His arm was around her.
He didn’t recall doing that, but as soon as he was aware of it, he drew her nearer, tightening his muscles and flexing his fingers, breathing in the feeling of her weight, soft and warm, against his body.
She paused, dropping the little booklet on her chest with a flap of paper, and turned her head up toward him.
“Good book?” he asked, his voice thin and ragged.
“It’s a libretto,” she said, shrugging. “They’re never very well written. Just summaries really.”
“‘Summaries’?”
“Of operas,” she said, flipping the cover toward him so he could read the inky scrawl on the cover.
Zaïre (Voltaire, 1732)
“I don’t know it,” he told her. “Is it a sad one?”
“Yes,” she answered, frowning. “And no.Infuriatingis probably a better word. I’ll read it to you some other night. Honestly, afterRomeo and Julietand all their nonsense, I think I need to put on a comedy for my own sanity.”
“More Shakespeare?” he asked, raising his brows.
“Probably,” she answered with a sigh, tossing the libretto onto the table next to the lantern and rolling her body against him, hand braced against his chest. “Malcolm was right about public interest, especially in the off season. Damn him.”
“You said you didn’t mind it if it was in service of Titania,” he reminded her. “So why not do that one next? You can even keep Rhys while it’s cold out.”
“‘Rhys’?” she said, laughing. “As Lysander? Theseus?”
“Lib,” he said, flat and firm. “Puck. Obviously.”
She blinked at him, her eyes widening. “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “You’re right. That’s perfect. Do you think he’ll do it?”
“Yes,” said Jasper. “As long as you assure him up front that he doesn’t die this time.”
“Oh, that.” She chuckled, her body shaking with amusement against his. “He loves dying now that he’s done it a few times. It’s his favorite scene. Or second-favorite, after watching Tybalt get his just desserts.”
“‘Desserts,’” Jasper repeated with a groan. “He ate that damned pie. Did you see?”
She shook her head but giggled, anyway. “I try not to pay attention to him, to be honest with you.”
“‘Honest’?” he repeated, running his fingers over her waist, pulling her closer. “I like honest. Be honest again.”
She narrowed her eyes, pressing the flat of her hand over his heart and tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “All right,” she said, licking her lips, like she was considering how best to make him regret asking for this. “I would have been very irritated ifyouhad eaten that pie.”
He blinked.
That wasn’t what he had expected. “Why?”
“Because another woman made it for you,” she snapped, her fingers twisting in his shirt. “One you considered courting. One who certainly was making the first overture toward allowing it by baking said pie.”
He stared down at her, his cheeks heating. “Right,” he said. “That makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” she returned, frowning. “I don’t get jealous. It doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“It does,” he assured her. “If you love me.”
She sighed, dropping her head into the crook of his neck and releasing her grip on his shirt. “Oh, only that, is it?”
“Only that,” he replied. “I say that as a man who has been plenty jealous over the course of our most recent caper. Paul bloody Rath. You knew what you were doing.”
