All For You (Amor Inn #2)

1. Darcy

Darcy

“God’s sake,” I spat out. “Have I died and gone to hell?”

In front of me, a small, denim-clad group gyrated to a brain-numbing beat and unintelligible lyrics. Surely we weren’t expected to dance this bloody weekend?

At my irritated words, Wills scratched his head of messy red hair and rolled his bright-blue eyes to the Italian glass chandelier. “Darcy, keep your bloody voice down.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the music,” I joked.

Instead of presenting me with his usual cheerful grin, Wills exhaled a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh my God, Darcy, you are such a grumpy bastard,” he said between his teeth. “We’re staying in a beautiful inn, set in green and daffodil pastures. Look at this magical room.”

He swept his hand over the colorful, eclectic kitchen, featuring a blue AGA stove, intricate pastel ceilings, and plump pink sofas around an old fireplace. Not something every bloke would notice and appreciate, but we were property developers.

He went on. “We’ve been greeted with music, the promise of cocktails, and the chance to meet some fun, beautiful women. What’s your problem?”

Max, my Irish setter and beagle mix, whined in sympathy and peered up at me as if to say, Yeah, dude. What now? The little traitor clearly didn’t care that I fed him his meals.

I loosened my tie, took a wide stance, and crossed my arms over my suit jacket. “Let’s see. For starters, we’ve driven two hours for a weekend themed ‘Must Love Animals.’ For animal-loving singles who want to meet their soul mates. Pets welcome!”

My brother turned to me, mystified. And?

I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Themed. A word which should never be spoken. And there is no such thing as a soul mate.”

Wills snorted. He’d heard my theories about love.

“At least you get to spend the weekend with your favorite creature in the whole world,” he said, his eyes still trained on the dancing group in front of us.

I looked at him skeptically.

“Max,” he said. “I would never suggest you would afford your little brother that accolade.”

That got a chuckle from me. A small one.

“Wills, even you must agree,” I insisted. “I mean, look.”

The cluster of men and women lunged with their hands in the air and shook their hips.

“It’s…hip-hop,” I said. “The schedule said line dancing, but that is not this. And even if it were, I don’t like any kind of dancing.

I have essentially given up my weekend to learn hip-hop from someone who draws a pension.

” I swiped a hand in her direction. “Someone dressed head-to-toe in sparkly leopard and red cowboy boots.”

And blond extensions and thick eyeliner. Creatively dressed, my kinder brother would say. Then, he always was the sweet, positive one. I was the supremely arrogant arsehole, according to the press, online comments, and friends. But I was always honest.

“Why are we here?” I pressed my lips tightly. “Remind me?”

He groaned. “Darcy, you know why. We’ve been advised that we need to allow the public into our lives if we want to build a community for kids around West City.

You agreed on TV to attend this weekend if the public matched your donation to build the clubhouse.

Nearly everyone we know pledged money because they want to watch your bad-tempered arse on this dating show—so that’s on you. ”

He was right. We’d recently completed a big shopping and housing development, which had created jobs in a previously scrappy area in London.

But the clubhouse, a free after-school program for underserved kids, was what made me feel I was doing some good and certainly the only reason I was standing here at the Amor Inn on this bloody dating weekend.

“Being filmed on a matchmaking reality show is the exact opposite way I want to live my life. C’mon, even you have to draw the line. My eyes are burning from the shoulder-shaking and hip-popping. I say we hit the local for a whisky by the fire and stay at that place nearby.”

“What are you talking about? And leave all these gorgeous women?”

“What gorgeous women?”

“Look, man. The woman over there, the one with the blond bob, shorts, and high boots—she’s that It Girl, Emma Woodhouse.” He laughed out loud as she shimmied down to the floor with abandon and slapped the old wooden planks. “She looks like great fun.”

My chest tightened. It Girl. She wasn’t who I wanted for Wills. With one look, I knew she was one of those women who would break his gentle heart, use him, humiliate him, and leave.

“What about that blonde over there?” he said. “Isn’t that Jane Bennet, the one who used to be a model, and then she left to be a primary school teacher? What a beautiful smile.”

“Okay,” I conceded, as unlike Emma—who looked like she had the world laid at her feet—Jane seemed shy and down-to-earth. “Maybe she’ll do for you as a weekend diversion.”

He observed her more keenly than I would have liked. “If she’d have me. There’s something about her.”

I grunted.

“You don’t have to protect me all the time, Darcy. I have good instincts. She looks amazing. Imogen was just…bad luck.”

“We will agree to disagree on that.”

Wills was naive and trusting and saw the best in everyone. Evidence: Imogen Volpe, a true clout chaser. Thank God she’d revealed her true colors before they’d gotten hitched. She’d shown herself by coming on to me solely because she thought I had more money than Wills.

“What about that woman with dark, curly hair?” Wills said. “She looks interesting.”

The woman in question was swinging around with the rest of them, dressed in ripped jeans, sandals, and a white peasant blouse, her wild brown ringlets tumbling everywhere.

Cracking up and joining in gleefully. Definitely not my type.

I had to admit there was something quite captivating about her, though.

But I was tired, fed up, resentful at the prospect of my precious weekend being taken up with get-to-know-yous and meet-and-greet activities.

I was in an utterly foul mood.

“She’s okay, I suppose, but not pretty enough to tempt me,” I shouted—as the music stopped.

Fuck.

Wills and I were both still staring right at the woman with the curly hair, making it obvious who I was talking about. My gut hurtled into my dress shoes.

Everyone turned to me, appalled.

Wide eyes, curled lips, and…complete silence.

The curly-haired woman didn’t shoot me the scathing look I braced for.

She turned to her friend and burst into peals of laughter behind her hand.

Probably repeating my rude remark, and they laughed again.

The levity rankled me, and too late, I noticed how her brown eyes glittered in the firelight, how the dimples from her laughter made adorable punctuation marks in her cheeks, how her lithe body swayed naturally like she was always hearing a song in her head.

This woman wasn’t unattractive. She was pretty.

More than pretty. She had a grace and vibrancy beyond her shining eyes, sensual mouth, and athletic figure.

She positively glowed with happiness and delight.

Was it the dancing, the other people, being in this old manor house?

No idea. When was the last time I felt as happy in the moment?

I scoured my brain. Nothing came to mind.

I instantly wanted a redo.

Then I noticed the camera in the corner, held up by a bloke in Arsenal colors. He was in red, for God’s sake, so why hadn’t I noticed him? His eyes were averted, clearly embarrassed for me, and not a little sheepish about witnessing and filming my perceived boorishness.

Double fuck.