Chapter SEVEN
THE FROZENyoghurt place was a test. Not an overt one, but Elizabeth had picked it with intent. It was bright, overly casual, and slightly too cold—both in temperature and ambience. A place she was almost sure someone like Fitzwilliam Darcy would find beneath him. Not that she was hoping he’d turn around and leave. Just… wondering if he might.
He didn’t.
He arrived two minutes early that Thursday afternoon. No tie. Rolled sleeves. Hair neatly indifferent, like he'd run a hand through it in passing and then left it to fend for itself. He spotted her instantly.
“Hi,” she said, standing halfway.
“Hi.”
That was it. No hug. No handshake. Just a quiet mutual recognition that this was, in fact, happening.
They hadn’t messaged much since she’d broken the silence. Just a time. A place. No banter. No small talk. Minimal emoji use. She’d sent “Still on?” the night before, and he’d replied with: “Yes, unless you’ve changed your mind.”
She hadn’t known what to make of that. She still didn’t.
He looked around, his gaze sweeping the fluorescent-lit shop with the clinical detachment of someone mentally cataloguing every detail. The plastic chairs. The laminated posters. The self-serve machines humming quietly along theleft wall. The toppings bar, inexplicably stocked with sorghum, dried dates, assorted fruit, crushed nuts, and scattered bits of chocolate. A man brushed past them and, without a hint of irony, requested a swirl with chocolate and dates.
Darcy’s brow lifted.
“Interesting choice,” he said.
“You don’t like frozen yoghurt?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You said ‘interesting’ like someone describing a child’s drawing that vaguely resembles a duck.”
“I said it like someone reserving judgment.”
“Hope you’re not lactose intolerant,” she said, eyeing him.
He shook his head once.
She handed him a cup.
“Then judge away.”
They moved to the machines. She filled her cup with original tart, a splash of mango, and a small pile of strawberries that looked better than they tasted. He chose plain vanilla. No toppings.
Of course he did.
They took seats near the window, at a small round table that wobbled if you leaned too hard on one side. Outside, rain tapped against the glass. The clouds were low and sulking.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” she said after a beat.
“I wasn’t sure you’d message.”
“Why did you?”
“Come?” He glanced down at his cup. “The whole thing felt unfinished.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “That’s exactly what Jane said.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“My sister,” she added. “The calm one. You probably remember her from the gala—I’m fairly certain you saw her drag me off when I started asking the dangerous questions.”
