Chapter Two
Darcy
I hate clubs.
Don’t get me wrong, I liked socializing, but I’d rather do it in a small group, in a quiet setting like a dinner party. Large crowds were draining. When I got home, I’d be exhausted like I’d run a marathon.
Two hours after I left Sterling—er, Ian—I sat in Vagabond with my three best friends, Kate, Poppy, and Iris. We were drinking champagne and toasting each other.
Vagabond had a stage in the center of the room which often featured local up and coming acts, as well as, famous ones touring in the city. The club had an upmarket wine and piano bar kind of crowd, wealthy Manhattanites in their thirties with money to burn.
Although it wasn’t much of a party, all of us were on edge. Kate had discolored crescent marks beneath her big brown eyes. She ran a hand through her dark, curly brown hair and then wrapped her arms around herself as though she were cold. Something bothered her, but we weren’t close, so I didn’t mention it.
Iris was still in the throes of a painful breakup and didn’t say much. Iris was the only non-native New Yorker amongst us. She’d come to Manhattan from Mississippi, and it must’ve been a culture shock. Iris sat there listless and wounded. Under normal circumstances, Iris had a bright and bubbly demeanor, with a slow Southern drawl boys found mesmerizing. If they hadn’t fallen for her dark auburn hair and big green eyes already.
Poppy, a petite strawberry blonde, wore a little black dress. She always looked amazing, probably because her family made the papers. But she only had eyes for Sebastian tonight.
I didn’t blame her. There was something wicked about the way he prowled around the stage like we’d all come here to worship him. Sebastian looked every inch the bad boy with his coal-black hair, roguish brown eyes, and a perpetual smirk.
I understood the attraction, but hey, he was her stepfather, a little too Flowers in the Attic for my taste. If you haven’t read the book, it’s worth a go, but spoiler alert, sibling incest.
Kate tapped a spoon on her champagne glass. “Ladies, we owe it to ourselves to do something exciting, the last gasp before we have to get serious about this adulting thing.”
We all stared at her.
I grimaced. “How is that any different from what you always do?”
“It’ll make a great story someday. Something to think about when you’re old and wrinkly. Have I ever steered you wrong?” Kate asked.
“Yes. What about the time you convinced us to short-sheet the RA’s bed?” Iris offered.
“We were her bitches for the rest of the year.” Poppy crossed her arms over her chest. “We wound up doing her laundry and cleaning her room until May.”
“Yes, but when you look back on it, it’ll be a cool college memory,” Kate said. “Come on, live a little. Do something crazy. Poppy and Darcy both have a forbidden romance they haven’t been pursuing.” She drunkenly slapped a hand on the tiny black lacquer table we huddled around. “I say they should go for it.”
Poppy sank down further into her chair. “I don’t know what you’re babbling about. He’s my stepfather, and that’s it.”
“Me either.” I scowled. “Dr. Sterling and I are strictly professional.” I wasn’t sure whom I tried to convince, myself or them.
“Oh please.” Kate rolled her eyes. “You two should bone the older men, and Iris should get revenge on Will because he’s a total dick. Come on, it’ll be perfect. What do you say?”
Admittedly, the last one I agreed with, but the rest was crazy talk.
Remember how I said Kate was a wild child? Well, I’m revising my opinion, make that certifiable. She’d lost her damn mind this time. I didn’t know what she was up to, but I wanted no part of it. She had a knack for getting me into trouble.
Ultimately, none of us agreed to her evil plan. Oddly enough, Kate didn’t have a plan for what her “last gasp” would be yet. I bet she already had something wicked in mind. It was Kate’s default setting.
After the stage show ended, Poppy headed over to Sebastian’s office to talk/flirt with him. Kate became absorbed in her phone.
“I’ve had about all the fun I can stand. You ready to head out?” Iris asked me.
“God, yes.”
I came, I saw, and I ate some cake. Time to get out of here. I had an 8 a.m. class tomorrow morning, and an inappropriate infatuation to ignore.
My plate was full.
***
Ian
What the bleeding hell am I doing?
