12. Darcy
Darcy
“Oh,” I said.
She’d genuinely taken me by surprise. That winning this prize would mean spending four hours with her hadn’t occurred to me. All I knew was I needed to win to make sure Wills didn’t, because that would mean he would go off with Jane for four hours and I couldn’t keep an eye on them.
But why did I want to win the prize? Think, man.
“It sounded fun,” I answered.
Unconvincing even to my ears, and sure enough, her face showed skepticism.
“This is fun for you?” she asked, tipping her head. “Really? I’m curious what else you think is fun. What’s your first thought when you get to a party? Grab a drink, get some nibbles, look for your friends?”
“Leave,” I said without thinking.
“Yes, that’s what I thought,” she said, nodding.
Trystan glanced over from showing Wills and Jane the contents of the fridge and intermittently doing a little refereeing between Emma and Knightley. The camera was hovering over them, but at the first sign of a disagreement between Lizzy and me, they’d be rolling over here. I couldn’t risk that.
“I think we should do something simple with the eggs and veggies that Trystan already has,” she said. “A sort of farm-style omelet. It’s brunch.”
The Arsenal-clad cameraman glanced over again. Feeling his scrutiny, I shook my head. I needed to nip her idea in the bud. “An omelet. A tired cliché. It’s not going to win.”
Her face was set, her shoulders hunched high, visibly bristling. No nipping in the bud. In fact, the cameraman was zooming in on us. Why did I always manage to piss her off?
“Omelets are a cliché because people like them,” she said. “They’re a crowd-pleaser. Emma has never cooked in her life, and Jane will opt for something simple.”
I smiled at her pleasantly to try to fool the cameraman. What was his name? Had I become such an arsehole I neglected to ask people’s names?
“Not good enough. Our dish must have the wow factor. We have to stun the judges.” I forced a fake smile.
She startled and frowned at me. “Okay. Clearly, you fancy yourself as Gordon Ramsay, but I’m calling in an expert opinion.”
She turned and waved Trystan over from the fridge, where he was still showing the contents to Jane and Wills. The cameraman followed Trystan. Even after Trystan moved over to us, Jane’s and Wills’s heads stayed close together. Shit.
“What do you think about this recipe?” Lizzy said to Trystan and nodded at my phone.
The camera moved closer. I leaned toward Lizzy as though I was being terribly collaborative. She jumped away. I touched my phone and held it out for Trystan to read.
“There’s a roux involved, pastry, and layering.” He creased his forehead, and I flicked at the screen to show him the photo. “I mean, it’s impressive-looking.” Trystan’s tone was genuinely curious but also incredulous as he switched his focus from my screen to my face. “And you’ve cooked this?”
“It’s an old family recipe,” I repeated, without answering the real question.
“I have the chicken, bone-in.” He shifted from foot to foot. “But not the flaky pastry, only farm mushrooms, not truffles, and none of the rest of it.”
Lizzy’s face fell at his words.
“That’s why we need to hit the store quickly,” I urged, checking my phone for the nearest one. “Meryton Market.” And get away from this camera up our noses.
Time to focus the charisma, man. I smiled at Lizzy, the full-wattage grin I didn’t remember to pull out too often.
Looking alarmed rather than devastated by my sudden expression, she drew back a bit.
Hmm. Maybe too many teeth after my usual scowling.
I scaled back the expression and grabbed my keys from my pocket.
“C’mon, Lizzy,” I said. “What do you say? Let’s try it, eh?”
She narrowed her twinkling eyes. “Is this you trying to be charming?”
“I’m never charming.”
That drew a bit of a smile from her. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to wink at me.”
“Good God, woman. Never. You are totally safe from any winking originating from my direction. If you ever see me winking, you know something has gone horribly wrong. We are either in a hostage situation or playing some idiotic game like charades—basically the same thing.”
Her smile went wider, and she tilted her head back to meet my gaze. She had the most beautifully elegant neck. I had a flash of me kissing my way down that lovely neck of hers. What? No. I must not have gotten enough sleep. Get it together, man.
“Certainly comforting to know,” she said.
I nodded, unsure if that was a good comforting or bad comforting. I blinked. One of her curls had gone wilder than her already wild hair, and I felt an overwhelming urge to wrap the shiny errant coil around my finger.
She sighed. “Okay, you’ve worn me down, but I still don’t understand why you’re so tied to this recipe.”
