Page 24 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

“Yep! With rainbow sprinkles. But don’t tell Mum or Mommy. Nana says it’s our sugar secret.”

I mime a zipper dragged across my mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

“So.” Eleanor tugs my hair, and I wince. “Where you goin’?”

I peer at her in the mirror, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she braids, or more accurately, tangles my hair together. “Ellie, did Nana send you here to ask me that?”

Eleanor makes a wide-eyedbustedface she doesn’t realize I can see in the mirror, her gaze still stuck on my hair. “Ummmm. No!”

I gently reach for her hands, stopping them. “That’s a nice braid you did. But I need to get going, so no more braids today.”

She leaps onto my back, clinging like a koala. “Mm-kay. So. Where ya goin’?”

“Down to the city. And that’s all the details youandNana are getting.”

She slides off my back and skips over to my open duffel, which sits on the dining table, ready for me to add my toiletry bag. Poking around its contents, she wrinkles her nose. “Where’s the shirt I gave you? You didn’t pack it?”

I hesitate, trying to figure out how to get myself out of this.Eleanor loves giving gifts. Especially on days whenshegets gifts—at Christmas, on her birthday. Yesterday, after opening her birthday presents, she passed aroundherpresents for everyone and very enthusiastically gifted me an eye-singeing burnt-orange button-up.

I’m not an orange-shirt guy. I’m not an orange-clothesanything. I’m a ginger. I’ve got enough orange going on as it is.

“Well, uh…” I scratch at my jaw. “Actually…” I clear my throat. “I didn’t pack it because…I was going to…wear it today?”

Her gray-green eyes, the same shade as mine, as Dad’s and Helena’s and my baby sister Miranda’s, go saucer-wide. “You are!?” She shrieks in excitement, hopping up and down.

And that’s how, thirty minutes later, I find myself, wearing a brand-new burnt-orange button-up, driving down the road.

•Seven•

Juliet

I might be late to meet Will, and it’s all my clothes’ fault. Nothing looked right, fit right, felt right. I tried on twelve outfits before I settled on a soft, flowy lavender sundress that’s comfy and pairs well with my pink and purple flower-print sneakers—a new wardrobe staple to give my joints as much support as possible when I traipse around. But even now, I’m not sure it was the right pick. I’m paler than I like to be when I wear pastel purple, thanks to one of my medications, which has increased my skin’s photosensitivity, and the neckline’s low and boobier than I remember it being. Not that I’m ashamed to show off the girls; I’m just not sure if it’s the vibe I want for my first date—practicedate!—with Will.

I might be spiraling a little.

I don’t know why I’m a ball of nerves, why I woke up jittery, overthinking everything from how much creamer I wanted in my coffee to how to wear my hair. It’s just a practice date. It’s just Will.

Will, the very hot, very endearing cutie I’m going to spend the next four weekends practicing romance with.

Will, whom I honestly want to do very filthy things with but won’t, because we’re going to keep this romance practice regimen strictly G-rated.

Or maybe PG. I mean, maybe a handsy kiss and hug goodbyehere and there wouldn’t be the worst. Come to think of it, that might be essential material to cover.

I shake my head and blow out a deep breath as I cross the street. I don’t need to get hung up on those hypotheticals. Right now, I need to get to the coffee shop, to Will. We’ll figure out the rest together. And while we do that, I’ll keep reminding myself why I’m going to be just fine practicing romance with a man I am very, very attracted to: Will Orsino’s got his eyes set on marrying not for love but for family duty; he’s near and dear to Christopher; in other words, he’s completely off-limits.

I’m not going to fall for someone who’s not looking for love. I might not be ready for love yet, but one day, I hope I’ll find it again, with someone who wants love, too. And I’m not going to fall for another one of Christopher’s friends. While I know not every friend of Christopher’s is my ex—Will thus far has proved to be his antithesis—my ex and Christopher were close, professionally at least, then personally, when he and I started dating, and when everything between us blew up, it hurt not just me but Christopher, too. I’ve sworn to myself I’ll never again get tangled up romantically with someone close to the important people in my life. The potential fallout is too messy, the risk of collateral damage too high.

Considering all that, Will is the safest person I could have chosen as my practice romance pal. With Will, I’m safe—from the risk of falling in love, of heartbreak—and my romance reawakening can finally begin.

So why, even with that reassurance front and center in my thoughts, am I so damn nervous?

As I walk down the sidewalk, I set a hand on my stomach, where butterflies are whipping around wilder than Puck when he gets the zoomies and tears through the house.

And suddenly, it hits me—this kind of nervousness is good.I’msupposedto have butterflies in my stomach. These are exactly the kinds of feelings I want to get comfortable with again.

All morning, I told myself I was getting ready to go practice. I should have realized the moment I woke up that practice was already here.

Breathing deeply again, I open the door to the coffee shop and instantly spot Will, head bent over what looks like a piece of paper, holding a pencil that he moves haltingly across it. A crossword, maybe? He’s seated in a cozy corner, the one farthest from the coffee bar, and he’s wearing a burnt-orange shirt, its color honestly the last one I would have picked for a man with hair like his, but somehow it works. Itreallyworks. He looks…striking, everything else fading around him, like a fire’s flames against a dark night.

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