Page 55 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“Elle?”

It takes me a minute to realize it’s Gaby. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses and a white puffer coat, some designer brand I’m sure is filled with real down and not polyester fiber.

“Um, hi!” I say and return her offered hug. “I didn’t realize you were joining us today.”

Gaby’s smile reveals perfect teeth, several shades whiter than her coat. “Oh, my brother told me I needed to get out of the house, and he was absolutely correct—but don’t tell him I said that.”

What can I do but smile back?

“He was right behind me, I swear,” she explains before I can ask, shooting a glance over one shoulder. “I suppose he spotted someone he knows.” Then she swings around again and peers past me, toward the coffee shop, lifting her glasses onto the crown of her head. “That guy you were talking to when I came up …”

I follow her gaze, which has settled on Geoff, standing at the register inside the coffee shop. I’m not surprised he caught her attention. He’s always been easy on the eyes, and she hasn’t even heard his accent. We watch as he tries to pay with one card, then another, then a third, as both the barista and the customers waiting behind him grow increasingly annoyed. “Yeah, he’s a grad student in my program. Could you excuse me for just a sec?” I suppose it’s fair to say that after forty-eight hours of the convention version of forced proximity, Geoff and I are on friendlier terms, but most of all, the Midwesterner in me can’t not help him out of his predicament. I squeeze past the line, which now winds through the tiny shop thanks to the holdup at the register, and tap my card on the reader.

“Elle! Thank God,” he says, relief flooding his blue eyes as he fumbles with his stack of declined credit cards. “I can’t imagine what’s happened.”

“Probably some weird fraud alert. It can happen when you travel—as I’m sure you know,” I add, a little sheepishly, because he’s far better-traveled than I am.

“Well, you’re a lifesaver. I owe you!”

“No problem,” I assure him with a wave as I wriggle my way out and back to Gaby, who has at last been joined by Fisher. He’s wearing a dark wool coat and knit hat in heathered gray that doesn’t quite cover his unruly hair. They’ve clearly watched the whole incident together, while his sister whispers animatedly in his ear.

Neither of them says anything about it when I reach them, though Fisher’s eyes are troubled. He envelops me in a strong but disappointingly swift hug, not exactly the greeting I expected. Then Gaby loops her arm through mine and announces, “Let’s get out of here!”

The plan, I’m told once we’re outside, is to stroll up Broadway, stop for a slice of real New York pizza, and then head over to see the iconic tree at Rockefeller Center. Gaby chatters as we walk, pointing out various theater marquees. Fisher is always a pace behind and hardly says anything at all, like he’s just tagging along. At this hole-in-the-wall pizza place, she orders for all three of us, and while I can’t deny the food is amazing, it makes me oddly homesick for Pizza Stan and Grantham.

At Rockefeller Center, we stand at the railing with Gaby between us and suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. “Can we go ice skating?” I ask, looking past her to Fisher.

“I, um … are you sure you want to?” No doubt it’s the most stupidly touristy thing anyone has ever asked him to do, but I nod eagerly nonetheless.

As we lace up our rented skates, his movements are stiff, reluctant. A surge of panic wells up in my chest; I battle it back. “Are you afraid I’ll embarrass you?” I call out as I stand up, skate away from him, and execute a neat turn. “Minnesota, remember?”

For the first time—or, well, maybe the second—I’m viscerally reminded that Fisher is an athlete. He’s at my side again in three powerful strides, even as his eyes scan the crowd around us.

I follow his gaze, and suddenly, the reality of the situation dawns on me. People are watching us—well, him, mostly, but I’ve clearly piqued a few people’s curiosity. One or two are even filming with their phones. On the far side of the rink, I spy a photographer steadying a long lens that’s pointed right at us.

All those pictures I saw online came from somewhere, of course. I gather he’s used to the attention, but it’s clear he doesn’t like it. Finally, I understand that he invited more extroverted Gaby to come along today as a sort of buffer, to draw attention away from me—or rather, us. To blunt the inevitable speculation.

And then, as if I haven’t done enough already to mess up his plans to keep me out of the spotlight, my distraction causes me to overlook a deep gouge in the ice, and I stumble. I manage to let my skates get out from under me and land on my ass with a thump. Worse, when he tries to help me up, I pull him down on top of me.

Cue my mottled blush of mortification and a nervous laugh. He laughs too, more than a little wryly. “OK, yes. Now I’m embarrassed,” he says, and I want to believe it’s just because we’re surrounded by strangers with cameras who’ve captured the whole incident for posterity, but I’m no longer sure. The idea that I’m “real,” and very clearly not the kind of girl Fisher Davis usually dates, has taken on a new set of meanings.

Then, to my immense relief, instead of levering himself away from me, he finally throws caution to the wind and kisses me. His mouth is warm against my chilled skin, and it’s been so long that we almost overdo it for a public place. But finally, he hoists me up and brushes the snow off my butt. Hand in hand, we skate over to the side of the rink.

“Were you trying to make Page Six?” Gaby demands, her dark eyes sparkling. I can’t decide whether she’s amused or annoyed. “Or just trying to aggravate Daddy—again?”

Fisher’s color is high—and I suspect that’s only partly because of the cold. He doesn’t meet her gaze when he says, “I’m just trying to live my life, Gabs.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry,” I begin. “I swear I never fall. And when I suggested skating, I didn’t think about—”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he insists, settling an arm around my shoulders. The gesture feels almost defiant, and I wonder whether it was her idea to play things cool.

“Well,” his sister says, eyeing us critically, “since the cat’s about to be allll the way out of the bag anyway, you might as well take her out on New Year’s Eve.”

“Is that something you’d want to do, Elle?” Fisher asks.

I can only imagine what going out on New Year’s Eve means among wealthy people in New York. “I, um, I don’t really have anything fancy to wear,” I demur. My conference kit, as Cassie called it when she helped me pick it out, consists of a few staples in solid black synthetic knit, with accessories intended to disguise the fact that I’ll be wearing the same clothes for the better part of a week.

But Gaby waves away that concern with a flick of her leather-gloved hand. “You can borrow something of mine,” she says, looking me up and down as if assessing my dress size. “I’ll send a few options to your hotel.”