Page 34 of Inventing Mr Darcy

“As for what I deserve,” he continues, “well, why don’t you let me be the judge of that? We wouldn’t have had that fiasco with the table if I had just set my ego aside and talked with that Conklin guy …”

“Ugh, no! That would’ve just encouraged him.” I blow out a sigh that puffs my cheeks. “I just don’t know what Cassie sees in Bill. She’s changed.”

He squeezes my hands in commiseration. “I want to say something, but every way I can think to phrase it sounds … opportunistic.”

It’s my turn to wrinkle my brow. “Just say it.”

After a deep breath, he does. “If there’s something going on with your roommate, or you just don’t want to go back to your place right now, you’re welcome to stay here tonight.”

I know I can’t run away from my problems. But being here with him in this cozy old house doesn’t feel like running …

I return the gentle pressure of his fingers. “I’d like that.”

THIRTEEN

I don’t want to leap to any conclusions about Fisher’s invitation.

(Well, that’s not entirely true. But I am going to try to play this cool. Over the last couple of weeks, our kisses have been ratcheting up in intensity, until we’re almost back to where we started that night in the workroom. But he hasn’t pressed me for more than that, and I—well, again, jumping into bed with a guy after a few dates feels a lot more Lydia Bennet than Elizabeth.)

But the thing is, it’s not about sex … though the way he kisses me makes me think I will not be disappointed when and if we get there. Maybe it would be more accurate to say it’s not only about sex. Most of all, I want what I think it could mean for our relationship: Deeper connection. Deeper intimacy. Deeper trust.

Still, I’m trying to resign myself to the possibility that you’re welcome to stay here means I should be prepared for a pillow and blanket on the couch.

Then he tugs me closer. Not quite into the space between his knees. He drags his gaze slowly upward—so slowly that by the time he reaches my face, his expression is even hotter and more intense than it was earlier tonight, when he first saw me in my fancy-ish dress from across the room. I can feel I’m on the verge of something, maybe melting into a puddle, maybe combustion.

And then he stands up.

His height is momentarily disorienting. I push onto my tiptoes without knowing why, then steady myself by transferring my grip from his hands to his wrists, then his arms.

“This house has six bedrooms,” he says, which seems to answer the question of what he’s offering, until he adds, “but only one bed.”

For some reason, that phrase makes me giggle.

Which makes his dark eyes dance nervously over my face. “If you want, I’ll—or you could—I don’t want to assume—”

“That I want to sleep with you?”

Color streaks across his cheekbones. It’s honestly adorable. I have a sudden flash of insight, a mental image of him as a nerdy teen who couldn’t bring himself to talk to a girl.

I slide my hands further up his arms to his shoulders, dragging us closer together, close enough that I can whisper in his ear. “Then how should I make my wants clear?”

It’s a brazen move, for me at least. And risky too, because what if it isn’t what he wants? His posture is unyielding. But uncertain? That, I can’t tell.

“You want me?” he says, and his breath stirs my hair. “Just … me?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he suspects me of harboring secret Mr. Darcy fantasies. But who needs a book boyfriend when you’ve got a smart, salty, sexy man in real life?

“Just you, Fisher,” I assure him, then rock back onto my heels. I’m not going to throw myself at him. I slide my hands back down his arms to his hands, curl my fingers around his. “So, I guess now it’s up to you to decide if you want m—”

He swoops to kiss me, moving so quickly that, by rights, there ought to be a collision, bruised lip, chipped tooth, something. But his mouth covers mine with precision, perfect pressure, just the right angle, fitting us together like it’s how we’re meant to be. His hands rise to curve lightly around either side of my face, and I feel them tremble with pent-up emotions that find their outlet in his lips as they move against mine.

One palm slips through my damp hair to my neck; the other slides over my shoulder and comes to rest in the hollow between my shoulder blades, hot even through his heavy sweatshirt. I need to feel his touch against my skin.

He breaks our kiss long enough to murmur, “Do you want to—?”

I nod and start kissing him again. It doesn’t matter what he was about to say.

I want to.