Page 17 of Inventing Mr Darcy

But of course I can’t tell anyone. I’d sound stark raving mad.

“Not that I’m aware of,” I say with what I hope is a smile but is probably more of a grimace as I push the door open, steeling myself against the blast of cold air that hits my scraped knees through my newly ventilated pants.

With respect to the apparent disappearance of one of the most famous love stories in the world, I’m on my own.

SEVEN

After a hundred halting steps and regular pauses for deep, shaky breaths, I manage to make it across the street to the Grind. It’s mid-afternoon, well before the early evening I need caffeine to get through this all-nighter rush, so I don’t expect it to be busy. I could use a place that’s quiet—not silent—to untangle the knotted skein of my thoughts.

And since I have the absolute worst luck—or maybe, in this upside-down world, the best?—Fisher is waiting at the counter.

He doesn’t immediately notice me when I limp up and join him in line. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I say, only half joking. “Let me get your coffee. I owe you one—or two.”

“You don’t—” he begins automatically as he swings to look at me. “My God, Elle, what happened? Are you all right?”

Interesting question, that.

“Fine,” I lie. “Just tripped on the stairs. And don’t act like you’re surprised to discover I’m a klutz.”

My attempt at humor does nothing to smooth the notch of concern between his brows, and his gaze is so intense I’m relieved when the barista steps up to take our order.

“Pumpkin spice latte for here,” I say, daring him with a sideways glance to tease me about it. “And …”

She shifts her attention to him. “The usual?”

“Yes, thanks.”

The usual, as it turns out, is a large black coffee to go, which is ready almost immediately. Much to my surprise, he doesn’t try to stop me when I shuffle to the register. Maybe he figures three dollars is all the payback I can afford. Or maybe he thinks if he lets me do this one thing, I’ll finally leave him alone.

“If you don’t mind,” I tell the barista, “I’m going to wait sitting down.” I limp my way to one of the large booths in the back, where I sometimes camp out and pretend to work when the library feels like too much pressure. My whole body protests when I sink onto the thinly padded, cracked vinyl seat, but the pain is nothing compared to the stabbing ache I feel somewhere in the vicinity of my soul.

Still, I drag the loaner laptop out of my bag and open it as if I have a plan. I’m considering my options—A doctor? Maybe the college counseling office? Or a priest with exorcism experience?—when Fisher approaches carrying my latte in one of those comically oversized cups, like you’d see on a rerun of Friends.

I’d assumed he had already left.

He places my coffee on the table, careful to arrange the handle so it’s easy for me to reach, then stands there for a moment longer than feels natural, so I can’t avoid looking up. “Thanks,” I say, for what feels like the millionth time. “Did you want to sit down?”

“Can’t. I’ve got work,” he explains, gesturing with his to-go cup.

But he doesn’t go. He leans one arm against the high back of the opposite seat and partially unzips his jacket. The collar of a royal blue t-shirt and the top third of a Superman logo appear, and emotion floods through me—relief, but more than relief—at the sight of something so perfectly ordinary.

I know I called his shirts stupid and ridiculous, but I’ve since developed an aversion to familiar things suddenly disappearing.

And though I haven’t seen this particular t-shirt before, it’s utterly, absolutely Fisher. I mean, the ego you’d have to have to wear something like that!

Not that he isn’t strong. My brain may be prone to losing important information, but I can’t seem to forget the way his broad shoulders felt beneath my hands.

To be honest, I haven’t really tried.

Right now, however, I’m mostly thinking about the alarming day I’ve had and how safe he made me feel the last time I was flailing around in the dark.

But good God, that would be a dangerous road to go down. To distract myself, I try mentally mocking his whole Clark Kent vibe. That observation only ends with me gnawing on the inside of my bottom lip, though, because I catch myself kind of wishing I’d had a chance to see what he looks like underneath his t-shirts … and that mental image reminds me of the bare-chested model on the cover of my missing romance novel, The Duke’s Debt, and oh, did you know? Any Regency romance where the guy unbuttons his shirt is technically historically inaccurate because at that time men’s shirts were taken off over the head. And then I picture Fisher pulling off his shirt, doing that sexy one-handed, behind-the-back maneuver, and—

“So, how’s it working out?” he asks, nodding toward the laptop.

I jerk in surprise and hope he didn’t catch me staring at the evidence of his workouts.

Attempting to hide my embarrassment behind my enormous cup, I take a sip of my latte. “Oh, fine,” I tell him when I’m relatively certain I won’t sputter. “I’m going to ask my parents to float me a loan so I can buy my own, though. I don’t want to take advantage of your generosity.” Again.