ALLIE

My morning date with Aimee has been somewhat of a success. I don’t know what to do about Jack, but I do know that I’m not interested in dating anyone else. So that’s something.

I climb in my car and head for home after our walk. Maybe I can put all this anxiety and confusion into another blog post. It seemed to work well the first time, and it’s not like I can do much of anything else; I have too many thoughts swirling in my brain to relax, and I’m too much of a grouch to be around company. Writing—alone in my bubble—sounds like the best available option.

I ponder the topic of my next post on the drive home. I could do a follow-up piece about last night since it seems as if people want to hear a resolution to my faulty pro and con list. But what would I say? What could I say? It didn’t sound spectacularly fun to explain that my best friend had hard-core rejected me after I’d laid myself in his bed, literally.

My palms grow a bit sweaty at the thought. Exposing my embarrassment for the world to see isn’t exactly appealing. Reliving my rejection—again—is not what I’d call an excellent start to my day.

On the other hand, the blog is completely anonymous. The comments I’ve read suggest that people like the imperfections, the rawness and honesty. If they liked my mess of a first post, maybe they’d be interested in hearing the imperfect ending?

I arrive home, park, and climb upstairs to my room. Settling into bed, I pop open my computer and scan through a few more comments, finding bits of encouragement and holding them close.

Wheels turning, I plot the outline for the next article in my head. It had been an unlikely ending to the story, even I had to admit. While I’d chosen the pros, Jack Darcy had selected the con list.

Humming with possibilities, I make my way to the shower to rinse off and draft the story. My best thinking is done in the shower, and also, I need to wash the smell of Jack’s shampoo off me. Every time my hair brushes my face, I’m reminded of him, of his bed, of the empty space next to me when I awoke this morning.

The humming continues as I crank the heat to high. I undress, peek once more at my phone, and battle off the disappointment when I see Jack hasn’t texted me. I left his house over an hour ago; if he’d wanted to get ahold of me, he should’ve by now.

Lathering up with shampoo, I wonder if Jack is planning to come over tonight. It’s the first day of school tomorrow, and I told him I’d need to turn in early after our routine dinner. Now, I’m wondering if it’ll be a solo order.

By the time I climb from the shower, I’m a wreck. My shakiness is intensified when, after stepping from the shower, I catch the tail-end of my ringtone. I rush to where I’d tossed it on a pile of towels and pick it up frantically, worrying I’ve missed Jack’s call.

But it’s not Jack who’s calling me.

I’m so startled at the name that I hit Accept before I realize what’s happening, and I scramble to speak into the phone. “Hello, Mrs. Darcy?”

The bathroom is bursting with steam, but I shiver as she greets me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. “Is Jack okay?”

“Jack is fine, I imagine. I’m not calling about Jack.”

“Oh?”

“I’m calling to schedule the orientation.”

“Orientation?”

“You are going to watch the poodles, aren’t you?” she asks crisply. “We discussed this. Beginning the night of my awards ceremony next Saturday and extending through the following weekend.”

“Right.”

“Are you available today? I’m thinking one o’clock would work if you’re available.”

One o’clock is in thirty minutes. “Um, okay,” I agree, stalling, pretending to check my non-existent calendar. “Sure. I can do that.”

I rush to get dressed, not loving the idea of spending the day at Jack Darcy’s childhood house. I’m familiar with it, too familiar, and a part of me wonders if there’s a catch to this whole thing. Could it really be a coincidence that Kathleen Darcy is calling the morning after the disaster date?

Either way, I can use the money. Five grand for a week of dog sitting is nothing. I can fix my car, get a new phone, and splurge on a new pair of shoes since the ones from last night are waterlogged despite my best attempts of blow-drying them in Jack’s bathroom.

I reach the car and am halfway to Jack’s house before I realize my phone is back in my bathroom, snuggled among a pile of towels. I’d been considering texting Jack, breaking the silence, having a good laugh at the idea of poodle watching.

But I’m running late for my one o’clock appointment already, so I plow through a yellow light and race toward the Darcy Estate. Several minutes later, it looms before me, stately and gorgeous. Neither flamboyant nor flashy, the Darcy home is tastefully decorated, offset by powerful columns, ornate fireplaces, and furniture too pristine for use.

I’ve never felt comfortable walking through the gargantuan front doors of this place. As usual, the housekeeper lets me in, and I slide my shoes off as I wait for the woman of the house to appear.

“Good morning, Allie.” Mrs. Darcy rounds the corner, looking crisp in a navy blue pantsuit with pearl jewelry dotting her neck and earlobes. “It’s nice of you to show up.”

I bite back a retort, wondering how I’m possibly late when it’s only 12:58. Not to mention, I’d been mid-shampoo when she called barely twenty minutes before.

“It’s no problem,” I reply, shooting for demure and landing around sarcastic. There’s nothing I can do about that; it’s my natural speaking voice. “Thanks for having me.”

Her eyes flash at my tone. “We’ll get you reacquainted with the poodles next Saturday. Today, I’ll be showing you where I keep all of their supplies.”

“I’ve met your poodles before.”

