“Marley.” Darcy’s voice is bright. He straightens from his perch on the table, and I hop down beside him. “I’m assuming you’ve met?” He places his hand on the small of my largely exposed back. His fingers tense against me, sending a current of pleasure up and down my spine. He leans to look at the point of contact. I hold my breath. Bless you, Ming, and your many strands of sequins.

Across from us, Marley grins. “Sorry to interrupt, but I need to steal Will. I didn’t realize you were still around,” she tells him. “The caterers are looking for extra burners.”

Darcy grimaces and hisses a low, “Shit,” between his teeth, which my heart rate finds particularly appealing. “I don’t think they ended up getting ordered.” His hand leaves me, and I force down the whine of disappointment that rises in my throat. “Let’s—” He gestures to the door, then turns to me. “Sorry, Bennet. I’ll need to figure this out and then—” He checks his watch. “I was supposed to leave half an hour ago.”

“Oh?” The part about leaving sounded like an apology.

“Feel free to stay up here if you’d like.” His gaze scorches over me again. “Will you be around midweek?”

“You know where to find me.” My response is breathless. I remember we’re not alone and turn to Marley. “Thanks again for everything. Good luck with the burners.”

She smiles broadly, eyes darting to Darcy and back to me. “Anytime.”

The two depart. I stay at the window, turning over the evening’s unexpected . . . everything. Darcy owns this property. Darcy, who is, in fact, a fully realized human capable of remorse and introspection. Who makes a damn compelling flirt and is in search of inspiration for this beautiful space. My attention drifts to the rowing photo: the enticing cut of Darcy’s muscles, the intensity in his expression, and that lower lip I’m finding ever more inviting.

A little shiver passes through me. Goodness. Any more inspiration on that front, and I may have a whole other infatuation to satisfy.

CHAPTER

12

I’m in the break room Monday morning, rinsing an espresso cup, when Toby steps in. Beside him, Wickham leans against the door frame. I arch a brow.

Honestly, I pretty well forgot about him until now. Yesterday passed in a flurry of design schemes, peppered with bouts of totally reasonable and not at all creepy Googling of Mr. William Darcy: Berkeley graduate, crew team captain, philanthropist, and curator of a number of excellent Spotify playlists now in my rotation.

“Liz, hey!” Toby’s greeting is buoyed with relief and a hint of embarrassment. “Could you make us a couple lattes, please?”

“Can do,” I say; he’s never going to learn how to use the damn machine. Toby thanks me and continues down the hallway. Wickham turns to follow.