The ride across town wasn’t long, and I enjoyed being up high enough to see things I never got to see in the Jetta. Besides, true to his word, Jeremy was a super-careful driver and never once did anything that made my stomach lurch. It was rare to find someone who, on the first try, understood the mechanics of what makes a car-sick person sick. I’d been trying to explain it to my father my whole life. My mother, on the other hand, who I’d inherited that awful condition from, knew exactly how to drive. Slow and steady, no sudden braking. Jeremy was perfect at it, actually.
When we got to Orsay, we pulled up to the valet. A man dressed in black pants and a white shirt open the door for me and helped me down from my lofty seat. It felt awk. Who was I, the Queen of England? Harrison and I tended to go to places like Chili’s when we went out. Not to mention the valet’s disapproving look had me totally convinced that I was way underdressed, despite the fact that Jeremy had insisted that he’d been fine in his khakis and I’d be fine in my rig out.
Once the valet had sped away in the truck, Jeremy took my elbow and escorted me toward the doors to the restaurant. The Queen of England, indeed. I gave him a tentative smile when he opened the door for me, a gesture I was quickly growing to appreciate.
I stepped inside and scanned the interior. Jeremy had been totally right. There were people wearing shorts and hats in here, but it didn’t keep the place from being any less fancy. Dark wood floors, sleek, nickel-finished light fixtures, white-tiled walls, and weird things like buffalo head skulls on the walls. Totally hipster. I liked it because it was relatively quiet and the mood lighting was perfect. Not that I needed mood lighting for a dinner with Jeremy. I did not. But I’d never liked places that were too bright.
“Mr. Remington, good to see you,” the hostess said as soon as we entered the place. The distressed-wood host stand was nearly as tall as I was, and the hostess was plenty tall enough to clear it. She looked like a freakin’ model. Sleek blonde hair pulled back in a chignon. A tight black sheath dress on, that I saw when she pulled two menus from the top of the stand and came out from around the side to say, “Right this way to your regular table, Mr. Remington.”
I gave Jeremy a funny look. “You have a regular table?” I whispered.
He shrugged and smiled, showing off his perfect teeth. “Did I mention I really love the steak frites here?”
I nudged his arm and a shock like electricity shot through mine. The dude was muscled and, well, just generally hot. Now he was possibly semi-rich and had a regular table at a hip French restaurant, too. I had grossly misjudged him. He was right. I needed to stop judging books by their covers. I was prejudiced. I was Mr. Darcy.
We settled into a side booth nestled into a corner, the flickering, golden light from a candle making it seem romantic. Just a little.
I ordered some red wine and Jeremy ordered a local craft beer. He nodded toward the menu I was holding. “I already know what I want, but let me recommend the steak frites to you.”
I eyed him over the top of the two-foot-long list of food I was studying. For some reason, fancy restaurants loved to put all their menu items on one long, leather-bound page. “They’re that good, are they?”
“The best,” Jeremy replied with a grin.
“Fine. Steak frites it is.” I set the menu aside and lifted my wine glass.
“Perfect.” He set his menu atop mine and clasped his hands together on the tabletop. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Let me hear your best English accent,” I replied.
“What?” He blinked.
“English. Accent. Go.”
“What should I say?” His accent was still purely American.
“I don’t know. How about: the rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain?”
“Ah, still remember your My Fair Lady too, I see.”
“Of course.” I gave him a smug smile and took another sip of wine.
Jeremy cleared his throat and repeated the words. Damned if he didn’t sound pretty Darcy-ish. “Wow. Better than I thought.”
“I’ve been practicing,” he admitted.
“You have?” Why did that surprise me? He clearly took his job seriously and was a hard worker and not a bad actor, I’d discovered. Jeremy Remington had depths to him. Depths I’d brushed off when I’d assumed he was merely a deadbeat. Because...I was Mr. Darcy.
“Yep, plus I played Jack in the high school version of The Importance of Being Earnest when I was a sophomore, and Mrs. Randall insisted we use English accents. This isn’t my first time at the English-accent rodeo.”
“Oh, right, Drama Club in high school.” His sophomore year, I would have been in the eighth grade. “Am I forgetting anything else?” I asked, only half-joking. “Like did we play Cinderella and Prince Charming together and I’m not remembering it?”
He laughed at that. “If that happened, I don’t remember either.” He took a sip of his beer, then wiped his mouth with his napkin. I had a weakness for men who used napkins correctly. His was also correctly placed in his lap. Sigh.
“You were in writing club too, weren’t you?” he asked.
Wow. Yes. I had been in the creative writing club in high school. “You remembered I was in the writing club?” The man had an even better memory than he’d given himself credit for. He’d learned most of a huge set of lines in one day, and remembered that I got car sick, and had been in the creative writing club in high school.
“Yeah, which reminds me.” The candlelight gilded the right side of his features. “You’ve obviously wanted to write for a while now. Tell me again why you think you can’t write a romance novel.”
I stared past Jeremy at the buffalo skull on the nearby wall. Why did I think I couldn’t do it? Lots of reasons. I’d tried to bring it up to Harrison once. Only once. We’d been at a Barnes & Noble, and I’d slyly steered us to the romance section. I’d picked up a book by Lisa Kleypas, one of my favorite authors...who also went to Wellesley. She was the one who’d made me think that maybe, just maybe, I could write one, too. The cover had an obviously historical couple in a state of undress on it. “What do you think?” I’d asked Harrison. “It’s written in our time period.”
“What do I think?” he’d echoed, crossing his arms over his chest and staring down his nose at the book. “I think that’s trash. The real historical section is over there, you know?” He’d pointed to the history books, which of course I also loved, but I couldn’t help but be disappointed at his obvious dismissal. Since then, I kept my historical romance reading habit on the down low. e-Readers made it easy. No one had to see the cover of the book I was reading.
“Because people say they’re trash,” I offered lamely.
Jeremy crossed his arms over his chest and looked down the length of his nose at me. “Do you think they’re trash?”
“Not at all. I think they’re glorious. I’m always happiest when I’m reading one.”
“Then what makes you give a damn what other people say?” he asked as the waiter filled our glasses with more water.
My tenth-grade encounter with Mrs. Neilson flashed through my mind. At least I remembered something. I’d never forget that.