Page 6 of Inventing Mr Darcy

Ouch.

“Yeah, just something simple, the kind of thing I swear I could do in my sleep. But I must have accidentally clicked the wrong thing, or … I don’t know. Anyway, now it’s just kind of … glitching out.”

“Glitching out,” he repeats in an exaggerated way, like he’s writing down my words on some reporting form and wants to make sure he gets it exactly right.

“I’m sure there’s a more technical term—”

“No, no. That’s textbook. Makes my job easy when people are so clear and specific about the problem.”

As if our messy history weren’t reason enough to wish that literally anyone else had answered the phone, now I’ve also got to contend with Fisher’s enormous ego, particularly where tech stuff is concerned.

“You know what?” I say. “Just forget it. I’ll figure it out on my—”

He cuts me off with a sigh. “Elle?” His voice sounds a little softer, but no less impatient.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll be right down.”

Fisher disconnects before I can protest. Usually if there’s a problem with a campus computer, someone from IT logs into the system remotely and fixes it. But I guess the mainframe is important enough to warrant a house call.

And right now, despite the potential for humiliation and aggravation, I’m not sorry he’s on his way. Because every time I catch a glimpse of what’s scrolling up the screen, I feel a little more sick and a little more scared.

What if I’ve destroyed the whole database?

THREE

I’ll be right down might be an exaggeration, but not much of one. IT is located on the fourth floor, and I’d estimate it takes less than five minutes for Fisher to burst out of the stairwell—probably more like three. Still, by the time he arrives I’m leaning against the threshold, blocking open the door to the workroom with my body, tapping my toe. I can’t bear to watch the monitors anymore.

His wavy dark hair, always a bit disheveled, is almost standing on end. It’s probably the result of taking off the telephone headset he wears at work, but I amuse myself by imagining that seeing me twice in one day is making him pull his hair out.

“So.” He stops in front of me and tilts his head to one side. “‘Glitching out,’ you say?” He splays his hand over the door to push it open wide enough for both of us to enter. It takes some effort to counter both the weight of the steel door as well as the resistance created by the automatic closing mechanism, and since his arm is stretched out right in front of me, I can’t help but take note of how the corded muscles of his forearm have leaped into prominence.

Clearly, I’ve been spending too much of my spare time reading romance novels if I’m now ogling Fisher Davis’s forearms. And God knows, I don’t have time to spare.

With a roll of my eyes, I brush past him through the doorway. The first thing he does is stride over to the workstation, pick up my stained sweatshirt from the chair, and fix me with a cocked eyebrow. “Is this … wine?”

“No, blood,” I lie, snatching the hoodie from his hand.

He knows it’s not the truth, and I fully expect him to scold me. He does glance pointedly toward one of his stupid signs. But instead of saying more about it, he sits down and studies the monitors intently, one at a time, occasionally typing some sort of command, which as far as I can tell, the computer ignores.

“You said you were uploading files when … this happened?” he asks, gesturing to the screen now filled with mostly gibberish.

“Yes. Professor Pedersen wanted me to add the novels of Jane Austen to the database. That mess is supposed to be Pride and Prejudice.”

“Pride and Prejudice,” he repeats. “Never read it.”

To keep myself from smacking my palm to my forehead, I remind myself it could be worse. He could have said never heard of it.

“Anyway,” I continue, when I’m reasonably certain the words won’t come out as a strangled scream, “I downloaded the file from the web, converted it to the proper format, and started the upload process. That’s when I noticed something had gone wonky.”

“Wonky,” he echoes wryly, like he’s storing away another technical term. Then he turns to face me. “And was this before or after you spilled the wine?”

“Oh,” I grumble. “I knew you weren’t going to let that go. Textbook Fisher, to be pissed off by a simple mistake.”

“I’m not angry,” he says, and his voice is so calm, so self-righteous, it makes me more agitated yet. “I’m disappointed.” He leans back in the chair, which creaks loudly enough that I almost don’t hear him add, “and not about the wine.”

“What?” I demand.