Page 101 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

His eyes darken. “Don’t look at me like that.”

I let his thumb go with a pop. “Like what?” I ask innocently.

He shakes his head. “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“Fine,” I whisper, peeling myself away from him, but then giving up and throwing my arms around his waist, hugging him hard. “Just come back, okay?”

He hugs me tenderly, his arms curled around my shoulders, his mouth pressed to my hair. “I will, Jules. I promise.”

I let him go, somehow, my arms clutched around me against the cool evening breeze as I watch his truck pull away. His arm darts out from his window.

I throw my arm up into the air and wave, pressed on tiptoe. I wave and wave until his truck turns the corner.

Just as he’s out of sight, the wind shifts and turns warmer, like a blanket wrapped around me.

Love, it seems to whisper, as it rustles the leaves above me.Love.

I stand on the sidewalk, rooted to the pavement. And for the first time since it started drifting through me, I let it stay—the knowledge, the truth that snuck up on me, like a slow drip into a bucket that’s now filled to overflowing, spilling out no matter how hard I try to keep it in. IloveWill.

I don’t know if Will is ready to say that yet, if he feels that way. ButIknow my heart, and for me, for now, that’s enough.

Slowly, I let myself into the building, take my time up the stairs, humming the first song I sang while Will plucked deftly at theguitar beside me. I feel warm to the bone, remembering that, remembering last night. Everything that happened in such a small, sweet window of time. Everything that came before it, slower, softer, leading us to this.

Back inside my apartment, I shut the door behind me, then traipse across my apartment, down the hallway to my room.

For the first time since I met Will, I’m excited for the inevitable that will come, once I fall asleep. Because I know the kinds of dreams I’m going to have, the dreams I’ve been having for him.

And this time, when I wake up in the morning, I’ll enjoy the memory of those dreams, knowing Will’s out there, wanting me, waiting as eagerly for me as I am for him—for the next time those dreams can all come true.

•Thirty•

Will

This week has absolutely kicked my ass. But I anticipated that, knowing the influx of business and tourism we’re expecting this weekend, for the eclipse. What I didn’t anticipate was how damn grumpy it was going to make me—I’ve barely had time to text Juliet during the day, and our calls at night have been late and short because she crashes early and my days are stretching too long into the night. At least, tomorrow morning, I finally get to go back to her.

Mom’s corralled us all at the house for a late Friday evening meal, a hasty casserole dinner scarfed down by all the family who’ve pitched in to prepare us for more tours of the distillery, more tastings, more hay rides and pony rides and barn animal petting sessions. Every garden is weeded to perfection, every corner of the tasting rooms polished to a shine.

I’m near delirious with exhaustion.

But I have a conversation that I’ve been putting off that can’t wait any longer.

Dad’s out on the back porch, in his rocker, plucking at his banjo, a habit he picked up for unwinding at the end of the day, when he thankfully gave up smoking his pipe.

“Hey, Dad. Got a minute?”

His voice is low and a little scratchy, like always. “Will.” He nods to the guitar resting between his rocker and the cushioned wicker chair Mom always sits in. “Join me.”

I sit on Mom’s chair and help myself to the guitar, picking quietly in harmony with the tune he’s playing. I’ve heard that tune my whole life, and I learned guitar by ear, first picking up the melody he was playing, then learning how to riff and harmonize with it.

“How’s it going, Pops?”

He chuckles. “Besides the fact that this house is currently overrun with hot-tempered, stressed-out Orsino women, going fine.” He ends the song and starts a new tune. “They worry too much. This weekend will be fine.”

“It’s just how they cope with caring. They want it all to be perfect.”

“Nothing’s perfect,” Dad says. “But you’re right. It’s because they care.” He glances my way, his gray-green eyes like mine holding my gaze. “And how areyou, son?”

I peer down at the guitar, on the pretense of listening to his melody, figuring out how I want to join in. Like I don’t know this song as well as I know my own name.

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