I shouldn’t have had tea with Darcy tonight. After we’d had lunch once, I promised myself I’d put some distance between us.
I got an email from the chair of the English department, Walter Quinn, the other day. He wanted to arrange a meeting, discuss the possibility of tenure. As it stood now, the university offered me a new contract every academic year. If I made tenure, I’d have a guaranteed position through retirement, assuming they didn’t find a justifiable reason to fire me.
Like, say, sleeping with a student.
A stable, safe career was within my grasp, and I couldn’t afford to blow it. But I can’t stop mooning over Darcy, craving the sight of her.
At two in the morning, I couldn’t sleep. I’d had insomnia for years, but tonight, the source of my sleeplessness was shameful.
As I lingered in front of a blank canvas, an unwavering image of Darcy filled my mind. It could never work between us, so I needed to paint her badly. I wanted a small piece of her with me always.
I could immortalize her features on something I could touch, hold. Make her mine the only way I knew how. She had such a cool, untouchable exterior. I wanted to thaw her out, then set her aflame.
The fantasy was too intense to ignore. I imagined having her sit for me. After I finished capturing her likeness, I’d take her to bed. No, I’d make love to her first, then sketch her features while she slept.
Or I could use her body as my medium instead. Before I retired my brushes, I’d toyed with body painting. Using a living, breathing canvas was an added challenge I couldn’t resist. I imagined gliding the brush down the sleek line of Darcy’s neck, over the sharp crease of her collarbone, before tracing the slope of her breasts.
Yes, that was it.
But it couldn’t happen.
I wouldn’t paint Darcy, touch her, and then, God help me, take her. There were too many obstacles. Next year, I’d be her supervisor and her professor. When she applied for a graduate assistant job, I’d snatched Darcy up before one of my colleagues had a chance. Those dueling relationships would doom any romance. If the administration found out, I’d receive a formal reprimand at the very least, which could kill my teaching career.
If only I weren't so tempted.
Speaking of insanity, I mucked about with a woman a decade younger than me. And here I thought I’d left my wild days behind me in merry old England.
But I couldn’t help myself. Darcy was one of a kind. My interest grew into obsession a long time ago. She called to me on so many levels. We were intellectually well-matched. She had a creative bent, too. Not to mention, she was shy, reserved, and a bloody siren to boot. Darcy was a complicated young woman with so many layers. And I wanted to pull them back, revealing her true nature, bit by bit.
Now and again, I imagined her sprawled on my bed, her dark hair a cloud upon my pillow, eyes bright, arms and legs akimbo. I knew instinctively she’d never experienced real passion.
How I wanted to be the one who taught her.
I shouldn’t be involved with Darcy either, yet another road to lunacy, but I couldn’t help myself.
I’d fancied her for ages, right from the jump, actually. Four years ago, she took my English 101 class. I noticed her straight away—gleaming smile, so earnest and smart. In fact, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I’d been fortunate enough to have her in at least one of my classes every semester.
And, oh, I looked forward to seeing her. I’d even invented excuses to see her alone during my office hours. Right now, I rode the very edge of propriety but hadn’t stepped a toe over the line. Yet. But I teetered on the brink of disgrace, longing for the fall, and I couldn’t pull myself out of it.
The university encouraged socializing between professors and students. Though the sexual harassment policy was clear when it came to romantic relationships.
And I wanted so much more than her friendship.
Too bad I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
***
Darcy
“So, Kate’s lost it.”
Iris and I walked home together, safety in numbers. It was a chilly February evening, and I wrapped my coat tight around myself. Somehow the wind blew right through me anyway. We should’ve taken a cab, but we’d almost made it home, so I trudged along, careful to avoid slick patches of ice.
“Yup.” Iris stared straight ahead. Somehow, I got the impression she’d barely registered my comment, too lost in her own thoughts.
“Are you okay?”
“I'm all right.” She glanced my way and flashed a fake smile.
“No, you aren’t. Come on, Iris, talk to me.” From what I could tell, she was barely holding it together.
