Darcy’s expression is shrewd. “That firm was looking forward to bringing you on, too. Then, nothing. No trace of Elizabeth Bennet, aspiring designer.”

“You Googled me?” I say with all the incredulity I can muster. The act itself isn’t an issue, but the direction it’s taken this already knotted conversation is threatening to derail me completely. What is on the firm’s site about me? What does he know?

“Since I’m so goddamn protective, shouldn’t I also consider what you might be trying to get out of my friend? I mean, interior designer is a pretty solid step up from stage kitten.”

And there it is.

I push away from the table so hard my chair scrapes against the floor. People at neighboring tables stare, but I don’t care.

Darcy rises, too. The lights are back on. “Bennet, I’m sorry. I—”

“Fuck you,” I growl, my voice thick. “How dare you judge me?” The hurt fuels the anger already simmering in my core. I shove it back at him. “And you can keep kittening out of your mouth. I love that gig. It means something to me, and you know it.” My voice wavers. I’ve made it clear that discovering burlesque was a turning point for me, and he’s acting like it’s a strike against my character?

“Who in the hell do you think you are?” I stand taller. “What dream do you have, Darcy? To hang out, doing fuck-all with that building you took from Wickham?”

At Wickham’s name, Darcy’s eyes narrow.

“Maybe you have Charles now, but how is he going to feel when he finds out you were so blinded by your goddamn paranoia that you steered him away from someone who loves him?”

A new agony takes root in the center of my chest. “This is where all that trust bullshit comes into play, isn’t it? You think Jane’s acting, so you can’t trust him with Charles. And you think I’m acting, so you can’t trust me. But you”—I point at him with a smile so fake it hurts—“you can’t help wanting me anyway. And it’s gutting you. Is that it?”

Darcy stares at me like I’ve pulled a gun on him.

“Quality commitment to that intimacy you care so much about. Wow.” I consider the mental gymnastics of trying to sort out the Wickham situation, the time I devoted trying to get Darcy to see value in something I care about. And this is the person he is. I’m thinking aloud when I say, “What a waste.”

He flinches. It’s almost too small a gesture to note, but I’m so homed in on him I can’t miss it. “What?” His voice is dark.