There’s something very sexy about him, yet I can’t work him out. One minute he seems shy and almost gauche, and the next he has an air of arrogance about him. It’s a lethal combination.
‘Your accent, where is it from?’ he’s asking now. ‘I have been trying to place it, but—’
‘New York,’ I blurt, breaking his gaze and looking away. He’s making me all jittery.
‘New York?’ His expression is one of astonishment. ‘You are from America?’
Just the way he speaks is adorable. He has that lovely deep voice and the sexiest English accent.
Er, hello, now it’s your turn to say something, Emily.
‘Um . . . yeah. I’m here on a literature tour – you know, a week exploring the English countryside, visiting museums, places of interest, like, for example, Bath and Winchester . . .’
Hearing myself blabbering off my itinerary, I cringe inwardly. Oh, God, what am I doing? I sound like a moron. Normally I can be counted on to come out with a witty one-liner, or at least something vaguely amusing, but today I don’t know what’s happened to me.
You like him. That’s what happened to you, Emily.
‘. . . and it’s been really great so far. I’ve met a lot of interesting people.’ I break off and see he’s watching me with apparent fascination. I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend?
I smile shyly and this time he smiles back. It’s a slight, awkward, unsure smile, almost as if smiling isn’t something he does very much, which of course makes it incredibly seductive. Who wants to be smiled at by someone who throws them out willy-nilly? No, this smile feels special. I feel special.
‘Would that include myself?’ he asks quietly.
Flip-flop. There goes my stomach again.
‘Um . . . yeah,’ I manage a wobbly reply. He must have a girlfriend – he’s far too gorgeous to be single.
‘Well, then allow me to return the compliment.’
Oh, go on then – if you must , I feel like quipping. Thankfully I don’t.
There’s a pause and a look passes between us. If he wasn’t way out of my league, I’d think he liked me.
‘Look, I should be going,’ I say reluctantly, my voice coming out all high and tinny. I swallow hard and try to compose myself. Honestly, Emily, what’s come over you? It’s like you’ve got a crush or something.
‘Yes, I too have matters I need to attend to. A letter I promised to write to my sister.’
‘Well, nice to meet you, Mr Darcy ,’ I say pointedly, holding out my hand again to shake his.
He glances at my outstretched hand, then bows his head. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, too, Miss Emily,’ he says, his eyes lingering on me.
OK, so it’s official. I have a crush. A full-blown, adolescent crush.
I stand there for a moment, not wanting to leave as I know I’m never going to see him again, but knowing I’ve got to. After all, I can’t stand here all day just gawping at him, can I? I have to preserve some modicum of cool. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old New Yorker, the manager of a bookstore, a mature adult with a pension plan and the beginnings of faint pencil lines around her eyes. I can’t be going around acting like some giddy, love-struck teenager.
Even if right now I feel like one.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder in what I hope is a sophisticated, yet casual move, I turn and walk confidently across the room. Reaching the door, I tug it open, then glance back. He’s seated at the little writing table, the fading sunlight from the window casting him almost in silhouette. Huh, he must have moved the plastic barrier as it’s not there any more, I muse. Back ramrod straight, he’s dipping his quill in the ink, tapping the nib against the glass neck of the bottle. He’s obviously found some sheaves of paper from somewhere as, with a steady hand, he begins writing his letter. I have to say I’m impressed. You’ve got to hand it to the museum: he’s pretty goddamn realistic. If you didn’t know better, you really would think he’s
‘Your accent, where is it from?’ he’s asking now. ‘I have been trying to place it, but—’
‘New York,’ I blurt, breaking his gaze and looking away. He’s making me all jittery.
‘New York?’ His expression is one of astonishment. ‘You are from America?’
Just the way he speaks is adorable. He has that lovely deep voice and the sexiest English accent.
Er, hello, now it’s your turn to say something, Emily.
‘Um . . . yeah. I’m here on a literature tour – you know, a week exploring the English countryside, visiting museums, places of interest, like, for example, Bath and Winchester . . .’
Hearing myself blabbering off my itinerary, I cringe inwardly. Oh, God, what am I doing? I sound like a moron. Normally I can be counted on to come out with a witty one-liner, or at least something vaguely amusing, but today I don’t know what’s happened to me.
You like him. That’s what happened to you, Emily.
‘. . . and it’s been really great so far. I’ve met a lot of interesting people.’ I break off and see he’s watching me with apparent fascination. I wonder if he’s got a girlfriend?
I smile shyly and this time he smiles back. It’s a slight, awkward, unsure smile, almost as if smiling isn’t something he does very much, which of course makes it incredibly seductive. Who wants to be smiled at by someone who throws them out willy-nilly? No, this smile feels special. I feel special.
‘Would that include myself?’ he asks quietly.
Flip-flop. There goes my stomach again.
‘Um . . . yeah,’ I manage a wobbly reply. He must have a girlfriend – he’s far too gorgeous to be single.
‘Well, then allow me to return the compliment.’
Oh, go on then – if you must , I feel like quipping. Thankfully I don’t.
There’s a pause and a look passes between us. If he wasn’t way out of my league, I’d think he liked me.
‘Look, I should be going,’ I say reluctantly, my voice coming out all high and tinny. I swallow hard and try to compose myself. Honestly, Emily, what’s come over you? It’s like you’ve got a crush or something.
‘Yes, I too have matters I need to attend to. A letter I promised to write to my sister.’
‘Well, nice to meet you, Mr Darcy ,’ I say pointedly, holding out my hand again to shake his.
He glances at my outstretched hand, then bows his head. ‘It was a pleasure to meet you, too, Miss Emily,’ he says, his eyes lingering on me.
OK, so it’s official. I have a crush. A full-blown, adolescent crush.
I stand there for a moment, not wanting to leave as I know I’m never going to see him again, but knowing I’ve got to. After all, I can’t stand here all day just gawping at him, can I? I have to preserve some modicum of cool. I’m a twenty-nine-year-old New Yorker, the manager of a bookstore, a mature adult with a pension plan and the beginnings of faint pencil lines around her eyes. I can’t be going around acting like some giddy, love-struck teenager.
Even if right now I feel like one.
Tossing my hair over my shoulder in what I hope is a sophisticated, yet casual move, I turn and walk confidently across the room. Reaching the door, I tug it open, then glance back. He’s seated at the little writing table, the fading sunlight from the window casting him almost in silhouette. Huh, he must have moved the plastic barrier as it’s not there any more, I muse. Back ramrod straight, he’s dipping his quill in the ink, tapping the nib against the glass neck of the bottle. He’s obviously found some sheaves of paper from somewhere as, with a steady hand, he begins writing his letter. I have to say I’m impressed. You’ve got to hand it to the museum: he’s pretty goddamn realistic. If you didn’t know better, you really would think he’s
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