Page 30 of Inventing Mr Darcy

I should think about the thousand wonky files I have to sort through, about my missing research proposal and actually writing my damn dissertation. I need fewer distractions in my life, not more.

And I should think about his expression when he told me he’s leaving Grantham in just a few months. He’s promised his father he’ll go home and work with him after graduation, and I want Fisher to be the kind of guy who keeps his promises, right?

If all else fails, I should think about the quantity of garlic in his alfredo sauce.

But I don’t think about any of those things.

I kiss him, right there in the middle of Tech World.

And that perfectly messy, messily perfect first kiss in the workroom? Not a fluke.

When red polo guy returns with a box under each arm and finds us wrapped around each other, he looks a little bemused but doesn’t complain, just gently clears his throat.

I suppose he doesn’t want to lose his commission.

Later, when I open the door to my apartment, Cassie is stretched out on the couch with a book and the cat. “You’ve been gone for a while,” she says.

By way of explanation, I hold up the box containing my new laptop, then realize I never even told her what happened to the old one.

There’s a lot I haven’t told her.

“Fisher helped me pick it out,” I say.

“Davis?” Her eyebrows climb to the midpoint of her forehead, which … fair.

“Yeah. As it turns out, I had him all wrong. He’s—he’s great,” I insist. “Smart. Really supportive.”

Which of course reminds me of the ease with which he hauled me up against the workroom door, and my face heats with a telltale blush.

Cassie laughs at the sight of it. “Is that who you went out with on Friday? Well, well, well,” she says when I nod, her tone a mixture of amusement and disbelief. And maybe just a hint of wistfulness? No, I’m surely imagining that.

“What about Bill?” I ask.

“He’s fine,” she says, sitting up straighter on the couch. Instantly, an invisible wall drops between us, a wall that never existed before a couple of weeks ago.

I add it to the list of about a hundred things I don’t understand.

“I’m pretty tired,” I tell her as I head to my bedroom, though it’s not particularly late.

“G’night,” she says and flips a page in her book. Much to my surprise, the cat jumps down from her lap and follows me.

At my desk, I unpack my new computer, plug in the cord, and press the power button. As red polo guy promised, there are a series of dialog boxes to walk me through the simple set-up process and wi-fi connection. It’s all so sleek, like something from a sci-fi movie. I scrounge up our wi-fi password, which I remember seeing on a scrap of paper in one of the drawers I turned upside down last week.

Once I’m online, I hold my breath as I open a browser and type “Jane Austen.”

No results found.

By the time I give up and decide to turn in, Tiger is curled up in a ball right in the center of my unmade bed, dead to the world. Not even his ears twitch as I crawl beneath the blankets and curve myself around his warm little body.

Exhausted but afraid that sleep won’t come, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and lay a hand on the cat’s side, focusing on the rise and fall of his ribcage. After a few minutes, I begin to trace shapes in his fur, my fingers moving without conscious thought.

It’s an old game I find soothing, almost a reflex. Curving, swooping letters. Initials.

E B — E B — E B

At some point, I smooth the fur like I’m wiping the board clean and start again.

F D — F D — F D