Author Note: Hello I am back after a two-year-long hiatus. I refuse to let this story go uncompleted. I have a lot of scenes and random bits written and have a general idea for the story and need to just piece it all together. Once the story is all up, I will go back and make edits. I know there are some name errors and grammar errors that need to be sorted. It is so good to be back to writing and I hope I can publish something at least once a month. I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season.

"Elizabeth, I need you to work at the store tomorrow morning."

"I can't. I'm working my other job tomorrow morning."

I hear a harumph come from my mother's general direction. "Working your other job. Is that what you kids call prostitution these days."

"Momma! How many times do I have to explain that this is a legitimate job that does not involve sexual acts of any kind?"

"There is no way any white man is paying a black woman that much money unless he expects something illicit in return."

My face scrunches up in disgust. My mother is prone to her hysterics, and she loves nothing more than a good conspiracy theory, but this "Elizabeth is a Prostitute" narrative is rather hurtful. Any mention of my job with Mr. Darcy results in my having to defend myself and prove that I am not part of some secret trafficking ring. My mother is convinced that I am being brainwashed and that I will soon turn Janet, Mary, and Lianna into women of the night as well.

Before I can begin my rebuttal, James steps in and declares, "I can work tomorrow morning. This way Lizzy can go off and do whatever she wants."

I turn to my brother and ask, "Are you sure? I'd really appreciate it."

"Yeah no problem," he replies. "But you should know that I agree with Momma. Not about you being a prostitute, but about nothing good coming from a black girl working with a white man especially one with that much money. Watch yourself Lizzy."

Although grateful for the switch, I am taken aback by James's warning. "What have I done to stir up so much distrust from my family? You all know me. I'm not this naïve child. I'm not Lianna."

"We all know you've been trynna save for that class, and sometimes money makes people do some pretty stupid things."

At this point, I'm so fed up and angry that I don't even bother to respond. I decide to take stock of inventory just so I can have an excuse to hide in the back for a little while. Why can't anybody in my family be happy for me? It's like they're all content to see me spend the rest of my life working behind the counter, never going anywhere or reaching anything higher.

"Elizabeth, come out front and mop up the spill. We're not paying you to sit in the back and be lazy."

I swipe at a few rogue tears and grab the mop before I head back out to pass my Thursday in a haze of canned meat and cracked corner smiles that strain the last pieces of my self-respect.

It's a cloudy Tuesday night as James and I sit on the front stoop watching the stars twinkle overhead. After dinner we both find our way outside to get some fresh air and have one of our late-night heart to hearts.

"It feels like forever since we've sat down to talk." James turns to me as I pick at a blade of grass.

"Yeah, I know. This job has been taking up so much of my time and working with my boss is often a test of my patience.

"So tell me about this new job. What exactly are you doing for this white man?"

I roll my eyes. "His name is Mr. Darcy, and he is a legitimate film producer. He owns Pemberley Productions. I've been helping him with his documentary about the town. It's actually a pretty cool topic. He wants to tell the stories of the people on our side of town."

"If he's such a top dog and has so much money, why can't he hire somebody from his studio to help him with his documentary."

"He wanted someone from the area to help him. To make it more authentic." I give James a haughty smile. "And I came highly recommended."

"By who, Mrs. Potts?"

"Amongst other very reputable references." I wave my hands in front of me to shoo away the doubt. "Anyway, the references are unimportant. I've got the job, and I've already been paid for my work so far."

"I still don't trust it."

I let out a deep sigh and choose to protect my sanity. "Well, there's nothing else to be said about the matter, so let's just agree to not bring it up again."

"You can't just change the subject because –"

"So how are the Dosessee boys. I haven't seen them around the shop lately."

James fixes me with a cold hard stare, his eyes narrowing as I hold his gaze. "So how are they?" I repeat.

"Fine. You win."

I break eye contact and turn my head back up towards the sky. We both sit in silence for a while.

"Do you still see yourself here in Healdsburg ten years from now?"

The stair creaks as James shifts his weight to the other side. "I don't know. I haven't given it much thought." He pauses for a moment. "I already know your answer. You've been dying to leave this town for ages."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," I chuckle.

"How is wanting to leave your family and friends not a bad thing?"

I turn to look at him in disbelief. "That's not why I want to leave, and you know it."

"Do I?"

