JACK DARCY

“Relax, Jack. It could’ve gone worse.”

“How could things possibly have gone worse?” I glance down at my shirt before gathering my napkin and half-heartedly dabbing at it. My button-down had once upon a time been white, but now it’s a shade of red alarmingly similar to the glass of wine I ordered with dinner. “Another shirt bites the dust.”

The woman at the table behind me, Allie Jenkins, lets out a laugh that has a smile curving my lips upward at the first sound of it. Standing, she grabs her own napkin and reaches over to help me dab at the spill.

“Hey, look at it this way—at least she missed your pants.” Allie cackles another laugh as she straightens, then slides around the table and sits in the seat recently evacuated by my date. “I’m so glad you asked me to swing by tonight. You put on quite a show, Jack Darcy.”

“Ha-ha.”

Allie gestures for the waitress, which draws the attention of several patrons around us. The restaurant is Michelin starred, and probably one where wine-throwing is discouraged. Several women frown in my direction while more than one man watches with curiosity at the musical chairs game happening at my table.

Less than two minutes ago, Allie’s seat had been occupied by a woman in her twenties. At least, that’s what she’d claimed online. She’d also claimed that she had long blonde hair, legs for days, and a PhD in fashion.

When she showed up tonight, she had been middle-aged (if I’m feeling generous), short, and wearing a cat sweater. Not the cute kind, either. It’d been that fuzzy, pom-pom style that said my-grandma-knitted-this-for-Christmas. We hadn’t chatted long enough to find out if the degree in fashion had also been a lie, but I have my thoughts on the matter.

All I know for a fact is that she made a sucker out of me.

The waitress approaches, her eyebrow raising into a confused tilt as she scans my shirt, then glances with surprise at the new woman seated across from me. A look of reproach quickly pushes away the confusion.

“Shall I grab a new glass of wine for this one?” she asks me, nodding toward Allie. “Or are you waiting for more?”

“Nah,” Allie says with a wink. “I’m all he’s got for tonight. Why don’t you bring us the bottle? We’ll be here awhile.”

“Forget it, Allie.” I wring out my shirt, as if that’ll help. A droplet of red pools onto my napkin. “I appreciate your attempt to help, but it’s probably best if we just call it a day.”

“Hold your shorts on, Jack. You asked me here to critique your performance, and I haven’t even started.”

“I’m unteachable.” I point to my clothes. “This is the third shirt I’ve ruined this year.”

“Lucky for you, I make my living teaching kindergarten,” Allie says with a grin. “You’re a surgeon, Mr. Darcy. I promise my lesson plans will be idiot-proof for a man of your IQ.”

“Idiot proof?”

“Hush up, amigo. Just put this on.”

Allie throws her purse open. The thing is bright blue and the size of a suitcase. I’ve warned her a million times that if she doesn’t downsize, she’ll have spinal problems by the time she’s forty. Then she’ll land on her back...on my operating table.

“Here.” Allie thrusts a shirt in my direction. My shirt. “Go put this on in the bathroom. Then sit back down. Our first lesson starts tonight.”

“Why do you have my spare clothes in your purse?”

“I told you.” She leans forward with a giddy whisper that signals she’s a glass of wine in already. “I teach five-year-olds. I come prepared.”

“I love the enthusiasm, but I’d hate for you to get your hopes up.” I frown, thinking about tonight’s mishap. I’d talked to Miranda-the-Cat-Woman for three months. Three months I’d been talking to a fifty-four-year-old woman claiming she was a twenty-year-old fashion model. My face warms with embarrassment, probably flushing red. “I thought she could be the one.”

“Well, you didn’t talk long enough to get to know her tonight,” she points out. “What offended you about her? The sweatshirt or her age?”

“Neither! I don’t mind dating an older woman. I don’t mind if she’s not a model. What I can’t stand is her lying about both.”

Allie pauses on the verge of a lecture, then sits back in her seat and frowns. “Fine. I can’t argue with that. Did she really say she’d walked in New York Fashion Week?”

