Page 36 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

I can do this. I’m nottoowiped from peopling, after making the rounds at two bars that stock our whiskey, but that’s only luck—they’re two of our oldest customers and I’ve known the owners since I was in grade school, so they’re always easy to talk to. If it had been a newer client, I’d be fried. Still, my social battery isn’t at full capacity, and I have to hope that what’s left is going to be enough.

On my drive over, I talked myself through my anxiety about it. This is just game night with a handful of Petruchio and Juliet’s friends and family. They’re people those two like being with, which means they’re good people. They’ll meet me where I’m at.

Taking a deep breath, I cross the landing to the door and remind myself what Juliet said:

We’re all a bunch of weirdos. Fun weirdos. I think you’ll have a good time.

“I hope she’s right,” I mutter to myself. Then I knock on the door.

The door almost immediately swings open, revealing Juliet smiling wide. “Hey, you!”

I feel like I did the time Ma’s miserly old donkey, Iago, kicked me right in the chest. Breathless, shock slamming through my body.

Christ, she’s beautiful.

Juliet stands on the threshold of her apartment, dark hair piled on top of her head, a few soft tendrils caressing her collarbones. She’s wearing a rose-pink crochet sweater, a white tank top visible beneath it. The sweater lists to one side, clinging to the edge of her shoulder. My gaze dances down. She’s got on a pair of cut-off jean shorts that hug her wide hips, their fringe kissing her thighs. Bare feet, toenails painted the same pink as her sweater.

I snap my gaze up as fast as I can and swallow roughly. “Hi.”

Stepping back, she opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

I do as she says, stepping across the threshold. “Petruchio here yet?”

“Yep,” she says quietly as she shuts the door. “When he told me you were coming, I said that was great, then I casually dropped that I’d met you in the backyard the morning after the party, said we had a cup of coffee and talked a little.”

“Good.” I hand her the bottle of Orsino whiskey that I brought. “Here.”

She takes the bottle, inspecting it, and lets out a long whistle. “Wowee, thirty years? This is so generous, Will, thank you!” Smiling up at me, she says, her voice softer, “How you doing? Got the earplugs ready to go?”

I pat my pocket, where my earplugs case is stashed, attached to my keys. “I came prepared.”

“Great. We can get loud, for game time, at least.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Juliet’s smile deepens. Our gazes hold.

I want to kiss her. Badly. I want to cup her face and take her mouth with mine, make her melt into my touch. I want to show her that I might not be the smoothest talker or the most capable romancer or the life of the party, but I’m plenty capable in other ways. Ways that could make her feel so damn good.

But that’s not what friends do, and friends is all we are. Especially tonight, around these people.

The sweater slips farther, revealing the slope of her shoulder, a stretch of satin-smooth skin.

Heat roars through me.

She catches her sweater and shrugs it back up. It helps nothing. That sliver of her skin, the dip of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, are imprinted in my brain.

“Here we go,” she whispers.

I take a deep breath and follow her toward the crowd.

—

Beer in hand, I glance around her place. Warm candlelit white walls. Gleaming dark wood floors softened by a large rainbow-striped rug. At least a dozen matching jewel-tone throw pillows on the sofa and on the nearby club chair. Framed abstract art on the walls, surrounded by countless photos. Smaller frames with more photos and art crammed cheerfully across the mantel beside dried flowers that plume from vases decorated with colorful velvet ribbons. It’s welcoming and warm and lovely.

Just like Juliet.

“It’s a nice place, isn’t it?” Petruchio says.

---