Page 11 of Inventing Mr Darcy

I remember what Fisher said about service disruptions. Maybe this is all part of the upheaval caused by the geomagnetic storm.

Determined to get my romance fix one way or another, I rummage through the mess on the ottoman for the deliciously spicy historical I’ve been reading, then go to my room to find it, but between the clothes on the floor and the general clutter that is my life, The Duke’s Debt Comes Due seems to have gone into hiding.

It’s difficult to escape what all these signs and signals point to: the universe is telling me to work on my dissertation. Pedersen approved my proposal in August, but I can’t seem to muster much enthusiasm for the project, and I haven’t written a single word since. Grumbling, I drag my laptop from my bag, plug it in, lift the now stickerless lid, and press the power button.

Given the way the last twenty-four hours or so have gone, I should not be even a tiny bit surprised when nothing happens.

Actually, I’m not surprised. I’m panicked. Because my life is on this laptop, and if something’s really wrong with it …

I grab my phone, then remember the IT help desk is closed on Saturday afternoon.

I hesitate over my options. I could wait—but will that make the problem worse? I could take it to Tech World, but that will cost money I don’t have. I’ll probably be sorry, but don’t see that I have much choice but to call Fisher and ask for help. Again.

It rings four times before he answers. “Hey,” I say when I hear a husky “Hello?” He sounds a little out of breath.

Only in the long pause that follows do I consider that maybe, I should’ve texted, emergency or not.

“Sorry to bother you,” I say, “but my laptop won’t turn on.”

“Bummer.” His voice is flat. “If you want to bring it by the office on Monday, I’d be happy to take a look.”

I swallow down another surge of panic. And embarrassment. Clearly, I’ve been presumptuous. My emergency obviously isn’t his. “M-Monday?” I stammer. “It’s just … I was going to work on my dissertation this weekend. And … Fisher?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything is on this laptop. If it’s fried, my life is ruined.”

There’s another beat of silence. “I’m almost afraid to ask,” he says, in a tone that suggests he already knows the answer to his question. “But you have your files backed up, right? Cloud? Portable hard drive? Something?”

“I’ve been meaning to, but I just … never got around to it.”

Yet another pause, this one long enough that I actually pull my phone away from my face to make sure we haven’t been disconnected.

“All right,” I hear him sigh when I put it back up to my ear. “Bring it by my house.”

“Thank you thank you thank you.” I slur the words together in my relief.

“I’m at 804 Elm Street.”

“Oh, hey. We’re practically neighbors!”

He makes no acknowledgment of my observation. “Just give me like an hour, OK?” he says.

Maybe he’s got to do the mad clean-up rush to make his place presentable? Though that seems improbable, given what I know of the man.

When I set out on foot fifty-eight minutes later, I quickly realize we are not neighbors. Number 804 is on the opposite end of Elm Street, on the other side of town. It’s still a walkable distance, of course, because nothing downtown is that far apart.

But Fisher lives in a neighborhood too expensive even for most of the professors. Only higher-ups, like the Dean of Students, can afford to live here: two blocks square of enormous, early nineteenth-century homes, all meticulously restored. And 804 Elm Street? Well, the only house in this part of town that’s larger is the one that belonged to founder Joab Grantham himself, and it’s now a museum.

Probably shares this place with a bunch of other guys, I tell myself as I climb the wide stone steps and ring the bell.

“I’m really, really sorry about this,” I blurt out as soon as he opens the door. “I just—”

The sight of him steals whatever my next words might have been, and I can’t seem to stop myself from dragging my gaze from his bare feet to his slightly curlier than usual hair; it’s damp, which makes me think he recently got out of the shower. In between are a pair of worn, faded jeans that fit him like a glove, a gray henley that looks so soft I want to touch him—er, it (I can’t even process the fact that he’s not wearing one of his stupid t-shirts), and a different pair of glasses than I’ve seen on him before. Maybe the other ones were damaged after all. These are still slightly hipster, but the rounder shape and warm tortoiseshell color suit him better, I think. They soften his sharp, angular features.

Behind those glasses, his dark eyes narrow slightly. My pulse, racing since the discovery that my laptop died, ticks up another notch as I conjure the memory of the last time we saw one another—what we did, where we left things. There’s no way for this moment to be anything but awkward.

I lick my lips. “I’m sorry I panicked. But I couldn’t think what else to do.” I gesture lamely toward the bag containing my laptop. “If I lose what’s on this thing …”