Page 5 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

Time to leave behind the season that left you wrecked and stranded. You aren’t helpless or hopeless anymore. Now you prove that to yourself. Now you wade into new waters, not knowing what’s on the horizon but trusting the course. Trust yourself to find your way again.

It’s not bad advice, especially given how I’ve felt about my idling-engine life lately. It’s just…scary. The old Juliet never needed astrological ordinances to kick her butt into gear. But thisnew Juliet does. And, even desperate to finally feel like my life is moving again, this new Juliet is still frankly afraid to take that first step forward, unsure of what it should be.

Meow, Puck drawls.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You have the audacity to callmea scaredy-cat? You were hiding under a potting table because you got a little wet!”

Puck opens his mouth, and while I’m prepared for another sassymeow, the last thing I expect is the deep, loud snore that I hear instead.

The cat’s eyes and mine widen in tandem. Whereas Puck’s survival instincts wisely kick in, sending him leaping off me and under the potting table for cover, I’m frozen, a sopping sitting duck.

Another deep, long snore punctures the quiet inside the greenhouse, snapping me out of my stunned state. Slowly, I ease upright, then onto all fours, crawling only far enough to peer around the edge of the long table that runs down the center of the greenhouse.

There’s no one there.

And yet another snore rumbles from the far end of the greenhouse. Even if I can’t see them, someone is obviously here, and while I want to tell myself they’re probably not a threat, seeing as they’re fast asleep, I can’t assume they’re going to stay asleep or that I’ll be safe with them when they wake up. I’ve learned the hard way that assuming the best of people can epically blow up in your face.

Glancing around, I scour the greenhouse for some kind of tool that I can use for self-defense. There aren’t any big shovels or rakes here—those are stored in the nearby shed—not that, with the state of my hands and wrists, I’d even be able to wield one with any particular strength or accuracy. I spot a short-handled shovel leaning against the potting table, which will be perfect. Not too long or heavy, with a small but solid wood handle that leads to a wide, sturdy metal base.

Carefully, I ease up to a squat and awkwardly crouch-walk my way over to the potting table, then grab the shovel. My knees hate this position, so I risk standing until I’m bent at the waist, peering through the tidy rows of flowers on the center table in various stages of growth.

Another snore rumbles through the air.

Quietly, I stand until I’m fully straightened and peek over the flowers. I still don’t see anyone, so I start to walk the length of the table, shovel raised in my hands. My heart pounds, faster and faster.

When I finally get to the table’s end, another snore rends the quiet, and I come to a dead stop.

First I see brown boots, not like the city guys around here wear, polished and fancy, but scuffed and creased. Next, long legs crossed at the ankle, in roughed-up jeans that are threadbare at the knee, as if they’ve been bent in and worn countless times. My eyes trail up the weathered denim—long calves and longer, thicker thighs—then land on a sun-bleached olive-green tee, two arms folded across it.

I gulp.

This dude’s body is entirely relaxed in sleep and yet his arms are ripped. His muscles have muscles. Veins and ropy tendons weave up his arms. Two bulky biceps peek out from the edge of his shirt’s sleeves. All across his skin are freckles.

Swallowing roughly, I clutch the shovel tighter. I’m such a sucker for freckles.

I shake my head to snap out of it. I amnoteroticizing this intruder who, for all I know, could be an axe murderer.

Albeit a sleepy axe murderer. So, probably not a very good one. But still.

I tip my head, trying to see his face, but his head is bent, as if his chin is tucked to his chest. I can’t see past the ripped brim ofhis ball cap, which looks like it might have once been white but has faded to dingy oatmeal.

His leg twitches as another snore leaves him. He’s either one hell of an actor or he’s out cold.

A loudboomof thunder shakes the greenhouse and he jolts, as if startling awake. So he was asleep. Maybe he’s just some down-on-his-luck guy who crashed here to catch a few winks and ride out the storm before he goes on his way.

We don’t do that anymore, Juliet. We don’t give people the benefit of the doubt. We don’t assume the best of them. That’s what got us hurt.

Time to brace for an attack. I lift the shovel higher, standing out of his reach but not so far that I can’t swing and hit him with the shovel, if needed.

His ball cap shifts as he sits straighter, then freezes. The ball cap lifts a little, then a little more, as if his gaze is trailing upward. Up me. Finally, his ball cap’s brim lifts enough to reveal his face, for his gaze to meet mine. A face that I recognize, a gaze that I’ve seen before.

Wide, catlike silver-sage eyes fringed by auburn lashes. Long, straight nose. Two sharp cheekbones. That thick, unkempt beard and auburn hair.

It can’t be him.

But it could only be him.

“Will?” My voice is hoarse with shock.

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