Page 24 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“That’s easy enough: my father owns his own company, and even though my sister is the one with the head for business, he wants a chief technology officer in the family.”

Oh. Honestly, I’m not even sure what a chief technology officer is. Sounds like a fancy name for the job he has now. The job I already knew he didn’t love, based on the edge to his voice every time he answers the IT help desk phone—or maybe that’s reserved just for me.

I guess he knows me well enough to anticipate I won’t be satisfied with that answer either because, before I can speak again, he lays his chopsticks aside and leans back, like he’s settling in to tell me a story.

“My dad bought me my first computer when I was eight. One of those build-it-from-scratch kits. We worked on it together for half the summer.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice as he recalls those childhood days. “I had a lot of fun with that computer. But mostly, I loved spending time with him. He told me someday, I’d come to work with him, and it sounded like the best thing in the world.”

Sounded like. Past tense. I want to point out he was eight. He’s allowed to change his mind. Surely his dad would understand.

I scoop up an enormous mouthful of ramen so I don’t actually say those words.

Because family dynamics are complicated, and really, what do I know?

When he drags himself from the memory to the present moment, a sort of alarm streaks across his face, like he’s just now realizing what he said and worries it was too much.

But I appreciate his honesty. His willingness to show a sliver of vulnerability. The hint that his pose of self-confidence and certainty bordering on arrogance might just be a mask.

Beneath the comically small table, we’ve spent the evening carefully jockeying for position so we don’t knock against one another’s knees. Now, as a sort of gesture of reassurance, I let my leg lean against his. I feel him shift a little, assuming the contact was accidental, preparing to find a new spot for his long legs. But when it’s clear I’m resting against him deliberately, he eventually relaxes, then slides his foot forward to draw us even closer together.

As intimate gestures go, touching knees is hardly profound, especially after what we did in the workroom. And now that I’ve let myself think about last week, I suddenly regret saying we shouldn’t kiss each other again—or at least, not yet. But surely it’s better if we take a few smaller steps toward letting down our guards first?

“At least you know you’ll have a job when you’re done with school,” I point out. He doesn’t deny it, but something about his expression still gives me pause. For maybe the first time since I decided to major in English, I realize maybe employability isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. “But why don’t we talk about something other than work?”

And now that we’ve soldiered through the ordinary but unexpectedly tough stuff, everything feels more relaxed. For the next hour, we eat and talk and laugh, and I forget all about my plan to spill my ramen—on either of us.

When we leave the restaurant and start toward his car, I’m excited to realize we’ll walk right past Blush & Bloom. I catch myself anticipating the window display, picturing purple and orange twinkle lights and an assortment of Halloween-adjacent romance novels, everything from maybe-witchy heroines with black cats, to bloodlust between gay vampires.

Without fully meaning to, I reach for his hand, eager to point out one of my favorite shops in the city. But I freeze when confronted instead with the sight of a three-foot-tall fake bottle of perfume bearing the absurdly unsubtle name “Love Potion No. 69.” In the brightly lit store behind it, I see rows tagged “Hair Care” and “Nails” where “Historical” and “Romantasy” used to be. The door still reads Blush & Bloom in curling script.

My happy place has gone out of business and been replaced by a cosmetics store.

They didn’t even bother to change the name.

I gasp and hurry my steps toward Fisher’s car, not even waiting for him to open my door. Despite my best effort to compose myself, by the time he climbs into the driver’s seat, tears are rolling down my cheeks.

“Elle?” He rests a gentle hand on my shoulder, urging me to turn toward him.

“Guess I should have seen if they had waterproof mascara in stock, eh?” I sniff. “Sorry—I’m being stupid. It’s just … that used to be my favorite bookstore.”

“You must be really disappointed it’s closed,” he says, looking both concerned and a bit baffled by the strength of my reaction.

“It’s not just about the bookstore,” I confess, my voice shaky. “I know I’ve been acting a little crazy all week. The truth is, I’m upset because I, um … I lost someone important to me,” I tell him. “An old friend.”

It’s true, after all.

What I’m not prepared for is the way his visible expression of sympathy makes my heart begin to throb, like it’s straining toward him.

I’ve been grieving Jane Austen without being able to tell a soul, and once the dam has been breached, it all comes rushing out. There’s a tremor in my voice as I continue. “It happened the night of the geomagnetic storm, actually. I didn’t even find out for a couple of days. Books were really important to her too, and seeing that stupid perfume in the window instead, well, it—uh—it felt like losing her all over again.” His hand is still resting on my shoulder, and he gives it a sympathetic squeeze. I dash away what I’m determined will be the last of my tears. “Anyway, I’m OK now. It was a shock is all.”

I flip down the visor and open the lighted vanity mirror to see how bad I look after that crying jag. He reaches over with his other hand and closes it back up. At first I think maybe I’ve obstructed his view as he’s preparing to pull out of the spot, but he gives me an earnest smile and swipes beneath my eye with the pad of his thumb. “You look beautiful,” he says.

Then his hand, which has been hovering near my cheek, slides into my hair and around the back of my neck so he can pull me closer to him, and suddenly I’m nervous. Partly because we agreed not to do this.

But mostly because I want this and I’m worried last Friday’s magic will turn out to have been just a fluke, part of the unpredictable energy radiating from that solar flare.

At the last moment, he tips my head down and presses his lips to my forehead, and it’s the softest, sweetest, most comforting gesture. Exactly what I needed and so totally not what I would have expected from this man—or the man I’ve always assumed he was.

“I think you might have broken the rules,” I whisper when the space between us is restored and all I have is the memory of his touch.