Marrying Mr. Darcy (Love Manor #2) - Kate O'Keeffe Page 0,2

cook. And Seb wanted it to be special. I’m not sure congealed, cheesy goop would have done the trick for you.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t have cared,” I reply as I take another bite. “Bif iff bobally yubby.”

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to talk with your mouth full?” Sebastian teases. “But you’re right, it is ‘yubby.’”

My phone tells me a new message has arrived, and I swallow my mouthful. “Sorry, one sec. That’ll be a message from Penny,” I say as I pull it out of my purse.

“Of course,’ he replies graciously, because that’s what Sebastian is, totally gracious. With Timothy taking off, I’ve got to work into the evenings sometimes when I’m here in England with him, and he never complains.

I read the screen, and my heart sinks. “Actually, it’s from Jilly.” I flip it over for Sebastian to see.

Sebastian takes my phone from me and knits his eyebrows together. “Why is Jilly sending you something like this?”

“She told me it was best to know what they’re saying out there about me. I kinda agree. And anyway, she’s not just your lawyer. You’ve known her since you were in diapers.”

Jilly Fotherington has taken me under her wing since I began seeing Sebastian, and she’s become a close friend. Without her here, I’m sure I’d feel like a fish out of water—or a Texan in the English countryside. Which fits, because that’s exactly what I am.

“But it says ‘When Emma sings, I be like…’ with a picture of Macaulay Culkin screaming from that Home Alone movie. That’s hardly something you need to know about, in my opinion.”

I shrug. “At least it’s not still carrying on about how they wanted you to marry Phoebe. That got real old, real fast.”

Phoebe was the final contestant on the Dating Mr. Darcy show, and the public’s hopes seemed to lie with her and Sebastian marrying. When she announced she was in fact in love with Johnathan, Sebastian’s bestie, you’d think the world had imploded, so many people were upset by it all.

One headline stood out in my mind from the time Sebastian had told the world that he was head over heels in love with me—and yes, it was the most romantic experience of my life bar none. It was the famous British tabloid, The Sun, and it said succinctly, “Sod Off, Emma! Give Us Phoebe!” Don’t get me wrong, I prefer it when people get straight to the point, but Phoebe had just proposed to Johnathan, so she was never going to end up with Sebastian in the first place.

Sadly, there were many, many more. None of them particularly nice about me and all questioning why such a hot, rich guy like Sebastian would choose someone like me.

Nice, huh?

Not that I’ve ever let it get to me.

Well, not that much.

Okay, it still gets to me. I mean, they say some pretty mean things, and I’m only human after all.

“One of those trashy magazines Zara likes to read had a supposedly exclusive interview with Phoebe, who said she’d made it all up and had been in love with you all along.”

“It’s utter tripe, Emma. Ignore it.”

I slip my phone back into my purse. “You’re right. And tripe is disgusting, by the way. Your granny made me eat it last time I was here.”

“My point exactly.”

Zara arrives at our table once more, her moustache and white chef’s jacket now gone. Instead, she’s dressed in a pair of skinny pants and a sparkly tube top.

“You look hot,” I say to her.

“Thanks. I’m off to the pub.”

“Not too many, okay? You know what happened last time,” Sebastian scolds in his older brotherly way.

She rolls her eyes. “I told you, Seb, we had nothing to do with the fire alarm going off, and the bra the police found the next day hanging from the lamppost wasn’t mine.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely,” she replies, and it’s totally clear to me she set the alarm off and the bra was undoubtedly hers. Zara’s a bit of wild child to say the least. “The firemen made it all worthwhile, though,” she adds as she fans herself.

Sebastian shakes his head at his sister. “Unbelievable.”

“Now, you two love birds. There are some chocolate chip biscuits on the table over there. I’m going to leave you to it.”

“Are they the chocolate chip cookies from that little café in the village?”

“We call them biscuits,” Zara says, “and, yes, they’re from Mia’s.”

My mouth begins to salivate as I think of Mia’s to-die-for baked goods. They’re almost as