Page 29 of Inventing Mr Darcy

But maybe I’m not as good at reading people as I am at reading books, because the next thing he says is “I’m a little envious. After that disaster of a philosophy class in undergrad, I changed my major to math. I know it’s not most people’s favorite, but it just … clicked for me. I always thought I’d like to teach it.”

I can’t help blinking at him. After so long thinking of him as “the IT guy,” it’s difficult for me to imagine him in the classroom lecturing on quadratic equations; yet I think, based on his explanation of recursion the other night, he might be good at it. “Not middle school, I’m guessing.”

He laughs a little. “No, probably not. I thought of getting my doctorate, becoming a professor, but …” His shoulders roll; I think he might have been aiming for a shrug, but his muscles are suddenly too taut for such an easy movement. “I made a promise to my dad to come home and work with him when I was done with school.”

I take a sip of wine that sounds more like a noisy gulp. But it’s covering the sound of me trying to swallow back some awkward questions—this isn’t the first time he’s mentioned his plan to go back east after graduation; nor is it the first time I’ve wondered why he doesn’t get to dream dreams of his own.

“What do you think would happen if you told him you wanted to do something else instead?”

“Well, that’s an interesting question.” He returns the book to the shelf. “Not a lot of data to extrapolate from. Very few people have the nerve to tell my dad no.”

I wonder, briefly, whether he worries about being cut off financially if he doesn’t do what his father wants. But I can’t believe that a guy who willingly washes his own dishes by hand, when he could be living in Manhattan pulling down God knows how much—a guy who dreams of becoming a math professor, for crying out loud—is making his decisions based solely on money.

“Speaking of school,” I say after a lengthy silence, “I should probably get back to work soon …”

He absently nods his understanding, like he’s really thinking about something else, then asks, “Could I take you somewhere for dessert first?”

I shouldn’t agree, for a whole host of reasons, but the truth is, I don’t want to say no. While he smothers the remaining embers of the dying fire, I carry our glasses back to the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re pulling into the brightly lit parking lot of the shopping center on the edge of town. It’s Sunday evening, and only one store is still open.

“You brought me to Tech World?” I exclaim.

“Well, they sell all my favorite treats,” he says with a grin. “Come on. You still need a new laptop, right? To write your dissertation?”

I nod. “My parents put money into my account to pay for it. Early Christmas present, they said. But I haven’t had a chance …”

“So, let me help you pick the right one.”

And now that I know how he feels about working with computers, his frustration with people taking advantage of his tech know-how, the offer is almost as kind and generous and meaningful as that forehead kiss outside Blush & Bloom.

Inside, Tech World is a glare of fluorescent lights and overwhelming choices. When a salesclerk in a red polo finally shows up, I fully expect Fisher to take over. After all, he’s the expert.

But he does something even better. He makes it crystal clear that while he knows everything red polo guy does about computers and then some, this is going to be my laptop, and if red polo guy can’t explain things to me without jargon and high-pressure nonsense, then red polo guy won’t be making a sale.

As a direct result of this behavior, when the clerk goes to check on something in the back, I blurt out to Fisher, “I’ve made a decision.”

“About which laptop to buy?” he asks, sounding a little puzzled.

“About us.”

Beneath the ambient noise of the store, the blare of some movie soundtrack and the throb of high-end speakers and the life-ending explosion in some video game, I hear him say “And?”

“As it turns out, it doesn’t matter whether what happened in the workroom means anything. Because tonight definitely did. This.” I gesture around me. “Making me dinner. And that kiss on the forehead Friday night. And saving my files. And—”

“So what are you saying, Elle? Are we friends now?”

I think he’s teasing, but I lift my eyes to him in a gentle scold. “Better than friends.”

One dark eyebrow arcs suggestively. “Enemies?”

(And damn it, that word still makes my pulse race.)

“Not anymore,” I say, stepping closer.

Close enough to hear him whisper, “What then?”

And I know—know—what I should do next.