Free Austenland by Shannon Hale Page A

combination television and VCR with a magician’s ta-da flourish, explaining that he’d asked a guy from the town to record it for him that afternoon.
“I know, Why risk so much for a basketball game? Behold the weakness that is man.”
“Did you play basketball?” she asked, eyeing again his sleek height.
“Americans always ask me that, and so, curious, I started watching the NBA games a couple of years ago. Now I’m shamelessly addicted. They’re a bit more exciting than football, aren’t they? About as much running around but a lot more goals. Don’t tell a soul from Sheffield that I said that. Long live the Manchester United.”
“Yes, absolutely, go United,” she said, crossing herself.
“So, uh, you came about the score.
“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 stripped his bed and hung the sheets and bedspread on the curtain rod for “extra blue-light protection,” then turned the volume down 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 Mrs. 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. After that, the formerly vile-coughsyrupy taste suddenly became appealing. But wait just a moment, Miss I’ve-Just-ComeFrom-A-Rather-Dull-Game-Of-Whist, who’s pointing fingers and calling me a wannabe of 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.”
“Ah,” he said. ‘And my interest in basketball is just, you know, research into a curious cultural phenomenon.”
“Pure research.”
‘Absolutely.”
“But of course. Besides, you ruined me, you know. No wonder Wattlesbrook forbids anything modern to clash with the nineteenth century. Five minutes 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 is five minutes with me and—er . . . that didn’t sound right.”
“You’d better stop while you’re behind, there, sport.”
The television 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 root beer, and soothed by the twitching of the tiny television. 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 television buzzed with static. She didn’t know how long the game had been over, but her heavy eyes