“Drinks?” My voice gets back to that mortifying lilt.

“Absolutely.” The word “absolutely” now ranks with “paperwork” as one I’d very much like to feel him say against me. I fumble for my phone for something to do that isn’t launching myself onto his face to determine which word would be the most pleasing. “I’ll give you my number.”

I pull up his contact info with his Pemberley email address. I really was going to give myself until next week to get in touch. But he’s here now. He recites his number and I punch it into the phone.

“I look forward to it, then.”

Chloe lets out a little, “Oop,” plucking her phone from her purse. “Pardon me.” She steps away to take the call, though the glimpse I get of her lock screen tells me it’s an act. “Hey, H,” she adds, tossing in the nickname of a friend back home. Thorough.

Her kitten heels click along the catwalk, fading as she reaches the carpet in the lobby. Then it’s just Darcy and me.

“Your tours of Manhattan usually include empty buildings?” he asks, voice low.

“I love the space.” It comes out with more emotion than I’m prepared for.

His eyes dance over me. “I’m glad.”

I’m completely useless again. I want his face on my face. And everywhere else. Ugh, we are wearing far too many clothes right now.

“Thank you for the letter. And everything with Jane and Charles. It . . . meant a lot. To them,” I swallow hard. “To me.”

He meets my gaze. “I had incentive.”

Adrenaline skips through me. “More than the intrinsic value of reuniting your best friend with someone who adores him and whom he adores in return?”

His laugh is just as satisfying as it was the first time I heard it. “I’d consider taking offense to that, Ms. Bennet, but I’d rather assure you that yes, I had far more incentive. Just don’t get smug about it.”

I bat my lashes, aiming for coy. For once, I hope I’m not pulling it off. “Too late.”

I am a wreck all afternoon. I pester Chloe with repeat analyses of my interaction with Darcy, which she counters by reminding me she was there, assuring me he’s clearly “feeling it,” and demanding I stop obsessing, because I sound like a loon.

I keep my phone in my lap through dinner and holler, “Wilfie and Nell!” when he sends a text suggesting the bar for drinks.

“It’s good,” offers a man sitting across from me at the large community table. “There’s a hell of a men’s day spa a few doors down.” He nods to Gales, who doesn’t seem sure what to do with the information.