Page 37 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“Hard at work, I see!”

I jump guiltily and push my computer halfway across the table before looking up to see Geoff smiling down.

“Did I interrupt something important?” he asks.

“No, not at all.” With a flick of my wrist, I close the lid on my laptop. “How have you been? I, um, I hope your family is well?” I’ll admit I’m still a little curious about his excuse for his abrupt disappearance from class last month.

He looks pleased by my concern, and I feel a little embarrassed by my earlier assumption he’d made the whole thing up. “Yes, thank you. Bit of a rough patch, but I think we’re well through it now.”

He’s carrying a to-go cup; the tag of a teabag dangles from the side. He doesn’t ask to sit down and I don’t invite him. “So how was the mixer?”

In a show of indifference, I shrug, though secretly I’m heartened that tales of my humiliation haven’t yet made the rounds. “It had its moments,” I say, remembering my dance with Fisher. “I thought you said you were going to go.”

Surprise flickers into his expression. “Well, once you’d mentioned Davis, I didn’t see much point.” His blue eyes bore into mine. “Did I misunderstand?”

I cut my gaze away, because all I can think about is that red heart emoji and I do not want to blush.

“I take it he disappointed you,” Geoff says, completely misreading my non-response. “I wish I could say I was surprised.”

I take a sip of my latte, square my laptop to the edge of the table. “You don’t know Fisher as well as you think you do,” I say, still refusing to meet his eye.

He sighs. “I wonder … do you?”

What the hell kind of question is that?

Then he straightens his posture. “I should leave you to work. Take care, Elle.”

Before the bell above the door chimes signaling his exit, I’ve lifted the lid on my laptop and gone back to work sorting and deleting files. Work today so I can enjoy my reward tonight—that’s my new philosophy. I’m not going to let Geoff and Fisher’s bad blood with one another spoil my anticipation for the evening ahead.

A little more than an hour later, as dusk is starting to fall and I’m thinking of packing up and heading home, I feel my bag vibrating where it sits beside me on the bench. My first thought is a phone call, but I quickly realize it’s notifications, like you’d get with a string of incoming texts. A chain of heart emojis, perhaps?

Ooh, maybe Fisher got home early.

I riffle through my bag for my phone and unearth it. Eleven messages? From the same unrecognized number? I’d just delete them, but it reminds me a little too much of the setup of that creepy movie. I click on the latest notification and realize they’re all from Geoff.

Sorry for spamming you

It seems impossible you could

really be in the dark

But just in case …

I thought you should know

As I scroll upward, I see that all the rest of the messages are links to articles. I’d like nothing better than to ignore them. But enough of them pop up with preview pictures, I can’t.

Because the subject of every one of those pictures—every one of these articles—is Fisher. Or, to give him his proper name (apparently), Fisher Davis III.

Every swipe of my thumb brings a fresh assault of headlines:

Davis Group Heir Named Tri-State’s Most Eligible Bachelor

Reel Me In: Beauties Vie for Davis’s Eye

All This and Brains Too—Yale Rowing Star’s Smartest Workout Tips

And as for the pictures? Fisher in a tux, or heading to a club, or dressed for the gym and trying to hide his face beneath a ball cap. Usually alone, but not always. Oh, not always.