“Would you please stop staring at me as if I’m about to start sobbing like Mrs. Bennett when she finds out Mr. Bingley isn’t going to marry Jane?” I hissed at Quinn as she helped me pour butter over the six bowls of popcorn. I glanced into the living area to make sure no one was paying attention to us.
Not even. Mr. Darcy had just entered the scene in all his Firth goodness.
“I’m not staring. I’m aiming occasional glances. Concerned peeps.” Quinn’s eyes dodged me as soon as I looked at her.
She was staring at me, and had been ever since I’d dished all the dirty deets before lunch in the women’s bathroom. She’d listed off the same dozen explanations I had in my head: that Brooks had an identical twin brother, that he’d been lobotomized, a poltergeist had infiltrated him, he was a secret government spy who had to act cold and callous in order to protect me from the Illuminati . . .
If only it was that easy to explain the sudden one-eighty from my dream man to the devil himself.
“I can’t believe you’re actually going to go through with it though. I mean, that’s three months of your life that could seriously eff up the entire rest of your existence. You know this, right?” Quinn set the pan of melted butter aside once all of the bowls had been adequately drenched.
“He already screwed me. I’m not going to let him fuck me over too.” Remembering what was playing in the background, I crossed myself. “Pardon my French, Mr. Darcy.”
“I can’t believe Conrad would even propose such a sexist, moronic idea. I mean, who does that? It’s like settling a bet in the gladiator ring or something—let’s see who proves their theories on love to secure one of the most prestigious positions at the World Times.” Quinn pulled at her bra strap for the thousandth time that day; poor girl could not get used to an actual bra. “Actually, I still can’t believe you agreed to something so sexist and moronic.”
Grabbing a few bowls, I shuffled toward the cluster of women buttressed around the television. “I can’t believe he agreed to it. The odds are stacked against him, not me. All I have to do is not fall for him over the course of three months and I get the job. I might as well start packing up my cubicle now.”
Quinn sniffed, following me. “This is the very same guy who had you spending the past thirty days staring at your phone, waiting for him to call you. Are you sure it’s going to be such a slam dunk?”
“That was before I discovered he is a Grade-A Asshole.” I huffed. “The only way I could ever fall for that turd is if I got a brain transplant.”
Quinn paused a few feet from the sofa four of our friends were squished together on. “I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I won’t. I’m going to get even,” I said. “By getting the job he has the audacity to think he can just slide into as a freelancer who pretty much owes his rise to Ms. Romance’s column.”
“Trying on a new look? Because humble wasn’t working for you?”
“I’m just saying, he emerged out of nowhere a few months after my column took off. For a while, it felt like every article of his was playing devil’s advocate to whatever article I’d recently published. He’s an unoriginal, opportunist hack.” I handed off the bowls before heading back to the kitchen for the rest. “I am not letting a slimeball like that skate into my dream job.”
I caught Quinn shaking her head at Sybill when she opened her mouth, probably to ask which slimeball was being talked about this time. In this large of a group of single women knocking on thirty’s cryptic door, the list wasn’t short.
The others didn’t know about the arrangement yet. Per Mr. Conrad’s instructions, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone, but Quinn was the person to go to if I had something to get off of my chest. She guarded secrets like a Rottweiler protecting its turf.
“I want you to remember the way you’re feeling right this minute when you two are out on a date and he’s giving you that look while smelling all good and telling you how your eyes remind him of the ocean at sunset.” Quinn nudged me as we grabbed the last of the popcorn. “Deal?”
I’d fallen for his act once—no way in hell was it happening twice. “Deal.”
After handing out the last few bowls, I’d just plopped into the oversized chair with Riley to drown my worries in Pride and Prejudice, when the doorbell rang.
“You expecting anyone else?” Riley asked, glancing around the room as if checking to make sure everyone was accounted for.
“Nope,” I responded, wiggling out of the chair. Most of us were old college friends, but a couple were fellow employees from the World Times. The original group had started out larger, but one by one, Misses had become Mrses and Thursday Night Chick Flick had turned into couple’s yoga or staying in or whatever the happily married people of the world did.
When I checked the peephole, I exhaled.
“Who is it?” Quinn called from the living area.
“A male specimen,” I answered as I debated opening the door.
“What? Really?” It sounded like Annie was half a note away from a shriek. “What are you waiting for? Let him in.”
After unlocking the door, I swung it open. I felt the air stir behind me from the five heads that whipped toward the door.
“Oh. It’s just Martin.” Sybill’s voice was the equivalent of a shrug. “Back to the movie. No offense, Martin!” she shouted a moment later, as an afterthought.
“None taken,” Martin called into the apartment, switching the bag he was holding from one arm to the other. “How’s it going, Hannah?”
I worked up a smile, reminding myself he was the neighbor who never called in a complaint when Thursday nights got out of hand. “I’m fine. Thanks.” Uncomfortable silence. “How are you?”
Martin was a nice guy, but kinda odd. The odd that made one wonder if he led some kind of secret life that could have been as unexpected as being a Dom or more likely was being the president of the Ragdoll Cat association of the North-East.
“I was walking by Sucre on my way home and noticed they’d just put out a fresh batch of croissants. I picked up a dozen since I knew it was Thursday night.” Martin pulled out a light pink box that had Sucre stamped across the top in elegant lettering.
