Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(40)

With a smirk, he said, “Doesn’t matter. I think I’d follow you anywhere.”

And my only thought was that I’d died and gone to heaven after all.

We’d taken two steps when I wobbled, and when he caught me, I was tipped in his arms, looking up at him with the cloudless blue sky stretching off in every direction.

“Hold on to my neck,” he said with a smile.

And when I did, he scooped me up like a princess.

“Oh!” I breathed, cradled in his arms, the closeness of him overwhelming. “You don’t have to do that. I can walk.”

“I’m sure you can, but this is so much better, isn’t it?”

And I had to admit that it absolutely was.



Greg

Annie was the last thing I’d thought about when I fell asleep last night and the first thing I’d thought of this morning when I woke. And all I wanted to do when I saw her was ask her on a date—a real date. No more ignoring my feelings, no more wondering if she felt the same.

I’d find out for sure.

Lying in bed, trying to sleep, that little photo of her on the steps of The Met sitting on my nightstand, I had wished that I’d told her how I felt. I almost had—the words were on the tip of my tongue—but the truth was that I wasn’t sure how she felt, and the fear of rejection had stopped me.

But not today, I told myself as I kept busy, waiting for her to show up to work, nervous as all hell.

Because I knew how I felt and what I wanted, but what she wanted was a mystery to me. I’d dissected every moment, looking for signals. But Annie didn’t know how to send or receive signals. She really might not consider me as anything but a friend, and if that were the case, things were about to get real weird between us.

The thought made me feel a little ill, but I bolstered myself with faith and hope.

But the second she walked through the door, my hope drained out of me like soggy leaves out of a rain gutter.

Her face was alight, flushed from either the cold or the proximity of the man whose arm she clung to. His eyes were on her face, his expression thick with wonder and maybe even a touch of adoration.

And if it had been anyone but him, I might have found a way to accept it.

Will Bailey was a version of the devil just as much as Jacques Poosteau, but the difference was that Will appeared harmless. No one would have questioned Jacques’s desire to separate your face from the rest of you. And of the two, Will was easily the more dangerous.

When Annie approached the bar, the look of gladness and trust and complete joy on her face was a bucket of ice on the dying embers of my hope.

“Greg!” she called as she walked toward me where I gripped the edge of the bar hard enough to turn my fingers white.

Will met my eyes, his expression shifting to something colder, more calculated than he’d ever show Annie, not until he chewed her up and spit her out.

“Hey, Annie,” I said, hoping I sounded casual and cool as my heart set fire in my ribs.

“Oh my God, you will not believe what happened.”

She burst into the story, her face open as a daisy and lips smiling like a bubbling spring, and I listened, that flaming organ in my chest sinking with every word.

Because one thing was painfully clear: I had missed my chance.

Discomfort gripped me, squeezing tighter at hearing she’d fainted. She was fine, she insisted, and she’d tell her doctor, she swore. And Will had saved her, she said emphatically. She spoke about him as if he’d slain a dragon or saved her from pirates or Vikings or drug dealers, her eyes wide and full of emotion so sincere, it scared me.

Not because she felt it. But, because she believed it so fully, she would never see Will coming.

When her story was told, Will chuckled and stepped back, separating them. Thank God for that because I was thirty seconds from dislocating the arm her hand was hooked in.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, “but I’ll see you tonight, Annie.”

She blushed so fabulously, I was surprised she didn’t faint again. “I can’t wait.”

“Me either,” he said with a smile, not sparing me a glance before he turned and walked away.

Annie sat on one of the barstools and unwound her scarf. “Oh, and my uncle might have gotten me an audition with Juilliard!”

My mouth opened and smiled and laughed all at once in disbelief. “Annie, that’s…that’s incredible.”

“I can’t even believe it!” she mused. “I’m sure the chances are almost nonexistent, but even having the opportunity is just…” She shook her head and laughed. “God, I have never been happier in my entire life. I have a shot at Juilliard, I just met my dream guy, I have a real job, and I live in New York City. All of my dreams are coming true.”

I pushed my feelings aside, turned my back on the things I wanted and gave her the best lie I had. “I’m happy for you, Annie.”

Her smile slowly faded. “Are you okay, Greg?”

“Yeah. I just have some stuff in the back I need to do,” I said, needing an escape, needing a minute to compose myself. “I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Now she was full-on frowning, the coup de grace on her hangdog, hurt expression. “Oh.”

In that moment, I understood something vital.

I wanted Annie’s happiness more than anything, even my own. And she was happy—so blissfully happy that the thought of shattering that overrode my own desires.