I sit up straight. "What is that supposed to mean?"

His eyes remain fixed out onto the inky darkness. Another pause stretches between us. "It doesn't mean anything." James stands up and stretches. "I'm going to bed. Night, Lizzy."

As I lay in bed later that night looking up at the ceiling, I mull over my conversation with James. He can't really think that I'm running from our family when I say I want to leave Healdsburg? There are no opportunities for me here. The closest thing to a publisher is Jim Barnes and he –

"Oh no! I forgot to hand in my article for this week."

"What Lizzy?" Janet groggily says as she rubs the sleep out of her eyes.

"Sorry Janet. I had a nightmare. Go back to sleep."

"Are you alright?"

"I promise I'm fine. Sorry." I wait for Janet's breathing to even out before I dig out my flashlight and rifle through my article folder. I was so busy with Mr. Darcy that I forgot all about this week's article. Thankfully I already started some answers to this week's Dear Nancy questions which were as asinine as ever. I hurriedly type out a few more lines on my typewriter to complete the answers and fold the pieces of paper into my bag.

Jim Barnes always says that late work is absent work, and that if I miss a column I'd be out of a job. And while answering Dear Nancy questions made me want to tear my hair out, it was at least some writing experience, and I have complete creative control. I have never been late on an assignment and hopefully my clean track record makes up for this one mistake.

As soon as I catch the first rays of sunlight, I hurriedly get dressed and begin my trek to the town center. I enter Jim Barnes' office out of breath and a little disheveled. I pull out my column piece and place it on his desk.

"Why are you handing this to me now?"

I take a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. These past few weeks have been hectic and I haven't had time to come down to drop it off. I had it done earlier but I –"

"I don't care about your excuses. I don't pay you for your excuses. I pay you to do your job and to do it on time." He looks at me sideways, his head turned but his eyes slanted in my direction. "You know my rule. Late work can get published but doesn't get paid."

"You've never said that before! When did this become a rule?"

"Just now," he states with a smile. "I'm the boss, so I can make whatever rules I want whenever I want."

"Okay, thank you. I'll take this as a lesson learned." I turn to leave before a hand grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"Uh-uh. Not so fast. I remember telling you that your job would be on the line if you handed in late work, and you assured me that you would always be on time."

"It was an accident. It won't happen again." I try to shimmy my arm out of his grasp uncomfortable with his proximity.

"I need more than just pretty words this time."

"You took my pay. Isn't that enough?" My muscles tense and the hairs on my arm stand upright. Jim Barnes is a sleaze, but he has never given me reason to think that he would force himself onto me. A few inappropriate comments here and there, but nothing too far outfield. Standing in such a vulnerable position with him, I realize that nobody even knows that I work for him except Janet. He could deny even knowing me and it would be his word against ours. A well-known face in the journalism community versus two unknown girls. Despite my fear, I refuse to break eye contact or back down.

This tactic works because he soon drops my arm and steps away from me. I shake myself off and take a few steps back as well. "I won't be late again."

Not waiting to hear his answer, I immediately walk out the front door into the still sunny streets of the town. I take a few calming breaths trying to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks. I am still shaking as I round the corner into the busy area of the town center. I keep my head down and work on controlling my emotions.

"It's alright Lizzy. You're alright."

"Elizabeth?"

I resist the urge to look up and keep walking away from town. My family rarely visits this part of town and never this early in the morning. Plus, the voice that called out had a posh air that could only belong to…"

"Elizabeth. It's me, Darcy."

I abruptly stop as my path is blocked by a baby blue shirt and gray coat.

"Hi, sorry, I'm in a rush so I can't stop to chat."

"Oh, I can give you a ride where you need to go. I was just going home myself. Have you been crying?"

"No," I hurriedly say as a lone tear rolls down my cheek. I bat the traitorous drop away.

"Elizabeth…"

Mr. Darcy's voice is filled with so much tenderness, I involuntarily look up at him and see the warmth of his voice reflected in his eyes. I let out a shaky breath and whisper a yes.

"Here, my car is right on this street. I'll drive you home."

Darcy leads me to his car and when we are both settled in, he peels away from the curb in the direction of my house.

"So, you are a writer?"

I purse my lips in disbelief. The one time Darcy wants to make conversation happens to be the only time I would prefer complete silence between the two of us. "What makes you think I'm a writer?" I ask tersely.

