14. Darcy
Darcy
Badly done, man.
But I needed to get rid of Lizzy for ten minutes so I could focus on this bloody recipe and swear as much as I needed with all this fine chopping.
Still, I supposed there were ways of hurrying her along without that rather snippy “Anything else?” It was that I didn’t know those ways.
I’d been brought up to give short, sharp, clear instructions and to expect people to follow them.
Only my brother had the balls to tell me to bugger off and ask again with a “Please.”
It felt a little personal to send her up to my bedroom and fetch my dog, but Max needed loads of walks. And after this, we’d be heading straight out to the romantic afternoon.
I relaxed a little and even whistled a tune, confident in our victory and that it would keep Wills from spending time with Jane and falling in love with another woman who might only want him for his money and status.
Lizzy disappeared, and after a few minutes, I heard her soft footfalls and the dogs clicking down the stairs and out the front door.
Through the window, I could see her running barefoot around the back garden, throwing a stick.
Lizzy’s movements were sure and fluid, like she was still dancing, her dress swishing close around her hips, her turns revealing her ankles and calves.
I contorted to catch her flashing brown eyes, her tumbling curls, her flushed cheeks.
It wasn’t only her fresh looks. A twinkling energy pulsed from her, creating unrest throughout my body. Heat simmered deep in my core, her every turn and step catching me scarily off guard.
Suddenly, all the need and hope and heat I’d kept on lockdown thrashed their way out of my carefully calmed facade.
How did this casual sight of her ignite such a raging fervor inside me?
Even though I had that chopping to attend to, then rolling out the pastry—however the hell you were supposed to do that—I couldn’t drag myself away from the window.
I twitched ridiculously at the curtain to keep myself hidden but trying to see more.
What was it about me and bloody curtains now?
Lizzy bent over for the stick, and I leaned closer. Jesus, man, are you really trying to cop a look down her neckline? Get back to your bloody chopping, you creep.
I swished the curtain shut with a savage hand.
After ten minutes, I checked outside again, restricting myself to one glance.
She was ushering the dogs inside, and then I heard them click back upstairs to our respective rooms. I was disappointed I couldn’t spy—er, check—on her anymore, but excited she’d be heading back to join me in the kitchen.
If we were a couple, I’d bet she’d wrap her arms around me and kiss me, help me finish quickly so we could snuggle up on that big couch by the fire, under the fuzzy blanket.
And then our hands would start wandering under that blanket and…
I froze.
Why was I imagining we were a couple and we’d do this sort of thing on a Saturday morning?
Not organized events, like I’d done with my ex, things that had always required different, specific clothing for her and loads of phone calls beforehand, days which ended at the latest bar or restaurant with the best seat in the house, surrounded by supposed friends who’d read about the hottest dish on the menu to order and were already posting selfies.
With Lizzy, I imagined this easy kind of hanging out. Before today, those sorts of thoughts had never entered my mind. I would have shuddered if they had. I wasn’t sure I liked how quickly my imagination had gone in such a bizarrely serene and settled direction.
Right now, however, was anything but easy. This bloody recipe would be the death of me, and the judging in front of us had my stress levels at a solid seven, but I could envision a win. Even better? The cameraman wasn’t hovering.