At this point, you probably don’t need me to tell you that the Bennet Mansion is nice. I mean, it’s a fucking mansion. It’s big, it’s opulent, it has a shit-ton of rooms and a lot of it is retrofitted with cool, interesting and modern touches.
It’s also from a time when people with money didn’t like to cook, so the kitchen’s a bit lacking. Darcy’s ultramodern, lavish, futuristic spaceship of a kitchen is like the polar opposite.
Speaking of people with money cooking, that smell coming from Darcy’s stovetop is about to drive me mad with the ravenous desire to eat some goddamn food.
What is that smell? Well, actually, I should give it the proper respect and call it an aroma. But what in the shitting fuck cunt is that aroma?
I’m mystified. I know he’s using extra virgin olive oil from a giant tin, and lovingly crushed cloves of garlic, and some sort of fancy dried Italian mushrooms that he had to soak in water and whatever those diced onion things are that he’s tossing into the skillet now.
“What kind of onions are those?”
Darcy can be hard to read sometimes, but when he laughs, there is no doubt that he means it. This time, he lets out a booming laugh and it feels like an enchanting little earthquake.
“These are shallots.”
Darcy’s back is to me, and I’m watching his broad shoulders work from across the kitchen island. My current view of Darcy is framed by upmarket cooking gear hanging from storage hooks: saucepans, skillets, stockpots, woks, griddles, spatulas, whisks, tongs, strainers—did he really handpick all of these things himself?
So, yes, this is a far cry from the mansion kitchen, which has no windows and has a sad little gas range. In Darcy’s kitchen there’s an enormous French-door refrigerator built into the wall. Covered in the same wood paneling as the wall, it looks like a closet from the outside. Above the range where Darcy’s cooking, there’s an LCD screen displaying the current temperature and humidity of the refrigerator, freezer, walk-in freezer, wine cellar, wine cooler and pantry.
“What’s so funny about shallots?”
I’m still watching Darcy’s shoulders, moving just the right amount as he sautés. I follow the shape of his bespoke shirt from the wonderful span of his shoulders, tapering down at the perfect angle on both sides.
Hints of his Adonis-toned muscles peek through the pricy silk in different spots as he moves. Mythological beauty. For real.
Then in a flash, Darcy’s facing me directly. He must be trained in dance or something.
“There is nothing funny about shallots. Nothing.” There’s a twinkle in Darcy’s eyes that’s new to me. It’s like he’s holding in a laugh.
I feel like I’m about to faint for the first time ever, or maybe just melt into a puddle on the kitchen tiles. Whatever happens, I cannot laugh myself, and I better have a good comeback as well.
“You’re a shallot.” Nice one, Lizzie. Omg, babe, are you rolling your eyes as hard as I am that I just said that? But wait, the twinkle is still there, and now those electrifying, effervescent eyes are locked right onto mine.
“Have you ever known me to be anything but deathly serious?” Darcy’s eyes stay fixed on mine, and it’s a staring contest—whoever breaks first loses. He’s sure as shit not going to laugh, so I stay deadpan.
“Doesn’t mean there’s nothing funny about you, just because you think you’re serious. You don’t get to choose what I laugh at.”
Darcy points his index finger right at me. He doesn’t say a word, just points and shakes that finger a couple times. The look on his face is outright hilarious: furrowed brow, just a whiff of a scowl. It’s a parody of a Very Serious Fellow.
He keeps that stare just a split-second too long and goddammit, Lizzie, don’t laugh, just do not laugh. I literally bite my freaking tongue and blink hard. There we go, I don’t even start to smile.
Darcy gets back to cooking. As much as I want to stare at his back for a while more, I start making my way towards him around the left side of the island. I step slowly, dragging each foot across the stone tile floor. I’m wearing a bored, over-the-top frown. Darcy’s gaze is focused on the pan, but he can see me.
He’s doing a really good job pretending to ignore me, though. Now I’m tottering straight to Darcy. I don’t know what’ll happen when I reach him, but he has to react soon.
“Ah, almost time.” Darcy is talking to himself like I’m not even there. He leans over to the small wine fridge next to the range, opens the door and pulls out an old-looking bottle—it has a yellowing white label. Darcy pivots towards me on his feet and holds the bottle out like I’m supposed to take it.
“So, you’re a lush! I knew it. Don’t try to drag me in to your sordid, drunk, rich guy world.”
“Dream on, Lizzie. You can’t figure me out for a second. I just need you to open this so I can start the reduction.”
“A reduction of what, your sobriety?”
I take the cold wine bottle from Darcy’s hands. I look at the label, it’s a Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand. I don’t recognize the brand.
“I’ll explain this once, Lizzie. That pan, where the wine is headed, is really hot. It’s so hot that the alcohol evaporates. I’ll tell you this now so you’re not disappointed: you won’t get drunk from this meal. Nobody’s getting drunk tonight. Unless you want to.”
Do I want to? I feel plenty intoxicated just talking in the kitchen, but I keep that little thought to myself.