IT WASN’T THAT Liz had changed her mind about Darcy’s essentially disagreeable nature; rather, she had concluded that a romp or two in his bed would neither diminish nor exacerbate his disagreeability, especially if she discussed it with no one, even Jane.

Twenty-four hours after their initial coital encounter, she went for another run fully prepared to see him; so prepared, in fact, that she was surprised not to see his imposing figure at Easthill Avenue, then surprised at Observatory Avenue, at Menlo Avenue, at Stettinius Avenue, and by Edwards, she had to admit to herself that the chances of crossing paths with him had grown slim. Really, she had little idea of either his work schedule or his exercise routine.

The question then was how deliberate to be—whether to dispense altogether with pretenses of coincidence, track down his email or phone number, and arrange another meeting using the same specificity she’d employ to make a dentist appointment. The antipathy she and Darcy felt for each other meant the sacrifice of pride such a plan would entail was simultaneously more and less consequential than if they shared mutual fondness and respect.

She returned to the Tudor without either laying eyes on him or coming to a conclusion about what her course of action ought to be; and thus, in more than one way, she was deeply frustrated.