Social worker Elizabeth Bennet hates bankers. Will Darcy is an artistic soul trapped in a banker's world. Beer is spilled, barbs are thrown and love emerges.

By The Numbers-by Jancat

P&P—Modern—WIP-MA

Chapter 1

For Charles Bingley, life was simple. It was Point A to Point B. Going to a party meant meeting pretty girls. Sometimes that led to Tab A being inserted into Slot B, and the unfolding of a wonderful few weeks of fun. But tonight's festivities could not be simplified to another one of his best friend's wry observations about his love life. Charles' sister, Louisa, was getting married and it was time to stand up straight and host a bachelor party that would weaken their collective knees—at least until they had to walk down the aisle the next day.

The only hitch in his planning was, as usual, Darcy. Charles had tried to cover all the bases. Yes—the establishment stocked every kind of beer and ale known in North America. Yes—the room would be private, no cameras allowed. And if the entertainment got a little wild, Darcy and his monkish temperament could wander off to the main room's multiscreen bar and stare at SportsCenter. And yes—er, no—Caroline had no idea of their guys-night-out destination, so Darcy could imbibe in peace.

Somehow, though, all of Charles' machinations on behalf of his best friend simply annoyed the man himself.

"You know, Darcy, this is going to be great. Marty's ready to relax, get married and party. Louisa has stopped freaking out over the flowers and place settings, so now Caroline is completely overwhelmed with making it all perfect." Charles glanced at Darcy, adding softly, "And things have calmed down for you too. Let's celebrate and have a good time."

The man gripping the steering wheel eased the sleek sedan into a parking space and shifted into park. He looked through the windshield at the glowing sign for EJ's Place.

"Charles, you don't need to convince me. Marty deserves a great time. He's a lucky guy."

Charles nodded. "But?"

Darcy laughed softly. "Sorry, I'm out of practice with the fun thing. And a sports bar?" He gestured at the sign and shrugged. "But this is Marty's night, right? Let's make sure he has fun and can still stand up tomorrow."

"And remember Louisa's name," added Charles.

The two men climbed out the car and walked toward the entrance. A cold November wind blew dry leaves and empty cups around their well-shod feet. The shorter man turned suddenly, and grabbed Darcy's arm. "Hey D, make sure you lock it. We're calling a cab tonight. I expect you to empty at least three pints by 11."

"Are you nuts?" Darcy's eyes swept the parking lot. "No way, I'm not leaving my car here." He stepped forward. "And quit calling me D."

By 11:30, Marty was happily sandwiched on the dance floor between two energetic dancers teaching him the finer points of juking. With darts ruled off limits as the alcohol intake rose, the rest of the party was focused on speed stacks and beer pong. Darcy stood in the background, watching the revelry and nursing his second Bass Ale. Bumped from behind, he took a step too close to the table, earning cheers and hoots when one of the brimming cups tumbled off the table and splashed beer all over his sweater. "Crap!"

Charles found him heading to the men's room, shaking his head in disgust. "Whoa, wha' happened, D? Got in the way of the game?"

They stopped in the narrow passageway separating the party room from the bar to let a group pass. Darcy gestured at his forest-green sweater and muttered, "I'm all wet. I need to get this off."

He started pulling the sweater over his head, but the cashmere didn't muffle the sound of Charles' voice as he let go with the most commonly spoken words in his bar repertoire: "Whoa…. Check her out."

Years of watching his best friend fall for the girl on the next barstool, in the next office, at the coffeehouse, or in the elevator had inured Darcy to such sentiments. He yanked at the sweater. "Shit! Charles, my sweater's snagged on my watch!"

The younger man wasn't listening. "Man, she is so cute. Look at that smile. C'mon, let's go meet them." He strode, a bit unsteadily, into the crowded bar.

"No! Charles, we have to keep an eye on Marty."

With a final tug, Darcy pulled his sweater free from the thick watchband. He checked that his t-shirt was dry and watched his friend slide onto a barstool next to a tall redhead.

"Seriously?" he grumbled. "There isn't anyone here smart enough or sober enough to bother with, you idiot." He sighed and started wringing out his sodden sweater. A shriek caused him to drop it.

"Watch it, mister. I might not be smart enough or sober enough to bother with, but I don't need your beer spills on my shoes." A pair of green eyes flashed at him. "Or is it vomit? Ick! Go rinse it out, already. And call a cab."

Darcy stared at the girl yelling at him. "I didn't spill anything. Somebody else did."

"Aw, that's what they all say."

Darcy furrowed his brow. "Now wait a minute, I'm not even drunk."

A skinny girl with spiky hair sidled up to the indignant woman. "Lizzy, what happened?"

"It's all good, Char. Just another drunk guy trying to hook up on a lonely Friday night." She looked at her friend and laughingly threw her hands in the air. "But we've been saved! Saved from another guy who sucks in bed."

Charlotte glanced at the man her best friend had insulted. His black hair was messy and his t-shirt untucked, but there was nothing there to reject: He was seriously good looking. He might not have been drunk, but Elizabeth's words seemed to sober him up from whatever he'd been drinking. Charlotte tried to catch his eye and shook her head to dismiss her friend's comments. But he didn't seem to see her. He didn't seem to be seeing anything at all.