“You’re going to think I’m pathetic if I say something.”
“I won’t.”
She hesitated a moment.
“Seriously.”
She sighed. “Even after everything he did, I miss Will. Or maybe I miss the idea of him, who I’d imagined him to be.”
“I understand. He was your first love, and you fell for him hard.”
At least, I thought I understood, in the academic sense. I’d written about love before but never experienced it for myself. After witnessing Poppy’s cautionary tale, I didn’t want to dive into love anytime soon. My crush was a harmless fantasy, a fun distraction from the reality of romance.
I’d never had a good relationship role model, either. My parents’ marriage seemed hollow. My mom handled the business aspects of his writing. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw them being affectionate with one another. They discussed finances, to-do lists, tours, and nothing real. While my sister had a glossy, over-the-top, picture-perfect marriage, which made me queasy.
“But what if I never feel this way about anyone else?”
“You will.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I reject the concept of a soul mate, one perfect person for each of us. I think there’s any number of individuals who could make you happy. Will is one of dozens or maybe even hundreds. You’ll fall for someone else. I’m sure of it.”
I prided myself on being pragmatic when it came to my own love life. Real-life romances could be messy and painful.
She shook her head. “Because you’re Ms. Liberated? Notice I didn’t use Miss because you don’t let any relationship with a man define you.”
Not true. My dad defined me in profound ways.
“I’m a bit feminist.” I shrugged. “So what?”
“Not all of us are so modern. I grew up in the land of magnolias and sweet tea. I’m a firm believer in happily ever after, at least, I was.” Her shoulders drooped.
“You make Mississippi sound like another country.”
“Trust me, honey, it is. Sometimes I wanna be back home, where it’s warm, and people are polite.”
Every so often, Iris had a “damn Yankee rant.” About how we were in such a hurry, and we were so rude, and nobody knew anyone’s name.
“Sounds nice.”
“Yeah, but I’m here in the Big Apple to make my dreams come true.”
“Heard back about Paris yet?”
She’d been looking forward to studying at the famous Cordon Bleu culinary school. Iris had been saving up money for years.
“My application was accepted, and I’m ready to go for this summer.”
“Congratulations! Why didn’t you tell us?” I nudged her.
“You know why.”
“Ugh, I hate Will.” He’d stolen her joy. “I hope you meet hordes of handsome French men and they wine and dine you all summer.”
“Ugh, if I have to go on a hundred first dates, I’ll lose it. Right now, I’d settle for just one good one.”
I chuckled. “Right there with you. I’d love to have the kind of date I write about, wine and candlelight, a bit of magic.”
In prep school, I’d been obsessed with my studies, and let’s face it, I’d been in need of a makeover. My hair had been long and scraggly. And I had braces with a wicked overbite, clunky glasses. Not to mention, I’d been thin as a rail. I’d only been on three first dates in college, which had been humiliating in one way or the other.
So time for a big confession: I’m the world’s oldest virgin. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but how many twenty-one-year-olds haven’t, er, had their V-cards stamped? Next to none, right?
“Lord Almighty. You’re a closet romantic?” Her mouth gaped.
“In the literary sense, yes. Why do you think I write what I do?”
“Well, you learn somethin’ every day.”
She looped her arm through mine, and we hurried along.
“Iris?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you really okay?” I asked. She was a shadow of her former self, quiet, tearful, like Will had sucked all the joy out of her life.
“No, I’m not, but I will be. Hopefully soon. Don’t you worry none, Darcy. I’ll be right as rain soon enough.” Her grin was a tad more believable this time.
Iris used her Southern accent to charm people, and I had to admit, it was endearing. I just hoped she told me the truth.
“Good.”
And then Kate’s plan popped into my head. Somehow, it didn’t sound so terrible at the moment. What if I could lose my virginity? Say, to a handsome, older, experienced man? Maybe there’d be a bit of candlelight, too?
Woah. Where did that come from? Clearly, I’d had too much to drink, and I couldn’t think straight.
Ian—er, Dr. Sterling—was not an option.
Ever.