Darcy ignored him.
“She mocked the entire concept of the app,” he muttered. “Tore into the premise of algorithmic compatibility. Rolled her eyes when I said it could work. And yet—she signed up.”
“You think she’s a hypocrite?”
“As I said at the gala,” Darcy said, voice flat, “people ask questions sometimes just to be noticed.” He paused. “I think she wanted to be seen disapproving of something she secretly hoped might prove her wrong.”
Bingley considered that. “Or maybe she was just curious.”
Darcy turned back to the skyline. “People posture. Ask the questions that make them sound bold, untouchable. She performed distaste for the idea—but she signed up. She matched. She showed up. That says something.”
“Like what?”
“That she doesn’t hate it as much as she wants to. Or maybe doesn’t hate the idea of it working for other people—just not for her.”
Bingley watched him, quiet now.
“And what does it say about you?”
Darcy didn’t answer.
He set his coffee down with a soft clink.
“She’s still matched with you,” Bingley said, after a moment. “She could’ve deleted the app, but she hasn’t. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“So that means something.”
“It means we’re both stuck,” Darcy said. “Three-date lock. Neither of us can move forward unless one of us does something.”
“So what are you going to do?”
Darcy didn’t respond right away. He crossed the room slowly, adjusted his sleeve with unnecessary precision, and returned to the window.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “We’ll have to see where things go.”
A pause.
“And wherever it does... I’ll figure it out from there.”
***
Elizabeth stared at her phone for a long time.
Not at the app. Not yet. Just the blank lock screen. Then the app icon. Then her reflection in the black glass.
“Two more dates,” she muttered, like it was a curse. Or a dare.
Jane had gone an hour ago, leaving behind the scent of tea and annoying optimism. The living room was dim now, washed in late-afternoon gold and the quiet tap of her foot against the leg of the couch.
She opened the app.
There it was.
Mr. F.
Still matched.
