Pride and Papercuts (The Austens #5) - Staci Hart Page 0,21
we added her services in our announcement newsletters for costumes. She’d made a killing on dresses and velvet overcoats, even taking to reselling top hats and bonnets and gloves—a one-stop shop for all your regency needs. And since we threw these parties regularly, people invested.
Honestly, people loved an excuse to dress up. They were just as eager to put on spandex for our superhero or villain parties as they were to don a corset and cravat.
They would also do anything for cheap drinks.
I sighed, smiling at the fantasy of the evening. Rather than use our dim bar lights, battery-operated candelabras and a massive chandelier lit the dance floor and bar. Although not authentic, our regular DJ knew how to keep people happy, playing songs that kept bonnet feathers bobbing and everyone singing along, throwing the occasional slow song in to encourage people to get into each other’s personal space for the good of love.
I’d spent the last few days avoiding the Darcys and thinking about Wyatt, looking forward to tonight like a teenage girl anticipated prom. It’d been a long time since I’d met a guy I liked. New York wasn’t really a place to meet somebody outside of Bumble or Tinder or whatever the app of the minute was. I had access to men at the bar, and though I’d talked to more than a few, none of them went beyond a date, if they even went that far. But Wyatt had charmed me. And I scanned the crowd again for him, trying not to be disappointed when I didn’t find what I was looking for.
The bartenders were decked out in breeches and beautiful coats with tails, cravats, and vests, and once again, groups of tittering women in empire-waisted dresses fawned over them.
Cam slid up next to me with Annie, Greg the bartender’s fiancée, on her arm. It was impossible to dislike Annie—she was sunshine in a bottle, her skin peaches and cream and her hair the color of wheat. She had those eyes that drank up the world, big and wide and sparkling green. You couldn’t not to look at the long purple scar down the center of her chest that disappeared into her neckline—one of many battle scars, courtesy of her heart condition. She wore the scar with such pride, it was more a badge of honor than a reminder of pain.
On approaching, we greeted each other, complimenting the other’s dresses and accessories. It was true what they said about party dresses—the more you wore them, the less special they were—so most of us had a couple in rotation, not only for this, but for other themed nights, like Austen night or Come As Your Favorite Literary Heroine night. Annie’s was an emerald affair with incredible golden detailing embroidered on the hem and up the front, mine was a deep royal blue, and Cam’s was red as blood.
A female chorus of delighted noises came from the bar where the three gentlemen bartenders were performing some kind of toast with shot glasses in their hands. We were too far away to hear what they were saying, but I knew no less than three of their little performances, plus two old-timey drinking songs they sang to rev up the crowd. The girls pressed up against the bar were thirsty—and not for booze. I wouldn’t be surprised to see a pair of knickers fly in their direction.
I shook my head, laughing. “They’re shameless. How do you stand all those girls coveting Greg?”
But she shrugged. “I don’t know. I should be jealous, shouldn’t I? Maybe it’s because he sneaks off to come kiss me when the guys think he’s going to restock beer. Or that I know his real smile, and that is not it.” She pointed in his direction, where he did in fact wear a smile that only seemed genuine if you didn’t know him.
“Oh my God. How have I never noticed it before?” I asked.
“He’s really good at his job,” she teased. “I don’t know what he’s going to do when the new stores open and he’s supervising all of their bars too.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll manage,” Cam said as her husband, Tyler, approached.
He was a giant at six foot six, and when side by side with his wife—a whopping five foot two with shoes on—they bordered on comical. Tyler also wore a coat, his vest the same red as Cam’s dress and his neck swathed in his cravat. He slid his hand into her waist and kissed