He’s right on both counts. Pemberley’s exterior is lovely, a brick façade with a giant chrome sunburst over its broad double doors, but the interior is like nothing I’ve ever seen. An indoor lake takes up half of the venue’s main floor, with seating on little islands connected via a walkway. Seeing Pemberley in person a few weeks ago, I about swooned. I handed over the deposit check without a second thought. While it meant I had to figure out how to incorporate the venue’s stage into the flow of the room, there was no way we were going to have that party anywhere but that Hell’s Kitchen gem.

I put my hands behind my head, rocking in my desk chair. “Anything else you’d like to compliment me on? I’m terribly important and busy.”

Toby laughs. “You’re a lifesaver, Liz.”

“It’s what I do.”

Toby hangs up, cutting off his chuckle, and I open the email I received from Andrea earlier. Pemberley’s owner had inquired after liability insurance for aerialists, and I asked Andrea about how Meryton handled that coverage. She initially held out on the grounds that I’d poached her talent, but she relented at my promise to leave Meryton flyers at the door.

I scan the message, ignoring Andrea’s “subtle” inquiry after Jane and Charles.

With the (massive) exception of Andrea’s honeypotting allusions, thinking about Jane and Charles makes me smile. Jane’s been on cloud nine since last weekend. Granted, it’s Jane, so his cloud nine looks like a cloud eleven, but the man’s effervescence warms my heart. He and Charles have seen one another every day, meeting up after Jane’s voice lessons and attending his gigs together. Charles even went to last night’s rehearsal in Bushwick, which had me assigning major brownie points. The guy’s staying in the Meatpacking District; Bushwick’s a hike.

That hour-long trek made it all the more surprising to learn that Darcy was also in attendance. But then, according to Jane, Charles has yet to make an appearance either unescorted by the handsome grump or without some mention of said grump’s recent departure. I’ve decided to chalk the near omnipresence up to an unhealthy level of attachment on Darcy’s part or evidence that Charles’s friendship is an act of charity.

I shift in my chair, pretending it’s not a squirm. Dillhole or not, that look from Saturday has initiated a number of fantasies this week. Not that I’d admit it aloud, but lordy. In my mind, Darcy and I have corrupted as many surfaces in Meryton as there are spaces to get horizontal—or vertical, with reasonable support. He’s always very apologetic about the “tempting” comment; the Darcy in my head is an excellent groveler.