"Well, you were coming out of Jim Barnes's office, so I assume you write for his… publication."

I smile at Darcy's word choice and coyly reply, "I'm not answering that."

"Your lack of an answer is by default an answer of admission."

I remain silent hoping that he will retreat into silence, and I won't have to admit that I write the advice column for Jim Barnes's trashy publication.

"I'm planning on taking photos this evening. Come with me."

I narrow my eyes disliking his commanding tone. "Why do you want me there? I don't know anything about taking photos."

"Yes, but your company would be nice." Despite his eyes being on the road in front, I have the eerie sensation that he is staring at me.

"I'll pay you for your time."

I agree to accompany him. After all, I have to make up for the money I just lost from Dear Nancy this week.

After a few moments, Darcy breaks the silence again "I would love to read your work."

I whip my head towards him. "Really?"

"Sure. I am sure your work is enthralling if you write stories half as well as you tell them."

A smile threatens to split across my face, but I force my facial features to remain neutral. I don't want to appear too eager especially since Darcy has yet to read any of my work. Or if he has, the only insight he has is my ability to advise middle-aged housewives on how to deal with noisy neighbors and host small gatherings for close acquaintances.

"There are a few pieces I'm currently working on. They still need a ton of editing."

"Bring them with you this evening when we meet."

"Okay." I refuse to let the inkling of hope grow into anything more. This is Darcy we are talking about. The man for which nothing and no one is good enough for.

Darcy drops me off outside of the store with a promise to pick me up at 5pm sharp right before sunset. I thank him for the ride before rounding the corner to walk back home.

"Elizabeth!" A stern voice calls out.

"Yes, Daddy?" I turn to face my dad who has just emerged from the store.

"We missed you at breakfast this morning."

"I had to run an errand."

"And you caught a taxi home?"

"No, Mr. Darcy dropped me off."

My father's eyes narrow slightly, and the corners of his mouth turn downwards. "I thought you said he was just your employer."

"He is," I sigh. "He saw me walking home and offered me a ride. He needed to discuss my next job with me. He's paying me overtime to help him take pictures tonight."

"Pictures? What kind of pictures?" My father's voice is laced with alarm.

"Pictures of the old train tracks for the documentary he's making," I lie. I have no idea what the pictures will be, but I can't tell my overly concerned father that. He probably thinks that "these pictures" will involve me in lingerie seductively posing for a salivating Mr. Darcy.

"Daddy, don't worry." I walk over and give him a kiss on the cheek and a slight hug. He holds me closer.

"How can you expect me not to worry when you don't talk to me anymore? You're keeping secrets from me."

"Only because you think I'm prostituting myself out."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt. Men like Mr. Darcy have the world at their fingertips, and they are used to getting their way all the time."

"I know, I know." I look up at my father and let out a breath. "How about you and I get coffee this Sunday after church and catch up? How does that sound?"

My father breaks out into a full smile and kisses the top of my head. "That sounds perfect."

"It's a date," I smile before jogging back to the house.

I get a jump on this upcoming week's Dear Nancy column. Now that I'm on thin ice I will have to really stay on top of this column. I was hoping to cut ties soon, but after today's fiasco, I will have to stay on at least another two months to get back into Mr. Barnes's good graces and ensure a glowing letter of recommendation.

As promised, Mr. Darcy is outside waiting for me at 5pm. I slide into the open passenger seat and buckle my seatbelt. As he pulls away from the curb, I realize that I have no idea where we are going.

"There's a meadow I drive by sometimes that has an amazing view," he responds after I inquire.

"Oh, I think I know the meadow you're talking about. I go there to write sometimes."

"Oh, interesting."

Unlike our earlier ride, this one is spent mostly in silence which is fine by me. When we get to the meadow, Mr. Darcy begins to set up his camera equipment. I ask him some questions about the set up but for the most part I stay off to the side. He focuses the lens and snaps a shot as the sun begins to dip towards the ground.

"Elizabeth, can you turn to face me?"

"Why?" I ask confused as I whip my face towards him.

The shutter clicking startles me.

"Why did you do that?"

"You looked so angelic, I couldn't help myself," he states matter-of-factly.

I look away from him embarrassed by his proclamation. "Well, I won't look angelic when the picture develops, and you see spit flying out of my mouth and my nose scrunched up unattractively."

