Debourgh Diamonds” to my future wife.
“Liam, darling, you made it. I wish you could’ve convinced my poor sister to come as well. It’s high time she stopped moping.”
Though I’ve had similar thoughts, it irritates me to hear my aunt criticize my mother.
“It’s not moping, it’s mourning. Mom misses Dad terribly, as do I.”
“But here you are, looking dashing, and you brought a date.” Her eyes flick to Lettie but only for a moment. “Anne is taking things too far. A year of mourning is more than enough. Women never miss their husbands. Men are such helpless creatures; they just create work for their wives. We’re always better off without them.”
“And yet, you insist I marry.”
“Only because you are such a catch, darling. It would be a crime for you to stay single. I’m certain you agree.” This last line she tosses to Lettie.
“Oh, definitely!” This satisfies my aunt. But I catch the sarcasm in Lettie’s reply.
“Lettie, may I introduce you to my Aunt Kate.”
My aunt puts out her hand for Lettie to shake. “Dr. Catherine Debourgh.” I see my aunt through Lettie’s eyes and realize she looks a little like Cruella Deville. She’s bony thin, wearing a red lace evening gown, and has short black hair with a shock of white coming up from her widow’s peak.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Debourgh,” Lettie speaks graciously, but I can see the mirth in her eyes. “I believe you know my roommate, Charlotte Liu. She’s a third-year resident.”
“Dr. Liu is your roommate?” She turns to me. “Dr. Liu is not a terrible doctor.” Coming from my aunt, that is high praise indeed.
“She’s a wonderful roommate,” Lettie says with warmth.
“And you.” My aunt surveys Lettie with an assessing gaze. “You’re quite a pretty thing and well-dressed.” So far, so good. This is the most generous my aunt has ever been to a date of mine. “What do you do?”
“I’m a caterer.” My heart sinks. Lettie must know that a woman who insists on being called doctor at a social function will not think highly of a caterer. Which isn’t even an accurate answer. Lettie is a team leader at Bennet Parties, and she teaches writing at the university. She’s purposely answering with the least impressive of her two jobs to provoke my aunt. I catch her eyes, which are dancing with mischief. Yeah, she’s totally doing this on purpose and wholly enjoying my aunt’s expression of barely contained distaste.
“She’s also a writer,” I add. I hate ruining Lettie’s fun, but I really want my aunt to like her. Lettie’s eyes go big with surprise. Oh, that’s right, she’s not the one who told me she writes. Jane did once when I was fishing for Lettie info.
“Ah, a writer,” my aunt says with begrudging respect. “I’ve thought of writing myself. I’m certain I have at least a couple bestselling novels in me.”
“I bet you do,” Lettie answers, all meekness. Aunt Kate nods along. “Just like I’m confident that I’d rock heart surgery. I mean, how hard can it be?” I’m trying so hard not to laugh. Lettie’s ability to maintain a straight face right now is commendable.
“No, dear me,” say my Aunt. “I would not let you in the operating room. I had years of training to get where I am today.”
“My point exactly.”
My aunt eyes Lettie again, not sure if she has been insulted or complimented. “And pray tell me, what sort of training have you done to become a writer?”
“Let’s see. To begin with I have my BA in English with a minor in creative writing. During my undergrad years, I worked for the college paper and the school literary magazine. I got my MFA in creative writing. Not to mention countless writer’s conferences and workshops.”
“Hmm... that is a little more training than I expected. What do you write?”
“Romance.” Lettie utters the word with great satisfaction. Then, she looks at me as if daring me to judge her. I do not dare.
My aunt’s face freezes in a look of abject horror. I’m mortified by her reaction, but Lettie seems delighted.
“Is . . . that . . . so?” Aunt Kate sputters.
“Yes.”
“Goodness! Why romance!? I don’t read romance.”
“I figured as much,” Lettie says with a shrug. “But I don’t write books for you, Dr. Debourgh.”
“Take it from me, darling,” my aunt continues in an authoritative tone. “Don’t waste your education on romance.”
“Would you rather I write depressing quasi-literary drivel where all the characters make poor decisions and wax poetic about their miserable existence? Few people need more reminders that life is hard. I want to give readers a reprieve from the stress of real life and a happy ending.” Listening to Lettie defend her writing is my new favorite pastime.
“But romance is so formulaic and predictable,” counters my aunt.
“When you operate, are there standard procedures you follow to achieve the best outcome?”
“Well, yes . . . ”
“That could be called formulaic?” asks Lettie.
“Surgery and books are not the same,” my aunt says in her most haughty voice.
“True, but both benefit from using best practices, what some might call formulas. Romance readers expect a happy ending. Likewise, your patients expect to survive their surgery. Neither my reader nor your patient wants anything but the expected outcome.”
“Not me,” maintains my aunt. “I like to be surprised by the books I read.”
“But you said yourself, you don’t read romance,” I interject. My aunt gives me a withering glare, which I interpret as, “Shut up, this is my conversation.”
“I might read a romance if I knew it would surprise me,” she says.
“My books would surprise you.” Lettie’s confidence is so hot. “A good romance should be a series of delightful twists. I’m only arguing that the ending should never be a surprise.”
“You’re awfully opinionated for someone so young.”
I’ve been mesmerized by the verbal sparring. It’s supremely satisfying to watch someone stand up to Aunt Kate. And Lettie has been more than holding her own. However, I can see my aunt is about to lose her temper. It’s time I step in.
“Aunt Kate, you, of all people, should welcome an opinionated woman.”
“When you’ve lived as long as I have, one is entitled to an opinion.” She turns to Lettie. “But you are a wisp of a thing. How old are you? You look like you just graduated from high school.”
I wince. Women like to be told they look young, but not that young. Lettie might have a youthful freshness about her, but she looks her age. My aunt is needling her on purpose.
“I’m 26,” Lettie answers without emotion.
“I see... ” Aunt Kate looks her up and down, searching for a flaw—good luck with that. Lettie’s absolutely radiant tonight. Finally, my aunt breaks into a sly smile. “That explains the freckles.”
Lettie rolls her eyes. I grimace. “We’re done here,” I say to my aunt. I place my hand on the small of Lettie’s back to guide her away. I’m momentarily startled. I didn’t expect to touch bare skin. Earlier, when I guided Lettie, she was wearing the fur wrap. As soon as we are out of my aunt’s sight, I remove my hand and immediately miss the warmth and softness of her back.
“Sorry,” I begin. “Aunt Kate can be opinionated. But I didn’t expect that! She’s not used to anyone speaking back.”
“But you just did,” Lettie points out.
“Only because she was rude to you.”
“I like my freckles” she says sounding a bit vulnerable.
“Me too, but my aunt meant to insult you because she was losing the debate. For the record your freckles are adorable much cuter than mine.”
Lettie examines my face with interest.
“You do have freckles,” she says with undisguised pleasure. “They’re cute.” I wince inwardly. Cute is not the look I’m going for. Judging from her expression my thoughts must play on my face. “Don’t worry,” she continues. “They don’t slow down your whole James Bond vibe.” She waves a hand in my general direction.
“James Bond, huh? Careful, Lettie, that sounded a lot like a compliment.”