Page 37 of What I'm Looking For

“We were naming it after the original Globe Theater.”

I cross back to his side of the table. “There was another theater in Boston called the Globe?”

“You weren’t kidding when you said you didn’t know anything about Shakespeare, were you?”

I plop back on the bench, facing him. “Well sor-REE. I wasn’t a theater major in college. I studied American history.”

His hands go up in the air. “I’m with other theater people so much I forget not everyone knows this stuff.”

I pretend to choke back tears. “That’s okay, I’ll survive the humiliation.”

He rests his chin on his hand. “History, huh? I’d have figured you’d be an economics major or something.”

“Actually, that doesn’t really help you do what I do. Econ majors tend to be a little too in love with their models.” I look around the picnic area next to Dairy Joy before whispering theatrically, “Don’t tell anybody, but I never even took statistics.”

“‘Be thou assured, if words be made of breath, and breath of life, I have no life to breathe what thou hast said to me.’”

I point at him. “Hamlet! I remember!”

He golf-claps.

“So, back to the few places my knowledgeislacking,” I huff, pretending to be offended. “What was the original Globe Theater?”

“The theater in London in the 1600s where most of Shakespeare’s plays were first performed.”

“Ohhh, I get it now.”

He nods, his face mock serious. “You’re such a good student. Almost like you went to a decent college.”

I whack him and he grabs my hands, wrestling playfully, bringing us closer together, which sets off a shiver deep in my belly.

“Anyway, we obviously weren’t really going to name it that. I mean, I wanted to, but no one else did. Then it was Boston Shakespeare, but the initials to that were problematic.”

“I do get that one.”

He leans in even closer, his grin wide. “The depth of your intelligence is truly astounding.”

My desire to lock lips is barely edged out by my need to have the last word. “I’ll try to keep my brain in check, you know, so you don’t get overwhelmed.”

“‘Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, but then woos best when most his choice is froward.’”

He punctuates every few words of this talk of wooing and affection with a featherlight kiss along my jaw. On the last word, he slides his hands beneath my thighs and lifts them over his, scooting me close in one smooth move. I let out a yip of surprise but rebound quickly to capture his grinning mouth with mine. His hands rove over my butt, sending a pulsing need zinging everywhere. Ankles crossed behind his back bring me even closer. When he growls and nips my lower lip, my hands find the curls at the base of his skull, and he pulls me in until I’m plastered to his firm chest. His tongue sweeps my mouth and its hypersensitive roof and?—

“A-hem.”

We freeze, but a disapproving female clears her throat again before asking, “Is this table free?”

I manage to get my leg over the side of the bench and away from Will to face the woman, who stands next to the table, hands on hips. Three kids flank her, mouths agape, ice cream cones forgotten.

I swallow a laugh as Will steps gracefully away from the bench and bows with a flourish. “‘Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.’”

“All right, kids, show’s ovah,” the woman says in a broad Boston accent. “Your cones are melting!”

Shakespeare to the rescue.

Will pulls me over to our bikes. Out of sight of our audience, I let the giggles escape. “Wow, we’re scarring all the youth of Boston today.”

He kisses me softly, whispering, “‘In thy youth wast as true a lover as ever sighed upon a midnight pillow.’As You Like It.”

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