Page 56 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

Even though we didn’t kiss, not even a peck on the cheek. Eventhough I didn’t throw myself at him and he didn’t carry me up the stairs and take me to bed.

I push off the door, headed straight for my library. I have never needed a bleak, brutal thriller more in my life.

I take as tepid a shower as my sore body can tolerate. I wear my unsexiest pajamas. I curl up in bed with my sad, creepy book, determined to overcome this.

But when I fall asleep, even with all that effort, Will Orsino still makes a fantastically filthy appearance.

•Sixteen•

Will

“Orsino.” Petruchio throws me a chest pass from the other side of the basketball court where we’re shooting around, waiting for the rest of the guys to show for pickup. I catch the ball and shoot a three-pointer that falls through the net with a satisfyingthwack.

He whistles. “Someone’s been working on their game.”

“Fuck off,” I tell him. “I’ve always been money on three-pointers.”

He laughs as he grabs the ball, which has bounced toward him.

Jamie walks onto the court, dropping his duffel bag at his feet and throwing us a friendly wave. We both wave back.

Petruchio dribbles, then shoots a baseline jump shot. “Nothing but net!” he yells.

“Someone’s humble as ever!” I call.

He flips me the bird.

The sound of what seems like women’s voices comes from somewhere to my left. Before I can stop myself, I glance up, right to Juliet’s apartment balcony. It’s the first time I’ve let myself look, and I’m both annoyed with myself that I already caved—we’ve been here all of ten minutes—and disappointed she’s not there.

I knew what I was getting into when I accepted Petruchio’s invitation to join his pickup game, remembering Juliet said this is where he plays, right behind her building. I told myself I could handle it, feeling her close by, knowing that, according toPetruchio, she and her sisters often watch their game from her apartment’s little balcony, and there was a good chance they’d be watching today.

But that was before last night—a practice date I told myself was going to go off without a hitch, because I was going to simply ignore and not repeat everything that happened with Juliet on Sunday night.

Obviously, that did not happen.

At least we didn’t kiss again. That was a win.

But you sure as hell thought about it, a voice whispers in my head.

The ball hits me in the stomach, punching the air out of me.

“Shit,” Petruchio calls. “Sorry, man! I thought you saw it coming.”

“All good,” I wheeze, scooping up the ball, dribbling it, then taking a shot at the top of the key. It bounces off the rim. “Dammit.”

Jamie catches the rebound and pulls back, nailing a tidy jump shot. Another guy I met at game night but didn’t talk to as much, Hamza, walks onto the court next, throwing us a smile and a chin nod.

I nod back.

Another sound—this time I’d swear it’s women’s voices—comes from the same place I heard last time. I glance at the balcony—empty again—and mentally kick myself.

Petruchio jogs up to me. “You good?”

I wrench my gaze away from the balcony. “Yeah. Why?”

He shrugs, taking a drink from his water bottle. “You just seem…a little tightly wound?”

A little tightly wound.Understatement of the century. If I were wound any tighter, I’d snap. “I’m fine. Just some stress with work.”

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