Page 27 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

I peer up to see him frowning down at me, concern etched in his expression.

“I, um…” I force a swallow down my throat. “I don’t exactly know. I think I’m just…feeling pretty rusty, right now.”

Will slows his walk, his eyes holding mine. “What can I do?”

My heart pinches at his kindness. “Not sure there’s really anything to be done,” I admit. “Just…maybe reassure me I’m not alone?”

“Well, I’d like to reassure you I’m feeling rusty, too,” he says. “But remember, I’ve got nothing to rust.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Stop it.”

He gently nudges me back, peering down at me. “I might not be rusty like you, Juliet, but I am feeling pretty wobbly, even with those training wheels we just put on.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Wobblyis a good word for it.”

He dips his head a little, leaning in, and whether he meant to or not, the backs of his knuckles brush against mine. “Some wise woman told me we’d wobble together.”

Another swallow rolls down my throat, but this one feels easier. A full, deep breath fills my lungs. I hook my pinkie with his. “She does sound wise. But she also might sometimes find it easier to preach something than to practice it.”

He squeezes my pinkie gently, then lets go. “Well, I’ll be happy to remind her sometimes, that she’s not the only one wobbling. If that helps.”

I nod. “I think that would help a lot.”

“Can I help the next person?” a voice behind the counter yells.

Will and I both glance forward and in silent agreement move up a few feet to get in line.

I set a hand on my stomach as it grumbles, and I realize the swarm of bees is gone, the only sensation left a sharp hunger, after having skipped breakfast, thanks to my nervous tummy. I scour the display case of baked goods, exploring my options. Thankfully, Boulangerie has a case of gluten-free pastries that are always well stocked.

The line moves up, and the person in front of us orders a drip coffee. I reach in my purse for my phone, so I’m ready to tap and pay after ordering. As I tug it out, my hand catches on the flap of my romance novel, yanking that out, too, and sending it tumbling to the floor.

Will ducks and scoops it up before I’ve even begun to crouch, then stands just as the person in front of us moves aside. I’m about to thank him, but the words die on my tongue when he sets a hand on my back and gently guides me forward.

A bolt of pleasure zips down my spine.

“You first,” he says, eyes narrowed on the menu.

I order an iced oat milk vanilla latte and a gluten-free lemon bar. Will orders a blueberry muffin and a cold brew. I step aside to wait first, making sure to pick the side of the coffee bar farthest from the screeching milk steamers, near the front door.

Will’s still holding my romance novel, and I offer my hand to take it. “Thanks for grabbing that for me.”

He glances down at the book, then up at me. “Oh, sure.”

I take the historical romance, slip it back into my purse, and smile. “Can’t go anywhere without a trusty romance.”

“What made you start reading them?” he asks. “The romance novels?”

I’m relieved to hear curiosity and none of the condescension I often get when asked about reading this genre, one lots of people disparage as trivial and unliterary. Not that I expected him to be dismissive of romance, given he seemed on board with reading it back when we formed our plan last week. Still, there’s a difference between indulging someone and engaging them. It’s nice to know he’s doing the latter.

“Because they make me happy,” I tell him. “I’ve only realized it recently, but I’ve struggled with anxiety for a long time; even before I understood what I was dealing with, I think I gravitated toward romance novels because they never made me anxious, because I could always count on a happily ever after. Even when things get rough in the story, it always worked out. That reliability is really comforting. And…I love love. Friend love. Family love. Romantic love. Romance novels celebrate all of that.”

He nods. “What do you read more of? Historical or contemporary?”

“Historical,” I tell him. “But I’d be up for buddy-reading a contemporary with you, if you’re still interested.”

A couple with a baby stroller is coming right toward me, cutting the corner around the coffee bar awfully close. I’m just glancing around to figure out where I can move so I won’t get mowed over, when Will steps close and plants himself right beside me, his hand hovering at my back, so they have to go around us.

Those butterflies are back, swirling in my stomach. So many butterflies.

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