Page 36 of All For You

“You’re thinking of the life you’d have, rather than the man you would have. You don’t need to envisage being the lady of a manor house. That’s not what this is about.”

“That’s absolutely what dating him, wanting any kind of future with him, would be about.”

Again, why was I even talking about having a future with Darcy? I barely knew the man, and what I knew of him, I didn’t even like. Typical Emma, sucking me into this fantasy of hers. The woman was relentless when she got the Gucci bit between her teeth. Speaking of Gucci…was that outfit the real deal? Jeez. Was I taking advice from a woman who wore a pink-checkered romper and matching bucket hat to do rigorous farmwork?

“I bet he doesn’t even want to be lord of the manor,” she said. “I mean, who would? Such a heavy responsibility for so many people’s livelihoods. He was born to it, but it doesn’t define him.”

“Actually, I’m fairly certain he would love the role. I can imagine him getting off on bossing staff around and striding haughtily around his enormous house, knowing everyone is paid to tell him he’s right. And if a woman wanted to date him, she would have to want to be lady of the manor.”

I’d done loads of research on this for Regency times and even in contemporary times. And from local women whom I’d met, I knew it was a full-time job, like being a CEO of a company but without the respect, because most people thought it was merely lounging around in riding boots. Now I was thinking about Darcy in riding boots. And those tight riding pants…

But no! That wasn’t the life for me.

“Wanting to be with him is about that,” Emma said. “Him.The person. Gagging to be wrapped in that gorgeous man’s arms. Having a glass of wine together by the pond. Walking in the forest with your dogs. These are the only things you have toconsider. If you’re a good fit romantically, the rest will fall into place.”

I wondered where Emma got these ideas from. If they weren’t being applied to me, objectively, these thoughts were remarkably wise and down-to-earth for her. I could picture all that, ordinary things I loved, walking for hours, my dog—things that had nothing to do with living on a big estate. I wrote those sorts of things into my stories all the time, how what one person was in society, what they owned, and their standing, had nothing to do with who they fell in love with.

I’d never had these feelings with my ex. He’d opted to stay inside in front of the TV, and I’d always had to walk in the forest alone.

“As it turns out, I don’t want any of those things with him. He’s appalling. Please don’t try to push Darcy on me—or worse, try to sell him on me. Promise me you won’t meddle.”

“We’ll see,” she said enigmatically.

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Emma Woodhouse.” I went to demand that she give me her promise, when she was bumped sideways by a bale.

She swiveled around.

“Whoa, Knightley. You bowled me over with that bale,” she said. “Could you possibly throw straighter?”

“If you weren’t looking at yourself in the reflection of your princess nails, you might have seen it coming,” Knightley fired back.

“Bust-ed! You know I have a princess manicure. Have you been listening in on my phone calls again?”

“I don’t have to listen in to your phone calls. That world is a dumpster fire, and you talk all day long about whether you should go sheer pink or nude on the dead cells attached to the ends of your fingers.It’s the same color.”

“Ew. My nails are not dead cells. And it’s a commonly known fact that sheer pink and nude are vastly different.” Emma gave him a hard look. “Why do you insist on ruining everything with your, ‘I’m a vet, and I have a puke name for every body part that’s supposed to be pretty.’ No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”

He scoffed. “You call those immature drips that hang around youboyfriends?”

Yeah, I had to agree. They were drippy.

“No, I don’t call them boyfriends.Theycall themselves admirers. And at least they don’t sit around a campfire of an evening, knitting chunky sweaters from yarn they’ve spun themselves.”

Knightley’s annoyed face revealed that was exactly what he did on an evening. Ha. Emma had his number. In fact, they both took a lot more notice of each other than they admitted to. Certainly, Knightley did love his woolies, but I hadn’t realized he had knitted them.

I sneaked a look at Darcy, whose lips were quirking. He crouched, legs apart, and bent to grab another hay bale, back muscles tightening and forearms flexing. In one motion, he hauled up the unwieldy bale. Straw dust floated in the warm air as he loaded the bale onto his hip. Good to know—he could pull me up onto his hip, no trouble. My pulse stumbled in a way that had nothing to do with the rocking of the truck.

I turned away. Where had that come from?

“You’re right,” Knightley said. “Youradmirerstalk about how high to cuff their chinos to better show off their bare ankles and tasseled loafers. That’sfarmore interesting.”

The disgusted noise from Emma, without her usual swift reply, betrayed that was indeed the topic of conversation for the guys who surrounded her. And I’d heard it. They preened more than she did. And the chat about the hair was endless.

She and Knightley had a friends-to-lovers vibe, if I were writing their story. They knew everything about the other…and were then using it to score points. This would be the moment when he would sweep her off the back of this truck and kiss her until she stopped talking. Consensually, of course. When would he ask her?

Instead, he threw another bale at her, and she landed on her pert bum.

Maybe it wasn’t friends-to-lovers. Maybe it was enemies-to-lovers.