12. Lara

Chapter 1 2

Lara

“ I can feel your eyes on me.” Mr Darcy’s deep tone jolts me from my daydreaming.

“I guarantee you can’t, because they weren’t on you.” My eyes flit away briefly before roaming back in his direction, and I find him still enthralled by the classic he has in his hands.

Glancing towards the window at the front of the store, I notice an unfamiliar motorbike outside. It’s sleek, black, and expensive looking, with a surface so clean I can see the store reflecting on the body. I don’t know much about motorbikes, but I’d guess this one would cost more than my yearly salary at home. There’s a thin sheet of rain falling—not unexpected on any given day in London—and I wonder how the poor rider is coping in the cold.

“Are you quite sure?” Mr Darcy continues slowly flicking through the pages.?

My cheeks warm. How is he so alluring yet a huge dick at the same time? I move my head slowly to face the shelves he’s in front of, hopefully giving myself time to pull it together.?

“I’m sure about the fact you’d fit in perfectly as a Kane brother, with your arsehole-ish demeanour and penchant for suits.” I don’t say it loudly, but I don’t exactly whisper it, either. Of course he hears, and the comment gets his attention. He looks up from the book, and our eyes meet across the store. Feeling the not-so-unusual spike in my heart rate that occurs whenever his eyes lock on mine, I avert my gaze, instead dropping it to the floor. For the first time, I clock that his usual dress shoes are missing. In their place are a pair of thick black boots covered in a wet sheen. Well, this is unusual. Obviously, it’s raining outside, which explains the water, but boots??

“A Kane brother? From those dirty billionaire books?” The deep gravel of his voice draws my attention back to his face. And what an annoyingly good-looking face it is.

I suppress a groan before correcting him. “ Dreamland Billionaires books, not dirty.”

Mr Darcy pointedly ignores me and continues as if I’d never said a word.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I seem to recall you mentioning how incredibly attractive those men are?” Mr Darcy questions, slowly turning through the pages of To Kill A Mockingbird . I am stunned—he remembered our conversation?

Deciding not to overthink his memory skills, I settle for a suitably cutting retort. “Of course you’d remember that part rather than pay attention to the arsehole comment.”?

He shuts the book with a thud and turns his body towards the bench I’m standing—hiding—behind.

“I always remember the good parts, love.”

Love.

What the fuck?

I cross my arms and open my mouth to reply with something smart, but find myself snapping it shut. He constantly throws me, and I don’t know how I feel about it. If he continues to call me love with that beautiful London accent of his, we’re going to have some serious problems.

The way the word rolled off his tongue so effortlessly is dangerous, very dangerous. Eyes drifting towards his mouth, my treacherous little mind goes into overdrive. I’ve got a list of approximately 132 other dangerous things his tongue could do. Whoever is pulling the strings in my brain produces something akin to a PowerPoint Presentation for each and every one of those things.

The way he not so innocently swipes his tongue over his lip causes goosebumps to form all over my skin. It’s as if he can hear every thought I’ve had about him, the glint in his eyes teasing me. My thoughts quickly meld into something slightly less PG-rated as I imagine his tongue swiping over my neck in that same teasing way, trailing down my body until he reaches my centre. Would he be gentle, caressing me as he savoured every lick? Or would he be relentless, licking and sucking like a starved man until he wrung every last orgasm from my body?

Mr Darcy smirks at me as his attention returns to the book in his hands. Abruptly, I’m all too aware of my elevated heart rate. The strength with which it thumps against my chest has me worried it’ll thump right through. My body threatens to overheat as my clothes grow tighter and my cheeks burn.

Way to play it cool, Lara .

Taking a beat, I mentally chant my new mantra to myself.?

I am a strong, independent woman. I am not swayed by hot men in suits with British accents and dangerous tongues.

It is a little specific—okay, it’s a lot specific—but I’ll try anything at this point. As usual, he looks far too good in his perfectly tailored suit. The menace in me wants to grab a fistful of his shirt just to see it rumpled. He’s also sporting designer stubble this week, which somehow makes him even more delectable. I’m not much of a beard girl—nor am I a bearded girl, just so we’re clear—but there’s something about the way his face matures with the presence of facial hair. Of course, even without it, he’s still impeccably groomed.?

