Her heart did something irrational.
She sat up straighter without meaning to. Almost stood. Then caught herself.It has to be him, she thought to herself.
She couldn’t be sure. They didn’t share photos.
There was no way he could recognise her.
Still, her fingers were already moving, typing out a message.
“Just saw you walk past me. Nice coat.”
She looked up. The man who walked in was on his phone, thumb gliding over the screen. Then he looked up—directly at her—and smiled. It was small, courteous, maybe even amused.
Her stomach flipped.
And then her phone chimed again.
Mr. F: ”Not there yet. Traffic’s a nightmare. Three minutes tops.”
The bottom dropped out of her expression.
He wasn’t Mr. F.
Of course, he wasn’t. She turned back to her cappuccino, cheeks flushing, just as the man at the counter ordered and moved to a seat a few tables away.Not him.
Embarrassed, she tried to shake it off.
Then a car pulled up outside. Sleek and black, the kind that looked like it cost five years of Elizabeth’s salary.
The door opened.
Elizabeth caught her breath.
Could this be him? Could this be Mr. F?
The driver stepped out and circled to the backseat.
A pause. Then the door opened—And out stepped a man she recognised instantly.
Tall. Handsome as sin. Composed. Unsmiling.
Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Elizabeth blinked, her body going rigid.
No.
No, no, no.
Of all the cafés in New York, he just happened to find this one? What was this—stalking? Coincidence? Cosmic punishment?
Her jaw clenched as she watched him approach the café door with maddening calm, as if this were just any other day. He opened the door, stepped in—
And looked straight at her.
Not a double-take. Not surprise. Just a steady, unreadable gaze.
He gave her a polite nod, almost like a bow, and then walked right past her table.