“Yes, well, I prefer they don’t spend the week feeling anxious. If they meet you today, they’ll know that Betsy won’t be around, and I can’t have that. They’re very sensitive to newcomers.”

Mrs. Darcy sounds annoyed with me, and I’ve barely stepped through her front doors. Usually, I’m aware when I piss people off, but this time I’m just confused. “Wouldn’t it be better if I meet them today so we can ease into it?”

“They’re my poodles,” she snaps. “I know what’s best for them.”

I’m wondering if we’re still talking about poodles, and I raise my hands in surrender. “Sure.”

Mrs. Darcy’s poodles are a relatively recent hobby. Of course, Mrs. Darcy had to jump on board this new trendy fad with the best. The dogs have more paperwork than I do to verify their lineage. They’re the best of the best.

“Follow me.” She stomps forward with more gusto than I’m used to seeing from her. “This is their playroom.”

I stop abruptly, nearly bumping into her. “Wow, this is beautiful.”

“This is where they play,” she says, waving her hand at a gorgeously ornate room. If I remember correctly, it used to be a sitting room. “They’re not allowed to play elsewhere.”

“Don’t dogs just... play wherever they feel like it?”

“Not my dogs. Maybe the average dog, but my poodles are extraordinary.”

“Oh-kay.”

“Are you challenging me? I think I know what’s best for my family.”

“Are we still talking about poodles?”

In a stark change from her aloofness, Mrs. Darcy turns to stare at me. “How was your date last night, Allie?”

“Um, it was okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Did you enjoy Theo’s company?”

“I think Delilah enjoyed it more than I did. I guess I couldn’t compare to her.”

Mrs. Darcy steps closer to me, her eyes narrowed as she gazes at me through slits. “Exactly.”

I take a step back. “I’m sorry, did I do something to offend you?”

She scans me over. “You’re a smart woman. Figure it out.”

I rack my brain for something I said recently, but the only thing I circle back on is the date from last night. “Are you pissed that I didn’t interest Theo enough? That I’m the reason Delilah wasn’t focused on Jack?”

“No, Allie. I’m pissed that you are taking advantage of my son.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Jack is an exceptional boy.”

“Man.”

“My son deserves the best. I have no qualms with you personally, Allie, and actually, I’d quite like you if you hadn’t drawn a target on my son’s back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Jack and I have been friends since before we could talk.”

“Are you telling me you didn’t sabotage Jack’s date with Delilah?”

“Of course not! It makes no difference to me who he dates. He’s my friend.”

“Is that right?” she snarls. “Look me in the eye and say that to me again.”

I pick at the hem of my shirt. Mrs. Darcy is standing so close to me I can’t quite meet her gaze. “Your son is my friend. It’s up to him to choose who he dates.”

“Look at me.”

I struggle to pull my gaze up, and I’m not thrilled with the results when I finally do. There’s a hint of amusement there as she sees the resignation in my eyes. It’s in this moment I realize that she smells a victory.

So, I clear my throat and let her have the win. “It doesn’t matter. Jack is not interested in me.”

To my surprise, she throws her head back and gives a cackling laugh. “Maybe I gave you more credit than I should have.”

“What are you talking about?!”

Her sharp eyes focus on me for a moment, scanning me over. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

“Since you can’t seem to read between the lines, let me be very clear.” Mrs. Darcy’s knuckles clench tighter and tighter until they almost disappear in whiteness. “Jack is in love with you.”

Her words hit me like a sack of bricks straight to the gut. I fall silent, leaning forward against an armchair as I gather my thoughts. “What?”

“If you care for him as a friend, you will leave him alone,” she continues. “Let him come to the awards banquet with someone else.”

“He hasn’t asked me to the awards banquet.”

“Very good. I’ve already informed him of the consequences if he does.”

“Consequences?”

She gives a tight-lipped smile.

“It is us or it is you.”

“You’re wrong. You are so wrong about all of this. Jack wants nothing to do with me.”

The ensuing silence plummets the room to a standstill. Mrs. Darcy watches my every movement, one slender hip perched against the deck as she takes shallow breaths.

“I’m sorry, I should go.” I can’t take this any longer. Not even for the five grand that I could really use to fix my car. “I hope you’re happy with this little Pinocchio thing you’ve got going on. There’s only one problem.”

Mrs. Darcy raises her penciled-in eyebrows in question. “And what’s that?”

“Jack’s not a puppet.”

Mrs. Darcy’s phone rings, cutting her off before she can respond. She flicks her eyes toward it dismissively, then does a double take at the caller ID.

I reach for my own phone on impulse, but it’s still at home, cuddling on the pile of towels. At first, I think nothing of Mrs. Darcy’s phone call, since she’s always talking with foreign business people or researchers far above my pay grade.

Then, she says a word that stops my heart.

“Of course, Jack.” Her eyes raise, smug, to meet mine. “I’ll be right there.”

I want to ask, but the question is stuck in my throat like taffy.

“Jack needs me,” she says. “I’m sorry to cut our orientation short, but I have to leave. The housekeeper will escort you out.”