Stop it! Stop it!
It was just hormones talking—and years of cultural programming. Guys like William Darcy are the prize women are supposed to shoot for. Tall, dark, handsome, rich, and famous. The whole package. The perfect formula. The fuel for hundreds of women’s fantasies.
There would be no harm in fantasizing if she only saw him on the silver screen or if she just had a few posters pinned to her wall. But working with him…seeing him every day… It gave the illusion that he was accessible—and worse, desirable.
I want something different out of a guy, she reminded herself sternly. I want someone who will laugh at my jokes. Someone who can be a shoulder to cry on. Someone who can feel compassion instead of faking it.
What she didn’t need was some self-absorbed, pretty boy. A guy who epitomized everything she hated about Hollywood: the shallowness, the obsession with fame, and the nonstop quest for a good time. Will was particularly guilty of the last sin; look at what had happened in Palm Springs.
Granted, he was taking steps to redeem his image, but he didn’t seem to feel any actual remorse—any more than he regretted causing her concussion.
If only it weren’t so hard to forget those blue eyes.
God, no wonder movie stars got laid so easily. She’d known him William for a week, and even though he had the personality of a rock, she couldn’t stop the fantasies from spinning out in her head.
Every woman in the country wants the guy. What makes me special?
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. At least nothing that Darcy would value. He’d already made that abundantly clear.
Okay, I can do this. I can combat the Darcy effect. Every time I see him, I’ll just keep my eyes averted. That way I won’t stare, and I won’t be so attracted to him. And I won’t inhale, so I can’t smell his unbelievably sexy masculine scent. And I will ignore the way his mellow baritone sends shivers down my spine…
All right, this is getting ridiculous.
No, William Darcy didn’t deserve to be taking up real estate in her head. If he wanted to be self-centered and heartless, that was his prerogative. She just had to focus on being his personal assistant until they replaced her.
She raged all the way to the coffee shop. I could just quit. The thought gave her a momentary sense of relief. But no, her father needed her to do this. She had rent and medical school application fees to pay. She didn’t have time to search for another job and couldn’t afford to be unemployed.
She felt like a caged tiger throwing herself against the bars over and over, knowing there was no hope yet unable to completely abandon the search for an escape.
It’s only six weeks. I can grin and bear it for six weeks, can’t I?
She’d just have to find little reasons for satisfaction when she could. She stalked through the entrance to the coffee shop. She had to be the man’s personal assistant; it was her job.
Of course, she didn’t have to actually be good at it.
Elizabeth had an excellent memory. She could recall exactly what Darcy had asked for. “Decaf, double whip, soy cappuccino, please,” she told the bored girl behind the counter.
She smiled to herself as they whipped up the drink.
Or maybe she should have made it tea.
***
They were in the middle of a multi-day shoot of an extended hospital scene. Jordan arrives, badly injured, at the local hospital. They were filming her arrival, with Jane Bennet lying on a gurney in a scene full of extras who helped to simulate a big-city ER. Neither Darcy nor Charlie were needed at the moment, so they were sitting on the side, watching the action. Occasionally, Perez would call in one of them for a close-up, but most of the time the two men had been shooting the breeze. Darcy took a sip of his coffee.
Ugh.
He nearly spit it out.
Charlie glanced over. “Elizabeth got your coffee order wrong again?”
“I just asked for plain coffee this time. I figured nobody could mess that up.” Over the past week, Elizabeth had been an exemplary personal assistant, probably the best he’d ever had. Detail-oriented and organized, she had managed everything on the set with a cheerful attitude and an almost preternatural ability to anticipate his needs. She was even a good actress—talented enough that he sought out opportunities to run lines with her.
But she never got Darcy’s coffee order right. When he asked for cappuccino, he got an espresso. When he asked for an espresso, he got a latte. When he asked for tea, he got a Frappuccino-like beverage. Darcy would suspect it was deliberate, but Elizabeth was always so very apologetic. She would return his order to the coffee shop any number of times, but the replacement order was never right—even when he wrote it down.
Removing the plastic lid, Darcy stared into his paper cup. It resembled coffee with cream, but… He sniffed it. “I think it has almond milk or cashew butter or something in it. It smells nutty.”
“Nutella?”