Right, the chicken. She’s suspicious that I’m holding back some key information, but she can’t figure out what. Put her off the scent. I presented her with a blank face, as if her last comment was rhetorical. “Brilliant. You won’t regret it.”
“And yet, why do I feel as though I’m going to?” But her tone was amused as she stood up and grabbed her denim jacket and handbag, ready to leave.
Trystan gave me a small look of concern, then moved back to the fridge to give his attention to the other two couples.
The cameraman hoisted his camera off his shoulder and smiled at me. He was coming with. Oh shit.
“Are you insured to drive with us?” I asked.
His face collapsed into a frown. “I’m not insured to come in your car.”
Thank God.
Setting off down the road for the store, I glanced over at Lizzy sitting in the passenger seat of my electric Bentley. The viridian color inside and out—a dark, blooming green developed two centuries ago in Paris—reflected the shades in her eyes.
She slipped out of her flip-flops and hiked one foot onto the seat, her knee resting against the door, her long cotton dress pooling around her.
With an elbow on the open window, she dreamily watched the countryside flashing past. Most women I’d known babbled about my car, money signs in their eyes at its extravagance.
Lizzy didn’t seem to care, which was refreshing.
As the outside world rolled past, it felt strangely intimate to be strapped into an enclosed space with her, and I suddenly wished we had no deadline.
I wished we had a longer journey and time to wander through somewhere nicer than the grocery store.
But I’d probably do or say the wrong thing.
Still, I gripped the wheel tighter, feeling a powerful urge to connect with her, make her laugh, have her turn to me with that smile of hers.
“If you wind up the window,” I said, “the air con works better.”
Really? That’s what you came up with?
“I like the real breeze. I like to feel the actual sun on my face.” She wrinkled her nose at me. “Is that an issue?”
“No, of course it’s not an issue.”
My overly curt answer snapped between us awkwardly, and she sat up straight in her seat.
I went to explain I didn’t mind her having the window open, that I liked seeing her close her eyes against the breeze and the sunshine…
but the words wouldn’t form, and I frowned.
I was usually taciturn, but never tongue-tied, and I’d never cared much what people thought of me.
I didn’t like this nervousness and bungled answers one bit.
We arrived at Meryton Market, and once we were out of the car, Lizzy skipped over to fetch a cart, as if she couldn’t get away from me fast enough, her shoulders now loose with relief.
But once we were inside the store and I was next to her, pushing the cart, I felt that same pull of excitement between us that I’d felt back at the house. Maybe because we were united on this mission.
I checked my watch and grimaced. “I think we only have five minutes, ten max.”
We stopped to view the lineup of aisles.
I stared at all the signage and back at the recipe on my phone.
I hadn’t done a proper grocery shop for years, so I wasn’t sure which direction to head first. Occasionally, I’d run into a Tesco Metro after work to grab a bottle of wine on the way to a dreaded dinner party, which I always tried to avoid but somehow still found myself at.
But otherwise, my chef did the weekly food shop, and my assistant ordered the basics to keep my flat running.
I certainly wasn’t telling Lizzy any of that or even admitting to any ignorance on that score.
“I’ll let you guide us, as this is your home territory,” I said.
“That’s terribly generous of you,” she answered sarcastically, but her eyes were shining with good humor. She pointed to a near aisle. “Anchovies first.”
We stalked down the aisle. “There they are,” she said, pointing to the top shelf.
We stopped and both reached up to the row of cans. Our fingers brushed, and I felt a sharp, disturbing zing all the way up my arm, completely out of proportion to the lightness of our touch.
“Please,” I said.
“No, you,” she said at the same time.
I suppressed a grin, feeling quite light-headed. For God’s sake, we were in a store.
We got two cans for good measure.
I turned and grasped the trolley to find I’d locked my fingers over hers.
“Oh, excuse me,” I said, sweeping my hand away.
I stretched my hand at my side, feeling a tingle up my arm at the memory of touching her. Wasn’t there a scene in some movie of a bloke doing the same thing? I had a flash of men with ruffled necklines and curls around their faces. One of those movies that annoyed and bored me at the same time.
“Next, veggie aisle,” she directed, striding ahead.
We turned a corner, and her hip bumped against my thigh.
“Excuse me,” she said, and we both laughed. Her eyes lit up, her dimples deepening.
And my heart gave a strange tug.
Suddenly, the contest seemed less important. I wanted to understand these odd sensations. Not just be polite for the camera back at the inn. I was going to win the battle against my awkwardness with her. My aim for the rest of the day was to preserve this camaraderie between us.