Chapter One-and-Twenty
ONE-AND-TWENTY
The convention gets off to a good start, by and large.
Though I have to admit I’m surprised by the discovery that Geoff and Professor Pedersen are sharing a two-room suite.
I suppose it was more economical for the college to put the two men together, rather than booking three entirely separate rooms. Outside of class, I’ve never seen them together much, but now they’re downright chummy—Pedersen has invited Geoff to call him Julian—and I can’t help but be a little jealous or to wonder what my experience might have been if we’d been traveling with Julia instead.
Also, I don’t make any egregious mistakes when describing the database to prospective subscribers, though it’s never not going to weird me out to see OWEN-C on the tote bags and keychain flash drives I’m handing out, rather than AUSTEN-C.
Geoff passes by while I’m sitting there, on his way to the overpriced coffee shop across from the registration desk, and pauses to compliment me on how I answered one of the questions we received during our presentation.
A moment after he’s gone on his way, I’m approached by a dark-haired young woman with outstretched arms.
“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.”
“If you’re sure,” Fisher says, glancing down at me.
There’s a question in his voice, and just enough glare on his glasses to make it impossible for me to read his eyes.
The situation feels a little like I’m walking into a trap.
This isn’t Grantham. If I spill something this time, I’ll ruin a gazillion-dollar dress and wind up going viral.
“Of course,” I reply with a too-hearty smile. I can do this; I’ll prove to him he doesn’t need to be ashamed of me. “Can’t wait.”
We return our skates and head back to the hotel. I need time to freshen up before the last panel of the day. “I’ll pick you up on Tuesday at eight,” Fisher says, as he brushes a soft kiss across my cheek before stepping toward the parking valet.
“And I’ll have a messenger deliver some dresses in a day or two,” Gaby says cheerily. Then she leans in to kiss the air near my other cheek and drops her voice to add, in a sharp tone I’ve never heard from her before, “Do not break my brother’s heart.”
I draw back, shocked by her warning, but before I can even form a retort, she’s joined Fisher at the valet stand and the doorman ushers me inside the hotel.
I’m so absorbed in mulling over what’s happened—Is Gaby trying to break us up?
Or just worried that I’m some kind of gold digger?
Could there really be a place for me in Fisher’s life here?
—that I almost snub two faculty members from a mid-size school in Oklahoma that’s looking to hire in my field.
But I manage to make stilted small talk in the elevator, which I hope is better than nothing, before ducking out on the sixteenth floor, thinking it’s my stop, and having to climb two flights of stairs with a bruised tailbone.
I’ve always had trouble keeping all the moving parts of my life running smoothly.
At best, I’m usually operating some sort of Rube Goldberg machine.
But at the moment, I’m a mechanic in grease-stained overalls, every piece of the engine laid out on a tarp before me, no manual, and someone’s stolen my tools. I simply don’t stand a chance.
I’m late getting back to the booth, which annoys Professor Pedersen.
I spill coffee on the central pillar of my conference kit, a simple black sheath dress that was going to be my New Year’s Eve fallback when Gaby “forgets” to send anything.
Worst of all, I miss a call from Fisher. There’s no follow-up text, and when I try to call back, he doesn’t pick up.
On the morning of New Year’s Eve and the last day of the conference, the dresses finally arrive while I’m still brushing my teeth: four garment bags with accompanying boxes of shoes and accessories.
When I unzip the first bag, it’s a window onto what I’m in for tonight, because …
wow. It’s slinky and metallic and there’s no hiding in a dress like that.
I imagine the sort of place you go wearing something that looks like this, and I hope I remember something from that etiquette class I took through career services back in undergrad.
I don’t have time to try anything on right now, but I immediately text Fisher to thank her for me.
Relief, and maybe a tiny bit of trepidation, floods through me when my phone vibrates with an instant reply.
Our sole communication for the last few days has been limited to a text from him saying he’d run into an unexpected complication, but that he was still looking forward to our night out.
Only it’s not a reply. It’s a text from Cassie.
Um, girl? Did I just see a picture of
you ice skating with Fisher Davis?
Where?
Looked like Rockefeller Center
No, I mean where did you see the picture?
BeeSocial
Also PicSnap
And there was a video on YouTube,
but I didn’t click play … yet!
Oh God—did I look like an idiot?
Her reply is a long time coming.
Actually, you looked … really happy
I know it would be foolish to read wistfulness into a text, but I can’t help but think maybe she’s questioning her own choices in the face of our rom-com worthy moment. And I’m also super relieved to know that the pictures didn’t capture any of the weird vibes in the air that day.
Maybe it was all in my head.
Thanks! It was fun
You should get Bill to take you
out to play in the snow!
Brrrrr!
But yeah, maybe I’ll try
Feeling like I’ve inspired Cassie to demand a little bit of the attention she deserves, I decide to check the Wordstitch app, where I see that First Impressions is continuing to gain appreciative readers.
I look up from my phone at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, hoping to be greeted by the face of a well-groomed woman transformed by personal and professional success.
A woman who can get away with wearing one of Gabriela Davis’s designer gowns.
But the same old me looks back, right down to a glob of toothpaste in the corner of my mouth, which I wipe away with a towel.
As I slip my lanyard over my head, I muster one of the plastic smiles I’ve been giving prospective OWEN-C subscribers and then head out to face the day, muttering beneath my breath: “You’ve got this. ”