Free The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet by Bernie Su, Kate Rorick Page B

tried to rein Lydia in by taking the car away from her.
    All it really means is that now Jane, Mom, or I chauffeur Lydia everywhere, but hey—Mom made an effort!
    “You all think I’m still a little kid.” Lydia shook her head. “Well, I’m not. And you and I are going to go out and try to catch some man-meat at Carter’s
during Swim Week. You’ll see.”
    “Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that.”
    I can tell you one thing. Between my workload and my post-traumatic stress from last time, the one place I most definitely will NOT be going is Carter’s.

T UESDAY , J UNE 5 TH
    We went to Carter’s.
    In my defense, it was really the best option. Lydia was going to go, anyway—her car privileges got miraculously reinstated when she mentioned Swim Week to Mom, who wouldn’t mind an
athletic aquatic son-in-law—and at least this way, I could keep an eye on her.
    And it turned out to be not too bad. Heck, it might even have proved . . . interesting.
    As you will note, we even got home at a reasonable hour (11 p.m.! No chance of turning into a pumpkin!). The usual coterie of beer-slogging swim jocks were of course in attendance—and
Lydia was in heaven. And to give her credit, she was nowhere near as crazy as last time and stayed far away from the Whac-A-Mole machine.
    But wading through their drunken bro-ness might actually have been worth it, because—dare I say it?—there was possibly a diamond amidst the rough.
    We had been at the bar for about half an hour (Carter the bartender had already spotted me, and we had a wordless conversation along the lines of “
You gonna keep an eye on your sister?
Okay. You have my permission to be here.
”) when the guy who had wedged his way by me to the bar knocked my arm and caused me to spill my drink all over the bar stool I was just about to
occupy.
    “Whoa, hey!” came this voice from my other side. “Dude. Not cool.”
    But my assailant had disappeared into the crowd. I turned to find myself staring up at this . . .
perfect
chin. Chiseled. A slight dimple. Looking up, this perfect chin was attached to
a sculpted face, with amazing blue eyes. (Looking down, this perfect chin was attached to a gorgeous neck and amazing shoulders, and the flattest stomach I’ve seen in real life. And it was
inches
from me. But I digress.)
    “Sorry about that,” he said.
    “Why?” I asked. “It’s not your fault.”
    “Still, on behalf of guys in general . . .” He smiled at me. Oh, my God, that smile. “Can I buy you a replacement?”
    I looked down at my now near-empty glass. “Oh, you don’t have to.”
    “Trust me, guys in general have a lot to make up for.” He nodded to the bartender, and, using some kind of magic considering how crowded that place was, I had a new drink in hand in
less than a minute.
    “And your chair,” he tsked, noticing the puddle of liquid occupying the indentation of my seat. “Hold on a sec.”
    He leaned over, grabbed a handful of paper towels, and sponged the seat down. Then, after wiping away the majority of the liquid, he put his jacket down over the seat.
    “
Voilà
,” he said with a flourish.
    “Wow,” I replied as he handed me into my chair. “You literally put your jacket over a puddle for me.”
    “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He leaned forward, whispering. “Most swimmer-owned apparel is waterproof.”
    “Still, I don’t think anyone has put clothing—waterproof or not—over puddles since Elizabethan times.”
    “Well, Elizabeth is my girl.” He grinned at me. “I take all of my social cues from the dudes that surrounded her.”
    “That works out in my favor—since my name is Elizabeth.”
    “Is it really?”
    “Lizzie.” I held out my hand for him to shake. And he raised it to his lips.
    Oh, yes, that actually happened.
    “George Wickham. Pleasure to meet you, Lizzie. May I join you—or is this seat reserved for someone?”
    “Not reserved. I’m just here with my sister tonight.”
    I pointed to