“Lara, enlighten me.” His voice is closer than before. “Did you hand-pick all of these titles?” I look up to see he’s now browsing the Perhaps Some Spice? display I proudly pulled together last Friday. Riss was positively beaming when I walked through the door yesterday morning, claiming most of the weekend’s customers had purchased from, or commented on, the display. I was happy with how it turned out. But right now, seeing Mr Darcy scrutinise it with narrowed eyes and pursed lips brings me even more joy.

“Certainly did; even categorised them myself.” Grinning proudly, I give myself a mental high-five as I watch Mr Darcy’s face twist with what can only be described as disappointment.

He turns his body in my direction, and I swear time slows down. It’s as if the universe herself has seen the absolute specimen that is Mr Darcy, and has decided he deserves an extra five seconds of movement time. Eyes locked on mine, he runs a hand through his hair. I’ve come to know that’s a move he does right before he’s about to say or do something arrogant.

Right on cue, he promptly flicks his eyes over me. They shoot from my face to my legs and straight back up. If I hadn’t been watching him like a hawk, I’d have missed it.

“Humour me, Lara,” he says, one hand still in his hair, seemingly forgotten. “Is your life so devoid of male interest that any real action has to come from fictional men?”

Ugh! Is he serious? My god, he is beyond intolerable. He’s like a sour patch kid in reverse; when you start to believe perhaps he’s sweet, he sours and says things that offend, embarrass, or outright call you out. Looking into those dangerously green eyes, my thighs clench for the briefest of moments.

Oh, come on. We are not affected by him, stop that clenching this instant.

Regaining composure and remembering the pretty man behind the involuntary thigh movement offended me, I scoff.

“You are insufferable. Has anyone ever told you that?” He’s also completely correct, but I’ll take my last breath before I admit that to him. “This feels a little pot meets kettle, don’t you think, Darcy?”

Collecting up a pile of books, I round the counter and make my way to the crime fiction section. He’s on my heels, his presence warming me. Rather than give him what he wants, which is clearly my attention, I begin rehoming the books in my arms as I speak. “The same could be said for you; having to find love within the pages of decades-old works by authors long gone.”

It occurs to me in this moment that the nickname I bestowed upon him several months ago has no effect on him. You’d think if a perfect stranger gave you an odd nickname and accidentally said it out loud, you’d tell them your real name, right? Wrong. Mr Darcy has never once even mentioned having a real name.

I don’t even want to think about the ego boost he would get if I asked. As well as the fact it would make it seem as though I think about him or am interested in knowing anything about him, which I certainly am not.

I’d never be caught dead daydreaming about how smooth a seat his face would be when he’s freshly shaven. Nor do I spend any amount of time considering what sort of dirty things would come out of such a clean-looking man’s mouth. And I most definitely do not think of all of these things happening in the back office where every second would be filled with the thrill of someone walking into the store.

“I truly don’t understand what you see in these books, Lara.” I hold in a grin, watching Mr Darcy hesitantly pick up one of the books on display with a finger and thumb as if it might bite him if he touches too much of it.?

“What’s not to see? They have plot, they have humour, they have romance. They certainly have more to offer than your precious classics.”?

Mr Darcy, still holding the book like it’s diseased, looks over at me. The way his eyes roam slowly over me causes a tingling sensation to spread throughout my body. Not daring to think he likes what he sees, I keep a straight face trained on him. He flashes me a megawatt smile before returning the book to the display.?

“Jealousy looks good on you, Lara.”

“Jealous?” I scoff. “What are you going on about now?”

“Not everyone can appreciate real talent when it comes to story writing. People like you are essential—your simple taste keeps the classics as just that; classics.”

I smile at him as sarcastically as I can. “Well, that’s certainly one way to look at it.”

I’ve never encountered a man this gorgeous with such flawed opinions on books and such arsehole-ish tendencies.?But there’s something about him that piques my interest. It leaves me with the desire to know more about him, about the person behind the handsome face. Is the cocky-confident thing a front? A coping mechanism? There’s always the chance it’s just who he is as a person, but the way he looks at me—like he can see right through me—says otherwise.

As if reading my thoughts, Mr Darcy speaks. “That’s the glorious thing about opinions, isn’t it? They’re unique.”?

I roll my eyes at his words. “I’m aware, but thank you for the reminder.”

The smirk lifting the corner of his mouth definitely shouldn’t have the effect on me that it does. Warmth spreads through my body; it starts in my cheeks and continues, unbidden, right down to my core.?

As I watch him return the copy of To Kill A Mockingbird to the shelf on his right, I pray Mr Darcy didn’t see the evidence of my body’s betrayal seeping into my cheeks.