Page 18 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“No rush.” The notch reappears between his brows. “You sure you’re OK? You seem—”

“Yup. Perfectly sure. I was just about to …” I pause to rummage in my bag, emerge with the flash drive, and hold it up like a prize. “… Rename and organize all these files.”

He drums his long fingers against the side of his cup. “If you want, I could help you with that.”

Oh, it is tempting. A few taps on the keyboard from him, one stern look, and I’m certain those files would straighten up and get in line. Plus he has already seen the chaos that is my hard drive and apparently it didn’t give him a stroke.

But no. He doesn’t want to clean up any more of my messes, remember? He told me so himself.

I shake my head. “This is a long-awaited opportunity for my neat and orderly side to shine.”

Because it occurs to me that I may have been thinking about this Austen anomaly all wrong. If we start from the premise that the solar flare was some sort of cosmic rewrite, just like Fisher said, then sure, it shook up my world, but maybe something good can still come of it? Maybe those changes can pave the way for new and improved Elle?

Wishing I’d paid more attention to what he told me in the computer workroom, I say, “We should talk about what happened Friday night.”

I catch his amused smile—a reaction, I’m sure, to the notion of me having a neat and orderly side—only as it slips from his lips. Belatedly, I realize he must think I’m referring to the kiss.

His dark eyes hold mine as, to my shock, he slowly nods his agreement.

For just a moment, I think he’s going to sit down after all; that we’re going to hash things out in the middle of the Grind on a Tuesday afternoon. Then he says, “Do you like sushi?”

If I was shocked before, now I’m flabbergasted.

Before I can answer, he continues, “because I know this spot in Minneapolis—”

“Saké, Ramen and Roll?” Cassie and I must go there once a month, and not just because it’s three doors down from a little romance-only bookstore, Blush & Bloom. “I love that place.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up Friday at six.” And with a salute of his cup, he’s gone.

Did I … Did I just agree to a date with Fisher Davis?

Ironically, the prospect of a (second?!) date with a dark-haired, arrogant man who has a tendency to piss me off drives all thought of the disappearance of Pride and Prejudice from my mind.

I drink my pumpkin spice latte without really tasting it and totally ignore the files on the flash drive.

I also forget about my various scrapes and bruises, and when I finally stand up to head home, my muscles are so stiff from sitting I almost fall down again. Fortunately, it’s nearly dusk, so no one has to bear witness to another consumptive heroine blush.

As I approach the unobtrusive, rather battered door that leads up to my apartment, I’m still lost in thought. So it takes me a beat longer than it ordinarily might to spot the guy in a trench coat peering through the front window of Vintage Treasures. (Mrs. Merriweather once told me she chose that name because labeling the merchandise antique would raise people’s expectations, and no one would shop there if the sign said old junk.)

“Closes at five,” I say, pointing at the placard in the corner of the window, hoping he’ll take the hint and move on. But just in case, I shift my keys so the sharp part sticks out from between my clenched fingers. Creeps are everywhere, even Grantham, Minnesota.

He turns and squints at me from beneath the brim of his ballcap, which casts his face in shadow. “Elle?”

“Yeah?” I try to sound noncommittal even as I tighten my grip on my keys.

“I’m Bill,” he says.

When his first name obviously doesn’t mean to me all he’d hoped it would, he adds, with a pause between each new nugget of information, “Bill Conklin. The new youth minister at your parents’ church. I’m in town for a conference at the college. Your mom asked me to stop in and see how you are. Sorry if I surprised you. She told me she’d call and give you a heads up …”

I reach with my free hand toward my back pocket. But my phone’s not there. I left it on the charger this morning.

His story, though, has an undeniable ring of truth. It is exactly the kind of thing my mother would do—and she probably left me a voicemail all about it. “No, it’s all right,” I insist, sounding mostly genuine as I surreptitiously rearrange my keys so I can open the door. I am a child of the hospitable Midwest, after all. “I just, um, forgot.”

Once upstairs, Bill drapes his coat over a chair in the living room, then takes off his hat. I’d guess he’s about thirty, though his hairline is receding and he has a little paunch, which makes it harder to judge. I watch with something like horrified amusement as he sits down without waiting to be asked, then props his feet on the ottoman. It’s a hideous relic from the 1980s, and its only redeeming quality is how well the brown- and rust-colored upholstery hides orange cat fur. Bill’s shoes can’t hurt it—but still, what kind of person makes themselves comfortable like that in a stranger’s home?

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, slipping into my room to change out of my torn pants before I have to explain what happened to another soul. (You see, I was trying to process the disappearance of one of the most important figures of English literature as well as the fact that my advisor is, inexplicably, now a man, so I wasn’t really watching where I was going …)

When I return to the living room, Cassie is already there, and I shoot her a furtive, apologetic glance. I fully expect her to duck out as quickly as she possibly can.