“Yes, the score,” she said, having forgotten all about it.
“Last I saw, it was fifteen to ten Knicks, first quarter.”
“First quarter? Well, would you mind if I stayed and watched the rest?”
“If Mrs. Wattlesbrook finds you here . . .”
“They all think I’m in bed. No one will come looking for me. I’m last in precedence, after all.”
They hung his bedspread on the curtain rod for “extra blue-light protection,” and sat on his love seat, watching the game on his laptop with the volume turned so low they had to whisper not to drown out the announcer. She felt cozy and mischievous, watching the game in the dark apartment, hidden from that Miss Hannigan of a proprietress, sipping a can of root beer from Martin’s minifridge.
“You drink root beer while you watch an NBA game? You are an American wannabe, aren’t you?”
“That is perhaps the most horrid thing you could say to an Englishman.”
“Worse than French wannabe?”
“Well, there is that.” He sipped his soda. “I spent a summer in America and one night drank two six-packs of root beer on a dare.”
“I would assume that would make it even more disgusting to you,” said Jane.
“Right? And yet I began to crave the formerly vile, cough-syrupy taste. But wait just a moment, Miss I’ ve-Just-Come-From-a-Rather-Dull-Game-of-Whist, who’s pointing fingers and calling me awannabeof anything?”
“Yeah . . .” She smoothed the front of her empire waist and laughed at herself as best she could. “It’s, um, a Halloween costume. You know, trick or treat.”
“And my interest in basketball is merely research into a curious cultural phenomenon, innit?”
“Pure research.”
“Absolutely.”
“But of course. Besides, you ruined me, you know. No wonder Wattlesbrook forbids anything modern to clash with the nineteenth century. Thirty seconds of conversation with you in the garden and I went cross-eyed trying to take myself seriously again in this getup.”
“I have that effect on a lot of women. All it takes me is thirty seconds and—er . . . That didn’t sound right.”
“You’d better stop while you’re behind, there, sport.”
The laptop seemed to grow quieter, and they moved closer to it, from the couch to the carpet, and sitting on the floor with her corset still stiffening her back, she had to lean against him to be comfortable. And then his arm was around her shoulder, and his smell was delicious. She felt drunk on fizzy root beer, and soothed by the sweeping action on the tiny screen. He started to play with her fingers, and she turned her head. Their breaths touched. Then their lips.
And then, they really made out.
It was fun, kissing a guy she barely knew. She’d never done this before, and it made her feel rowdy and pretty and miles removed from her issues. She didn’t think or fret. She just played.
“Good shot,” she said, her eyes closed, pretending to watch the game.
“Watch that defense,” he whispered, kissing her neck. An evening dress allowed for a lot of neck, and somehow he got it all. “Get the rebound, you clumsy oaf.”
And it was fun to stop kissing and look at each other, breathless, feeling the thrill and anticipation of the undone.
“Good game,” she said.
The screen had gone black. She didn’t know how long the game had been over, but her heavy eyes and limbs told her itwas very late. She thought if she stayed longer, she would fall asleep on his chest, and because that idea pleased her, she left immediately. Her torso stiff inside her corset exoskeleton, he had to help her to her feet. With one hand, he pulled her onto her toes as though she were the weight of a pillow.
He walked her to the door and swatted her on the butt. “Good game, coach. See you tomorrow.”
“Um, who won?” she asked.
“We did.” He opened the door and peered out at the dark night. “I should walk you back.”