"I beg to differ," he simply replies as he fiddles with some settings on his camera.

"Well… I… Promise you won't develop it."

"What if I develop it and show it to you first?" he acquiesces.

One prolonged silence later I reply simply with "Maybe." I turn away from him. "You can't show anybody else unless I approve."

"Why are you so opposed to having your picture taken. You're quite photogenic."

I look up at him with disbelief. "You can't know that. You haven't even developed the photo yet."

He shrugs. "I have a good feeling that you are. But it is hard to say for sure because you only ever look at me with annoyance."

"Because you say and do things that annoy me."

"Not on purpose," he replies. "I'm just being honest. Would you prefer I lie about what I'm feeling and thinking?"

"There's a huge difference between being honest and spewing biting remarks pronounced with an air of unmasked condescension. And you Mr. Darcy have yet to learn the difference between the two."

"I wish you would not call me Mr. Darcy," he sighs in exasperation shifting the conversation.

"Why? That's your name. What else should I call you?" I ask with an eye roll.

"I would like to think that by now I am more than just your boss," he murmurs just loud enough for me to hear.

I stare at him to confused to formulate a proper response.

Before I can further question him, he continues, "You can call me Darcy, that's what most people call me." He pauses for a moment and then locks eyes with mine. "Or you can call me Will if you would like." His gaze doesn't leave mine, and my cheeks start to heat up from the intensity. I quickly glance away and turn back to watch the sun dip lower, embarrassed that his gaze made me speechless.

When the sun disappears below the horizon, Darcy packs up his gear and we head back to his car. He drives me up to Pemberley Studios and gives me a cursory tour. We stop in his office which is comprised of dark wood furniture and low lighting. There are barely any pictures on the wall, but I am struck by a framed photo of him and who I'm assuming are his parents. All three of them are smiling. A smiling Darcy, who could have imagined.

"As promised," I say as I hand him a stack of papers which he gladly takes. I settled on an earlier work. A semi-fictional piece based on the tumult of emotions surrounding an infatuation with a boy in my high school class. It's short enough to be read in one sitting but poignant with a complete arc.

I nervously watch him as his eyes glide over the pages. His eyebrows scrunch up at places and a few times, I catch the beginnings of a grin. Finally, Darcy looks up at me and places the papers on his desk. "Elizabeth, you truly are talented."

"Really?" I squeal leaning over his desk. "Do you really mean that? You're not just saying that to be nice?"

"I never say things to be nice. I am always blunt and to the point. Honestly, based on this work alone, I would be a fool not to offer you a position on my writing staff."

"A writer for Pemberley Productions?"

"Yes."

"But I have no credentials. No formal education. Nothing of substance that's been published."

Darcy shrugs. "You would not need any of that. You will come recommended by me and my opinion is the only one that matters."

"Darcy, do you mean it?" I place a hand on his too excited to think. "Oh, wait… I forgot." I immediately deflate when I remember that I am on thin ice with Jim Barnes. "My plate is already toppling over with everything I have to do. Between juggling shifts at the store, your documentary, and my column with Jim Barnes."

"So you are a columnist? Also there are chairs you know."

"Yes, I write the Dear Nancy column. Tragically embarrassing, I know." I ignore his chairs comment and dangle my legs off his desk enjoying the disruption my presence is causing him. "It isn't particularly stimulating work, but it is mine and I promised to be on time with my articles from now on."

"So you are giving up the opportunity to potentially write for one of the biggest production companies in the nation to write an advice column in a trashy magazine?"

"I guess so," I state defensively. "I want a reference letter. Plus, this is the first writing position I got on my own. I can't just quit to chase a potential opportunity."

Darcy leans back in his chair and looks at me through thoughtfully narrowed eyes. "And that is your only objection to the proposition?"

I shrug. "I guess so. I appreciate the consideration." Pride was definitely clouding my decision-making abilities. I want to kick myself for throwing away an opportunity to work with actual screenwriters in order to continue sucking up to Jim Barnes. But I am still not sure if I can trust Darcy. I still remember the way he looked at my sister and I that night in the club and how he regarded me with such disdain when he first stepped into my family store. Although he has mellowed out drastically since then, I am still the same poor Elizabeth, and he is still the same pompous Darcy. A noncommittal proposition is not going to change that underlying fact.