Darcy in Hollywood

He couldn’t help noticing how her eyes flashed; under other circumstances, he would have found it intriguing. “I didn’t know it would do that, did I?” she said.

“I don’t know why not. You were standing right next to the lamppost.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Are you for real?”

Darcy wasn’t sure how to answer that question.

“Most people would rather not rely on a lamppost to save their life.” Gingerly she touched the back of her head and winced.

As she struggled unsteadily to her feet, Darcy helped with a hand under her elbow. She was concealing some nice curves under her oversized t-shirt—not overweight but nicely rounded. Okay, wow. This was an inappropriate time to be having such thoughts.

Once upright, she swayed, and Darcy didn’t dare to let go. “The studio probably has a clinic with a nurse.” Most studios did, but this was his first day on the grounds at Worldwide. “You could go get a band-aid.” Or whatever they did for bumps on the head.

She

held out her hand. Shit, there was blood on her fingers from her head wound. “I’ll probably need to be checked for a concussion.”

Had she hit her head that badly? He held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Eyerolls, he noticed in passing, were much more visible with vivid blue-green eyes. “203. Even if I did suffer from blurred vision, it would hard to miscount fingers a foot from my face.”

Jeez, he was only trying to help. Would it kill her to treat him with a little more respect? “Do you know who I am?”

“You’re the guy who almost hit me with his car.”

Darcy gaped. He could sometimes be anonymous outside California, but it had been a long time since someone didn’t recognize him in L.A.

“Or are you referring to the fact that you’re William Darcy?” she asked with faux innocence.

Darcy stomped on the momentary flare of irritation. “Is the sarcasm really necessary?”

She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Yeah, I think it is. What’s the alternative? That I should be honored to be knocked over by your car? Because I don’t think your identity would have been much comfort to my parents. ‘We don’t have a daughter anymore, but at least she was killed by a celebrity. Maybe he can autograph her coffin.’”

Why did she have to be so difficult? He was already putting up with so much doing an indie film. “That’s not what I meant. You don’t have to put it that way—”

“I almost got hit by a car. I can put it however the fuck I want to!”

Darcy was so over this woman. She wasn’t nearly as pretty as he had initially thought. If only he could leave. But he needed to make sure she wouldn’t talk to the media; another car-related incident would be a disaster for his career. From now on, I only travel by train or boat. Pity about her personality; she had fine eyes.

Darcy helped the woman limp to a nearby bench and gently lowered her to the seat. “Maybe I should call for an ambulance,” he suggested. He would have preferred to discuss having her sign a nondisclosure agreement, but it seemed a little insensitive.

“Let me sit for a minute.” Leaning forward, she cradled her head in her hands, providing a good view of the blood matting the hair on the back of her head. Huh, maybe she wasn’t wrong about the possible concussion.

Darcy settled on the bench beside her despite a desperate desire to cross the street and slip into Building 4, where they were holding the table read. They won’t start without me, he reminded himself. But being late wouldn’t impress them with his professionalism.

He took the opportunity to check her for other injuries. She had a scrape on her right arm and favored her left ankle. Of course, her clothes were disheveled—and a fashion disaster. The sleeve of her t-shirt was ripped where she had fallen.

“I can get you a new t-shirt.”

“Huh?”

He gestured to the rip.

Her mouth hung open. “I don’t give a shit about the t-shirt!”

“I don’t think that kind of language is called for.”

“That kind of language?” she echoed and then squinted at him. “Are you drunk?”