"And you're clearly smitten." I manage a small smile. "Which is why you should find someone else to help fund your bachelor auction adventure. I've had enough Bardot-related humiliation to last a lifetime."
"You know, most girls would have been flattered by all that attention from the lacrosse captain."
"Attention?" I arch an eyebrow at her. "Is that what we're calling it when someone turns your name into a punchline? 'Dictionary Darcy' wasn't exactly a term of endearment."
Annie winces. "Okay, fair point. But come on. Help me win his much nicer brother? Please?" She bats her eyes dramatically. "Think of it as karmic revenge. At least one Bardot brother will have to take orders from a Mattichogue girl."
Despite myself, I laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm determined." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "Jules and Cathy are already in. Just think about it? The bidding starts at five hundred, so if we all pitch in..."
"I'll think about it," I say, mostly to get her to drop it. "But no promises."
"That's all I ask." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Drama club meeting at three?"
"Wouldn't miss it." I wave her off, watching as she floats down the hallway, no doubt already planning her perfect weekend with the youngest Bardot brother.
When she's gone, I sink into my chair, and the old memories come anyway, in order, the way they always do.
He coined it in seventh grade, the same season I won the regional spelling bee. Dictionary Darcy. My actual name plus an entire personality, assigned to me by a boy with a lacrosse stick and a following. The nickname walked into every classroom ahead of me for years. It survived the move to high school. It sat two rows behind me in Mrs. Peters' English class, where I'd been bumped up a grade and Finn slouched in the back, finding my raised hand hilarious.
And that wasn't even the worst of it. The worst was eighth grade, when Dad left with the woman from the title company and the whole town developed an opinion. Kids can smell blood in the water. The jokes about my father cut deeper than anything anyone ever said about my vocabulary, and they went on fora year, hallway to cafeteria to bus loop. Then one October, freshman year, they simply stopped. All at once, like somebody flipped a breaker. I never found out why. I was too grateful to ask.
What I did instead was learn the lesson that painful year taught me. That people who know the most hurtful thing about you will use it, and the safest version of yourself is the edited one. I got very good at editing. Quiet in the hallways, invisible at dances, fluent only on paper. It took college, a teaching degree, and this classroom to unlearn most of it, and I am proud, genuinely, of the woman who stands at that whiteboard now.
Which is precisely why one surname should not be able to walk into my Thursday and rearrange the furniture.
The man Finn's become since, billionaire adventurer, extreme sports mogul, seems worlds away from the arrogant boy who used to mock my love of reading. But sometimes, hearing about his latest business success or seeing his face in magazines, I still feel like that insecure teenager, trying so hard to make herself invisible.
The worn copy of Gatsby on my desk catches my eye. My students' voices echo in my head, all their observations about reinvention, about crafting the perfect image. About hiding the parts of ourselves we think others won't accept.
I've built a good life here. Found my voice in this classroom, helping students find their way through literature the way books once helped me. Made a home in the town I once couldn't wait to escape. The fact that Finn Bardot's opinion of me still has the power to sting after a decade is, to use the technical term, irritating.
A burst of laughter from the hallway draws my attention. My next class will be filing in soon—twenty-eight freshmen tackling Romeo and Juliet, most of them convinced Shakespeare is a special form of torture designed by English teachers. Not oneof them knows their teacher once memorized comebacks in advance the way other kids memorized locker combinations.
Ancient history. I’ve moved on from Finn Bardot.
I’ve told myself that lie so often I almost believe it.
I gather my teaching materials, pushing thoughts of the Bardots aside. I have classes to teach, drama club to sit in on later, essays to grade. My life is full and meaningful, showing students how beautiful words can be, how powerful—everything I used to keep hidden when being smart made me a target.
But as I write "Themes of Love vs. Hate" on the whiteboard, the lingering unease from Annie's visit refuses to be filed.
Some things are better left in the past. And Finn Bardot is definitely one of them.
CHAPTER 3
FINN
The security gate at Bardot Vista Vineyards glides open before dawn breaks over the North Fork. I downshift my red Ferrari F8 Tributo, remembering too late how the long gravel drive isn't exactly kind to high-performance Italian sports cars. At least the spring morning fog provides some cover. I'd rather not have my entire homecoming announced by the distinctive rumble of a twin-turbo V8.
"Well, look who finally came home." Frank, the security guard who's worked here since I was a kid, steps out of his booth. His weathered face breaks into a grin. "Young Mr. Bardot himself."
The Ferrari's paint job practically glows in the pale morning light. "Just Finn, Frank. You know that."
"Sure, sure." He gives a pointed look at my overnight bag and carry-on taking up the passenger seat. "Here for a while this time?"
The familiar mix of guilt and defiance rises, but I swallow it down. I'm here for Evan. Two weeks max, then back to my real life. "Just until my brother's back on his feet."