Sucre was one of the more trendy, expensive patisseries in the city, and a dozen croissants from there had probably cost way more than my budget would have allowed without some creative scrimping for the rest of the month.
“Thank you. How thoughtful,” I said as he handed me the box. “We’ll put them to good use.”
Martin smiled as he pushed his glasses farther up on his nose. He was a computer engineer at one of the bigger finance companies in Manhattan, and even though I guessed his salary could have warranted a much larger, more posh apartment on the Eastside, he stayed here with the rest of us paycheck-to-paycheckers.
“Anyway, I just wanted to drop those off. I didn’t want to keep you from . . .” He listened to the dialogue in the background. “Pride and Prejudice.” His brows lifted. “Didn’t you all watch this a few weeks ago?”
“You can never watch Pride and Prejudice too much in a lifetime, Martin. Get with the program.”
I didn’t miss Quinn’s sigh in response to Annie’s proclamation.
“Do you want to join us? The more men exposed to Mr. Darcy’s ways, the better off this world will be,” Annie continued.
“I guarantee that if you model half of his ways, you can woo any woman you want,” Sybill chimed in, not seeming to blink as she gazed at the television screen. “You’re single, right, Martin?”
“Single.” He lifted his left hand as though that were a confirmation. “The very epitome.” Then he shifted his weight. “What about you, Hannah? Still a card-bearing member of the singles club?”
I was about to confirm my membership, albeit grudgingly, when Quinn gave a purposeful clearing of her throat. “Actually . . . I think my card’s in the process of being suspended.”
The skin between Martin’s brows creased. “That sounds ambiguous.”
“More like convoluted.” I started to close the door, but Martin had never been good at taking a hint.
“Doesn’t the guy who dropped off a dozen Sucre croissants at your doorstep get any more details than that?” He pulled at the collar of his shirt.
Soon enough, the world would know the details of my “relationship.” Not that it was pathetic at all that the first one I’d had in four years was of the contrived variety and set up with my arch enemy.
As I was about to bid Martin adieu, the elevator doors down the hall chimed open and a heap of flowers paraded out. Someone was carrying the ginormous arrangement, but they were only visible from the knees down. They must have been going to the brunette siren at the end of the hall. From the revolving door of deliveries she received, it was as though she were dating the entire defensive team for the Giants.
When the flowers stopped beside my door, I was prepared to point down the hall toward apartment twenty-five.
“Miss Arden?” Whoever was holding the arrangement panted. “I’ve got a delivery for you.”
My mouth fell open. “Miss Arden as in Hannah Arden? Apartment nineteen?”
From the living room, I could tell they’d paused the movie and were tiptoeing closer.
“That’s correct, ma’am. Can I carry them inside for you?” When the delivery boy moved inside, Martin got whacked by a few sprigs of greenery. “It’s pretty heavy, so if you just point me where you want it, I’ll get it situated.”
I turned toward the interior of my apartment, experiencing a head-scratching moment. I didn’t have a lot of experience with where in my apartment to place obscene bouquets of flowers.
My friends helped, waving at my small round dining table.
“Right over here will be great,” I said, staying beside the young man to guide him in the right direction. It was a miracle he’d made it up here without running into or over something.
Five female whispering voices were not so quiet. Or discreet. I shot a warning glare back at them as I signed for the flowers.
“Here’s the card to go with them.” The boy pulled a small envelope from his pocket before ambling toward the door, shaking out his arms as he did. “The next time I make a delivery that size though, I’m going to request a dolly.”
“Thanks,” I mumbled, my fingers turning into thumbs as I struggled to pull the card from the envelope.
Since you didn’t want to tell, I took a guess. Every flower you can find in a floral shop is included, so in a way, I picked your favorite. Well, all except for the rose, because even you in all your romance blindness aren’t so cliché to favor a rose the best.
Yours (for the next three months at least)
BN
“Who are they from? What does it say?” Sybill moved closer, going between gaping at the flowers and card in my hand.
When my eyes connected with Quinn’s, I saw she already knew. Her arms were crossed and she was fuming in silence, her eyes moving toward the flowers like she was trying to set them on fire.
Still perched in the doorway, Martin gave a whistle. “I don’t want to imagine the payment plan that guy had to take out to buy those. I once ordered a Mother’s Day bouquet for my mom back in Milwaukee, and it cost me over a hundred bucks and the flowers came out looking like a preschool class had assembled them.” He shot me a smile before starting to close the door. “Doesn’t look like that relationship is so convoluted after all, Hannah.”
Standing there for another minute, blinking at the note while my friends pawed the flowers like they’d been plucked from the Garden of Eden, I warred with dueling emotions. One part of me was touched and moved by, quite frankly, the most elaborate gift I’d ever been given by a man who was not my father. The other part was outraged that he was pulling out shots like this so early in the game. He was in this to win it. He wanted that job; he wanted to prove to the world that love could be molded and formed the way a potter worked a lump of clay on a wheel.
He wanted to beat me.
But I wanted to beat him more. Crumpling the note, I tossed it in the general direction of the garbage can. It landed about five feet short.
“This is war.”