I nod solemnly.

“She’s not even five feet tall,” Allie says, mystified. “If she were going to pick a fake career, she could’ve gotten away with anything else. Astrophysics. Hair stylist. But a model?”

I shake my head. “Three months. I wasted a quarter of a year talking to a woman who lied about everything she thinks, everything she does, everything she is.”

To my surprise, Allie gives a light laugh. “Jack, relax. This isn’t the first time someone has stretched the truth about their online dating profile. Think of it as practice.”

“I’ve had plenty of damn practice,” I growl. “I’m sick of practicing.”

Another sympathetic laugh bubbles from Allie, and I’m surprised to find myself smiling at the sound. I’m a surgeon at one of the top hospitals in the country, and the job requires a lot from me: long hours, stressful days, life and death decisions. The only constant in my life, the only person who can make me smile no matter the day I’ve had, is Allie.

Fortunately, she’s my best friend.

Unfortunately, she sees me as her brother, and nothing more. She’s been very clear on this, which is why I’ve shoved any feelings I might have for her into a closet marked with the words The Friend Zone in big fat permanent marker.

Or at least, they had been behind lock and key until tonight when I’d laid eyes on her, and things had shifted into place. Dressed to kill and smiling in the way only Allie Jenkins can smile, I realized I wanted more than friendship with her. Her personality makes everyone else’s seem pale in comparison, and frankly, that sucks. Because she doesn’t want me in that way.

“Earth to Romeo.” Allie startles me by flashing the spare shirt in my face again. “Go put this on, or I’m worried they won’t serve us the bottle of wine. I’m in need of wine, and you’re definitely in need of my wisdom.”

“Allie, you don’t have to do this.” I lean over the table, the familiar scent of her perfume—like roses and sugar—wafting across in a comforting breeze. “Every time a woman sits across the table from me, it ends in a disaster. I’d hate for that to happen to us.”

“Let’s be clear. Every woman you attempt to date turns into a disaster.” She waves a hand at herself. “Which means I’m safe.”

I don’t have a response for this, since it’s the nine hundred and fifty seventh time she’s said something to this effect over the years.

“You’re silent.” She raises an eyebrow as she sips her wine. “I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I? I just meant that we’ve known each other for so long I’m immune to your awkward.”

She sits back, looking quite pretty in a white summery dress, the straps, no bigger than the width of a pencil, showing a tantalizing swatch of summer-tanned skin. I look away before a pile of drool forms on my bottom lip. I’m in desperate need of a girlfriend, let’s put it that way.

“Jack, your last name is Darcy for crying out loud,” Allie says, oblivious to my ogling. “You’re required to have one romantic bone in your body. And no, I’m not talking about that bone.”

I grip the spare button-down shirt tighter in my fist, sitting back in my chair so the scent of her doesn’t overwhelm me. “You severely overestimate me, Miss Jenkins.”

“Argue all you want. You know it’s no use. I always get my way in this relationship.”

The waitress appears holding a bottle of wine, and that’s my cue to retreat. I stand, mutter an apology to the waitress and busboy as the pair mop up the table.

I think I mention something about leaving a nice tip, but I’m distracted by Allie’s hand snaking out and landing around my wrist. A chill runs through me at her touch, and I yank my hand away before it sets the rest of me on fire.

“Bring a notepad to our first lesson,” Allie says, releasing her grip on my hand, frowning at my flinch. “Class is in session.”

“I don’t need a notepad. I have a photographic memory.”

Allie clears her throat. “Rule Number One. Don’t comment on your date’s age before she tells you her name.”

“But—”

“Write it down.” Allie pulls a pen from her magical purse and slides it across the table. “Romance Academy has begun. If you want to experience a date that doesn’t end in a shirt at the dry cleaner, you’ll listen to me.”

“Allie—”

“Change your shirt, drink a glass of wine, and use that pen.” Allie raps her knuckles against the table. “We are going to find you love, Mr. Darcy.”