Page 1 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

•Prologue•

Juliet

December

The pub is a kaleidoscopic blur as I spin, arms up, whiskey glass in hand. Warm golden light winks off the crowd’s sweat-soaked skin. Stained-glass sconces bathe the room in a hazy rainbow glow. The lead singer’s shiny red guitar, the drummer’s ringing cymbal, flash beneath the lights as the cover band’s music pounds through my body.

I hadn’t planned on getting myself squished into a throng of dancing, headbanging people. I was just going to pop in for a drink, then slink back to the Scottish cottage I’ve been hiding in since I flew across the Atlantic last week, desperate for an escape from my blown-up life back home—a reward for finally getting my butt in the shower, dressed in something besides pajamas, and out of the house.

But as soon as I opened the door, the quaint, adorable pub drew me in, and I told myself maybe I’d linger a little, soak up the ambience. Then the cover band kicked off The Proclaimers’ iconic “I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)” right after I threw back my first whiskey and the bartender silently slid another one my way.

A sign from the universe.Stay, just a little longer.

That song’s still playing, the small crowd’s enjoyment of it contagious, everything in the pub dialed up to a ten of color and vitality;loud, happy music that elbows my heartbreak to the edges of my thoughts. For three and a half glorious minutes, I dance and sing, and for the first time since everything went to hell, I actually believe what my sisters, my friends, my parents, keep telling me—that I’m going to be okay, that one day I will be healed from the hurt of realizing the man I’d been planning to marry was a manipulative abuser.

But then the song ends, its joy draining from me as quickly as the music fades from the room, before something terrible takes its place.

A love song.

Groaning, I knock back the rest of my whiskey. Everyone starts to pair off. Arms curled around waists, draped over shoulders. Soft laughs and long kisses. I turn, trying to find a crack in the crowd, a path to slip through and escape, but I’m locked in. Could this moment get any worse?

Despite trying to block out the words, this new song’s lyrics sink into my brain. Aaand there’s my answer—this could get worse, because it’s not just a love song. It’s asadone.

“Dammit,” I mutter as I spin around, determined to try my luck at escaping through the couples surrounding me to my other side.

“Oof.” I bump into a very hard chest and startle, not just from our collision but from the feel of soft flannel plaid beneath my palms, the faint scent of clean, herby soap.

Slowly, my gaze drifts up, up, still up…My mouth falls open.

Standing before me is averytall,verystriking man. I stare at him, stunned.

The man stares right back. Wide, catlike sage eyes flecked with silver. Long, straight nose, two sharp cheekbones. The rest is a mystery, hidden beneath a thick beard and hair that spills to his shoulders in soft waves.

My brain’s all over the place—the wedge of pale, freckled skinat his throat revealed by his open shirt collar; the clean, herby scent clinging to him—but finally it settles on the most important detail: his hair. His gorgeous hair. The color, burnished-penny copper in shadow, golden bronze where it catches the pub lights’ candle-like glow.

I curl my hands into fists until my nails press crescents into my palms. He looks like a Highlander romance hero ripped out of the past and wrapped in modern clothes.

Highlander romances are my weakness.

As are redheads.

Slowly, he holds out one hand, an unspoken invitation that I’d swear I hear, crystal clear, in my head.Dance with me?

My heart takes off in my chest, nerves coursing through me. A romance novel junkie, a seasoned matchmaker, a veteran flirt, I’m used to cruising through these moments. But since ending my relationship with my ex, recognizing how I’d built him up in my head through those rosy romantic lenses instead of seeing him for who he really was, I’ve lost my confidence in this. I doubt myself.

Heart thumping, flustered, I take a step toward him. But instead of taking his hand, I give him my whiskey glass. Maybe I’m testing him. Maybe I’m testing myself.

His mouth lifts the tiniest bit at the corner—a whisper of a smile?—as he takes the glass, reaching easily with one long arm around a couple to set it on the bar. Then he simply steps just a little closer, hand outstretched again.

My heart thumps in my chest.

This was not the plan, a nervous voice whispers in the back of my head.The plan was baby steps. The plan was to stop hiding in the cottage, inhaling shortbread and rewatchingFleabag. The plan was to get out, have a few drinks, then go home without incident.

Dancing with a handsome stranger who makes my heart fly definitely qualifies as an “incident.”

I tell my feet to walk away, my body to back off. But I don’t move an inch. I just stare up at him, at those wide sage-and-silver eyes holding mine. God, they’re lovely, framed by faint crinkles at the corners, like he spends life outside, his gaze narrowed against the sun.

“Would you…” His voice snaps me from my trance. My lashes flutter as I blink and sway a bit, the low, rich rumble of his voice a wave rocking me back. He clears his throat. “Would you…like to dance?”

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