Page 32 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Afterward, I ask Geoff whether he’s planning to attend the grad student holiday mixer on campus tomorrow evening.

“Hadn’t made up my mind,” he says. “But now I know you’ll be there …” He scoops his hair away from his face and punctuates his words with a wink.

“Oh, I’m sure there will be lots of familiar faces,” I insist hurriedly and rattle off several other students in the program, finishing with “my roommate, Cassie. And of course Fisher.”

“Davis?” His tone is cool, and I suppose I can’t blame him, given their inauspicious introduction.

“Yeah. We, um, well … we—”

The only phrase that comes to mind is kissed and made up, and I am not going to say that to Geoff.

But he seems to know exactly what I’m thinking. “You and Fisher Davis. Really?” he purrs, and I flush as he flicks an assessing gaze over me. “Well, aren’t you the lucky girl.”

Saturday evening I plan to meet Fisher at the mixer. It’s being held in the Commons, a glass atrium that connects the sleek, modern architecture of Kirwin Hall with the traditional brick aesthetic of the library, which is the oldest building on campus. Evidently afraid the Commons’ significance might escape even a single person, the administration erected a bronze plaque outside the building, noting that it “bridges past and future and symbolizes Grantham College’s commitment to disparate branches of learning.”

It’s also a super convenient way to cut through campus when it snows.

Tonight, though, it’s strung with fairy lights. Strains of music seep around the doors every time they open, and I can’t deny feeling a little tingle of anticipation as I climb the steps.

Inside, I seek out familiar faces, and the first one I spy is Cassie’s. She’s on the far side of the room, standing next to—oh. I hadn’t realized she was bringing Bill. Plastering a smile onto my face as I leave the coat check, I make my way to where they’re standing beside a high-top table holding two cups of red punch. “They really went all out this year,” I say, gesturing around at the stations of hot hors d’oeuvres, the string quartet playing sophisticated arrangements of pop songs, and the full bar. There’s even a dance floor, though no one’s dancing.

“Yeah,” Cassie enthuses, with a nod that makes her curls bounce in spite of her obvious attempt to constrain them. “Isn’t it—?”

“A shame,” Bill interjects, “to see an institution with a once-firm religious foundation succumbing to the world’s notion of entertainment?”

Even Cassie, who’s inexplicably gone all-in on his nonsense, looks taken aback. But she recovers quickly. “Why don’t we check out the display over there,” she says, looping a hand through his arm and directing his attention to the other end of the room, “about the restorations to the campus chapel?” As they slip away from the table, she leans in and whispers to me, “Great dress, by the way!” It’s this slinky, silvery-blue satin number I snagged at a ridiculous clearance price. Like, the kind of deal I’m obligated to reveal to anyone who compliments this dress. But I’m spared from doing so now when Cassie adds, “And it looks like I’m not the only one who thinks so.”

Her gaze points me to the doors, where Fisher has just come in. He’s wearing chinos paired with a shirt and jacket, all of which fit him so perfectly it’s like they were tailored to his frame.

His dark eyes quickly find me, and his smile is subtle, but real. He strides toward me, is stopped not once but twice by people he knows, signals me with a raised finger to stay put, makes his way to the bar, and finally arrives by my side bearing two glasses of wine.

“So,” he says, as his best impression of a flirty, suggestive gaze flickers over me, “how long do we have to stay?”

“You’re terrible,” I scold as I nudge his arm with my shoulder, then take refuge in my drink in hopes that it’s cool enough to quench the blush that’s threatening. “And the answer is, until you dance with me.”

That playful pseudo-smoldering look in his eye catches fire in earnest. He does love a challenge. “Are you saying that because you think I can’t dance?” he asks, placing his untouched glass on the table beside Bill and Cassie’s punch. “Or because you think I won’t?”

Elizabeth’s first awkward dance with Mr. Darcy pops into my mind. She refuses to talk about books when he suggests it, and every time I read that scene, I thought about how I would have seized on the topic like a drowning woman and hoped it would keep him from noticing how clumsy I am.

“I—”

It is suddenly really warm in here. And also, these glasses don’t hold much at all—or at least, mine is somehow already empty. He slips the cup from my fingers, deposits it on the table, and takes my hand to lead me to the unoccupied dance floor.

A little moan of dread escapes my lips as I try to drag my feet. “I was only kidding. This is too embarrassing.”

“Why? Are you a terrible dancer, Elle?”

The honest answer is probably yes, but I don’t say anything, and in the end, it doesn’t matter either way. Because I’m surrounded by the hazy glow of soft music and twinkle lights and wine drunk too quickly. His warm palm settles at the base of my spine, about an inch above scandalous, and he encircles my body in his strong arms. He’s looking down at me like he’s the lucky one, and I no longer care if people are staring and the dance floor is empty except for us. I want this one dance to go on forever.

It feels like proof that romance isn’t dead after all.

When the song ends, as all songs must, I’m startled to discover we weren’t actually alone out there the whole time. I was just oblivious to any other couples joining us. As I glance around at the small crowd, trying to reorient myself, Fisher asks, “Looking for someone?”

“No, no one in particular. Though Geoff did mention—”

It is, of course, the absolute wrong thing to say. I wasn’t thinking—or if I was, I was thinking about Geoff’s reaction yesterday, bordering on skepticism, and how I’d like for him to see Fisher and me together tonight.

At the mention of Geoff, Fisher’s dark eyes flash. “I could live a full life without ever hearing that name again. I know you can’t really avoid him, but—”