Page 21 of Inventing Mr Darcy

After Cassie’s veiled critique of my clothes, I’m relieved to see he’s also wearing jeans. His are paired with a fitted button-down in a shade of dark red that looks great on him. Unfortunately, the color also makes me think of spilled salsa. Or spilled wine.

I wonder whether he’s hedging his bets.

At least it’s not a t-shirt. And yes I know, at the coffee shop, I was relieved to see one. But the last time we went to a restaurant together, he was wearing a black shirt that read In order to understand recursion, you must first understand recursion— with the white text looped in a circle. When I asked him what it meant, he said it was a coding thing and waved away the question. Like I wouldn’t understand the answer. Like I’m an idiot or something.

So … yeah. I could do without a repeat of that.

Once we’re both in the car, he starts the engine, then immediately reaches for the volume knob on the stereo and twists it to zero. But not before a few raucous chords escape.

Apparently, the t-shirts with the obscure metal bands aren’t a pose.

It’s not my preferred genre of music, but I can’t deny it’s heart-pounding. Primal. Enough to pin me to the passenger seat.

Enough to make me curious about the possibility that Fisher has dark corners and hidden depths.

When he reaches for the gearshift, I stop him with the barest brush of my fingers over the back of his hand.

“Before we go,” I say, “I think we should clear the air about last Friday night.”

And for once in a week, I’m not thinking about the geomagnetic storm.

I’ve been mulling over this move for a while now. I might find myself back on the curb in a minute, but with all the uncertainty and confusion in my life—now exacerbated by another tense exchange with Cassie—I’d prefer to know where things stand between Fisher and me.

“All right.”

He’s looking straight ahead, and by the light of the streetlamp glaring through the windshield, his profile appears to be carved from stone. His voice tells me he’s resigned to this conversation, but his hair looks as if he’s run nervous fingers through it half a dozen times at least on his way over, and on the steering wheel, his knuckles tighten as if he’s fighting the urge to do it again.

“Why did you say we’re not friends?”

“I felt it was an accurate assessment of our situation,” he replies with some real “I study computer science so that makes me a scientist” energy.

The English major in me can’t help but notice the usage of past tense.

“Does that mean you thought of us as … enemies?”

(Only after I’ve spoken it aloud do I realize the word enemies makes my romance reader pulse tick up a notch in an almost Pavlovian way, and I don’t appreciate the discovery one little bit. Because we all know what enemies are fated to become …)

He pauses as if to give the matter due consideration, then shakes his head. “Enemies feels a little ‘Marvel supervillain origin story,’ don’t you think?”

Speaking of the MCU, I bet I could just as easily end this date before it starts if I told him about my personal Loki, God of Mischief/Multiverse of Madness situation.

Except, I don’t really want to. Put a premature end to this date, I mean.

“So what you were really saying is we’re two people with not a lot in common who have had little reason to communicate outside select work-related scenarios.”

He lifts one shoulder in a gesture I choose to interpret as agreement.

“So, why’d you kiss me?” I ask.

“You kissed me,” he counters with a speed that suggests he too has been giving it some thought.

But a telltale hint of warmth surges into his cheek. Like maybe he knows he’ll lose this argument once I point out that he wrapped my legs around his waist, pinned me against a door, and kissed me back.

“You said it yourself: one kiss doesn’t have to mean anything,” he insists.

“Unless we want it to.”

“So …” I’m fascinated by the movement of his throat as he swallows. “Do you want it to?”