can stifle it.
I, however, keep my expression solemn and serious. Mrs. Taylor is a tiny elderly terrorist. This will end sooner if I give in to her demands. “Yes, Mrs. Taylor. I’m aware of that.”
Her eyes widen in horror. “So then you knowingly allow this crude material to be circulated in a public library?” She leans forward and hisses. “There are children in here.” Then she straightens back to her full height—a solid two feet, five inches—and flips open the magazine to the offending page. “Now, all I’m asking is that you go in and cover up the pornographic images. I have scrapbooking supplies and a hot glue gun in my car if needed.”
While I try hard the rest of the day to scrub this entire conversation from my memory, Ben, of course, can’t let it go. To him, it’s deeply amusing.
Later that night, while I’m in bed, icing my head, he sends me a text.
Ben: Cav·ort: apply oneself enthusiastically to sexual or disreputable pursuits.
Ben: Seems we didn’t take the week off after all. See you Saturday.
13
Madison
Ben is scheduled to volunteer with me this morning and before he even arrives, I know it will be one of the highlights of my life. Today, we’re doing a Jane Austen themed story time. If you think I didn’t intentionally plan that, you really don’t know me at all. I rented costumes from the local theater company and ensured Ben was prepared to go the extra mile.
Madison: Today will interesting. Fair warning—there are costumes.
Ben: No problem. Those animal masks were fun. The kids loved them.
Ha ha ha. He thinks I don’t have a full Mr. Darcy lookalike costume for him. How cute. When he arrives, I usher him into the storage room and present the idea.
“We both have to do it,” I say, sounding really annoyed by the fact that I have to wear a gorgeous blue silk dress with a full petticoat and prance around like a princess. Ugh, the worst, am I right?
He laughs and shakes his head. “No.”
Just one simple word, clipped out with a sharp tone.
No.
“But the kids will love it!”
“Yeah, no.”
I sigh then look down and fidget with my hands, seeming innocent. “Well, I really didn’t want to have to do this, but…seeing as I’m in control of your community service hours, I’d hate to have to contact the judge and tell him you aren’t cooperating.”
I’m completely talking out of my ass. Judge? Cooperating? What does that even mean? I don’t have a direct line to the courthouse. I just want to leverage what small amount of control I have over Ben and force him into this costume for my own amusement. Sure, some would say that’s an abuse of power. I say what’s the point of having power if you don’t abuse it a little?
Ten minutes later, Ben steps out of the storage room, and I swear to God, I have a heart attack. I’ve seen every period film in existence, every one of Jane Austen’s movie adaptions: the Kiera Knightly version of Pride and Prejudice, the Colin Firth version of Pride and Prejudice, the Gwyneth Paltrow version of Emma (a personal favorite), etc., etc. So, when I say Ben looks like the hottest version of Mr. Darcy I’ve ever seen, believe me, he does. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Pissed. I’m positive I’m having real heart palpitations.
“Oh dear,” I lament, shaking my head. “It’s too good. The moms won’t leave you alone.”
He gives me a broody look, and OH MY GOD, is he doing it on purpose?! He is Mr. Darcy!
“Where’s your dress?” he asks, clearly annoyed.
He’s fidgeting with his tailored black jacket. It’s a little too small, which means his biceps are in danger of busting through the seams. I have to lean against a wall to support myself.
“In there. I’ll change. Just…stay out here in case I need your help with it.”
I’ve read enough historical fiction novels to know how to slip into one of these oversized dresses. The thing is, the women in the novels usually have a lady’s maid to assist them in tightening the corset. I only have myself, and I can’t quite reach the laces.
I’m wearing a thin cotton chemise underneath, so it’s not as if I should be nervous for Ben to come in and help me. Still, I hesitate for a good long while, attempting to do it myself but failing.
He knocks on the door. “What are you doing in there? Did a box of books just tumble to the