Living Out Loud (Austen, #3)(49)

I chuckled. “Must be nice.”

“It is. My parents even approve; can you believe that? My dad said he took a few years off to travel and said I should do the same.”

“Well,” I started, “if you’d lived a couple hundred years ago in England, you would have been a gentleman. Like, that would have been your job—to do nothing.”

He shook his head with mock regret. “I always thought I was an old soul.”

I laughed, and he pulled me a little closer until I was leaning into him.

“Speaking of gentlemen in historical England…”

“That’s an unexpected segue.”

“Speaking of,” I continued, “there’s a costume mixer at the bar later this week, and I was wondering what you were doing Friday night.”

One corner of his lips rose. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“I guess I am. That is, unless you’re dead inside and you hate costume parties.”

“I love costume parties, especially costume parties I get to attend with a gorgeous girl on my arm. What’s the theme?”

“Well, it’s historical night—we’re supposed to dress up as half of a fictional historical couple. Guys who wear cravats get five-dollar wells. Otherwise, they won’t dress up.”

A laugh burst out of him. “Yeah, I could see that. So, who do you want to go as? Lizzie and Darcy?”

My mouth popped open in surprise. “You know Pride and Prejudice?”

He shrugged, but he looked mighty proud of himself. “I was a lit major.”

“You took a course on Jane Austen at Yale?”

“I took a class in romance in classical literature. Pride and Prejudice was at the top of the reading list, as was Byron, works from each Bront? sister, Shakespeare’s sonnets—to name a few.”

I stared at him, so blissfully stunned, I couldn’t speak for a moment. “That might be the hottest thing I’ve ever heard a man say.”

He pulled me a little closer. “Oh, but you haven’t even heard the good stuff.”

I laughed to stop myself from sighing and melting into him like warm butter on a biscuit.

“So, no,” I said, trying to get a handle on my brain, “not Lizzie and Darcy—too predictable. I was actually thinking of doing a newer historical. My first thought was to pick one of Julia Quinn’s couples. Have you heard of her?”

“No, I haven’t, but I don’t read much romance.”

“That’s fair, but these aren’t just romances; these are fairy tales. They’re the most satisfying, entertaining stories, books that touch your heart, make you feel, make you want to sing and dance and laugh and cry, all within a few pages,” I said earnestly and with a little too much enthusiasm.

He smiled down at me. “Well then, I’ll have to read one. Which one should I start with?”

“Would you really read one? Really?”

“Of course I will,” he said on a laugh.

“Well,” I said excitedly, “my favorite is Eloise’s book, but—oh! Francesca’s, ugh, it’s so good, and there’s this big, beautiful Scotsman. But maybe…” I thought for a second, assessing his face like I was going to determine what color he would wear best. “You know, I think you should read Anthony’s book. Enemies to lovers,” I said with a waggle of my brows. “I’ll pick one up for you at Wasted Words. We have a billion copies or something.”

“A billion? That’s a lot of books. So, which couple should we go as?”

“Sophie and Benedict,” I answered definitively. “It’s a Cinderella story, and her gown is just beautiful…” I trailed off, my heart sinking. “I don’t know where I might actually get a dress like that.”

“I bet I can find one. My brother’s on Broadway, and he has access to, like, a billion costumes.”

I gaped, slack-jawed again. “He sings on Broadway? Like, the Broadway?”

“The one and only.”

I couldn’t even wrap my head around it. “What’s he in?”

“Right now, he’s in Hamilton.”

“You’re kidding.”

He shook his head. “I’d never joke about something so serious as the theater.”

I laughed.

“I can get tickets to pretty much anything too, if you want to go.”

“That would actually blow my mind. I might not survive.”

“As long as it doesn’t blow your heart, I’ll take you.”

“No promises on that either.”

The car pulled over in the park, and Will straightened up, smiling. “Ah, we’re here.”

He opened the door and slid out, extending his hand, which I took. A moment later, we were walking toward the reservoir.

“You took me by surprise, Annie,” he said as we approached the place where we’d met.

“A fainting girl will do that, I’ve heard,” I teased.

“But it’s more than that. You’re just…different.”

“Good different or bad different?”

He pulled me to a stop. “Good. Definitely good.” And then he turned me around to face a grassy knoll where a gorgeous picnic lay, spread out over a massive plaid.