Page 57 of Inventing Mr Darcy

out to play in the snow!

Brrrrr!

But yeah, maybe I’ll try

Feeling like I’ve inspired Cassie to demand a little bit of the attention she deserves, I decide to check the Wordstitch app, where I see that First Impressions is continuing to gain appreciative readers. I look up from my phone at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, hoping to be greeted by the face of a well-groomed woman transformed by personal and professional success. A woman who can get away with wearing one of Gabriela Davis’s designer gowns.

But the same old me looks back, right down to a glob of toothpaste in the corner of my mouth, which I wipe away with a towel. As I slip my lanyard over my head, I muster one of the plastic smiles I’ve been giving prospective OWEN-C subscribers and then head out to face the day, muttering beneath my breath: “You’ve got this.”

TWO-AND-TWENTY

I don’t got this.

I fumble over my words repeatedly during our last presentation, including almost calling the database by the wrong name, and then, while Professor Pedersen is speaking, some alarm I don’t remember setting goes off on my phone and I have to scramble to silence it and throw the thing deep in my bag.

Afterward, as I’m trying to apologize, he says, in a bitterly sarcastic way, “Fortunately, it was the final session, so almost no one was there.” Then he offers to take Geoff out to lunch, and the two of them go off together, leaving me to box up the last of the OWEN-C crap swag crap.

Not quite sure what to do with myself, I sit down at one of the tables in the lobby and mull over whether the convenience of one of the coffee shop sandwiches is worth the cost, both in terms of dollars and looking bloated in one of Gaby’s dresses.

I’m still making up my mind when Fisher appears out of nowhere.

“There you are,” he says, and there’s relief in his voice, but also a flash of irritation. “I’ve been trying to reach you.”

I realize my phone is still in my bag, and still on do not disturb after the alarm humiliation. When I retrieve it, I see text, missed call, and voicemail notifications. Ope! “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I didn’t expect to see you until later. Is everything all right?”

As he slides into the seat opposite me, I realize that he looks, if possible, even more exhausted than he did before he left Grantham. Everything is most definitely not all right.

“If you don’t want to talk here,” I say, scanning the crowded lobby, “we could go up to my room—”

He shakes his head, but I’m not sure he even heard my offer, or whether he’s answering my question. “My father is back in the hospital, and it’s all my fault.”

“Your fault? How could that be?”

“He had … some kind of episode, and it … um.” He looks past, rather than at me. “It turns out that right before it happened, he was looking at a message from one of Davis Investment’s vice presidents. It was—” He swallows and drops his gaze. “It was a picture of us at Rockefeller Center, and it said, ‘I thought you told us your son was ready to take things seriously?’”

“Oh, God. Oh, no.” His dad’s “episode” isn’t his fault; it’s mine. “I should never have—”

“How could you know?” He traces the medallion on the center of the table. “But I knew—and I certainly should have known better than to …”

His voice trails off into silence, but none of the possible conclusions to that sentence work in my favor. Beyond his mother’s superficial politeness, it’s clear his family doesn’t approve of me. I’m not part of their world. Worst of all, I’m distracting their son from his duties at a crucial juncture.

He should have known better than to fall in love with me.

“Please don’t worry,” I whisper, resting my hand on his, stilling the nervous movement of his fingers. “I’m sure this is just a temporary setback in your father’s recovery.”

He shrugs, resigned and skeptical all at once. Finally, though, he drags his gaze to my face. “I should get back to the hospital. I’m afraid I need to bail on our date for tonight—that’s really what I came here to explain.”

“I understand.” I tilt my head to offer what I hope is a shyly seductive glance from beneath my lashes. “Do I get a raincheck?”

His lips twitch in an attempt at a smile. “Of course.” He turns his hand palm upward on the table, so that my hand settles easily into his grasp. “I’m sorry to ruin your last night in New York, though. You should go out anyway, have some fun.” His smile is genuine but so weak it quickly fades. “Though don’t let Winkworth—”

“Geoff?” That was the last name I expected to hear. After almost a week working side by side with Geoff at this convention, I’m even more convinced Fisher’s read him all wrong.

“Yeah. He’s … That is, I—” His phone must buzz just then, because he reaches for it with his free hand, glances at the screen, and shakes his head. “I can’t explain right now. Just … please. Promise me?”

I’m not even sure what I’m promising, but it doesn’t really matter. Geoff Winkworth isn’t the man I want to spend New Year’s Eve with.

I squeeze Fisher’s hand. “I promise.”