Page 76 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

“It’s just…I canseeyou.”

His eyes hold mine. “Is that…a good thing?”

“It’s a fabulous thing.” I reach for the off-white wrap I plan to bring in case I get chilly, hanging on the back of a dining chair, then my purse on the table beside it. “You’re a fucking knockout.”

His cheeks turn beet red. He ducks his head, staring down at his polished brown boots, and scrubs at the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

When he peers up again, he offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

My heart spins. I take his arm and smile up at him. “We shall.”

—

“Will,” I hiss-whisper as we walk into the restaurant, my hand wrapped around his biceps. I’ve never been to this restaurant, but I know it’s the epitome of luxurious fine dining and wildly expensive. “This is way too nice.”

He steps behind me and tugs my wrap back up on my shoulders. “No, it isn’t.”

I don’t have the chance to argue with him because he turns to the host, who stands with menus in hand, ready to guide us toward our table. We follow them, Will’s hand on my back—my bareback—its rough warmth sending pleasure rolling down my spine. The host stops at a two-top tucked into a quiet corner of the restaurant, where candlelight dances across the dark linen tablecloth and a delicate crystal vase of peach-pink tea roses.

Will pulls out my chair, then slides it in after I sit.

I watch him unbutton his suit jacket with one hand, then drop into his seat across from me. Candlelight loves him. It sets his gorgeous hair aflame, glows in his striking gray-green eyes, washes warm across the planes of his face, and leaves sharp shadows that accentuate what I can see now is an unbelievably beautiful bone structure. My gaze travels down his face, the jut of his Adam’s apple, the hollow of his throat revealed by the opening at his shirt collar. Down his broad shoulders and arms, to his hands. God, even his hands are beautiful—elegantly long yet rough-knuckled, his nails trimmed short and neat.

I cross my legs beneath the table against the ache building between my thighs. I picture those hands skating down my body, smoothing over my hips, gently parting my legs, teasing their way higher, higher—

Will’s knees knock mine, wrenching me from my lusty trance. He scrunches his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

I playfully knock my knee into his again. “Don’t be. Footsie is classic flirting.”

He meets my eyes, his expression tight. “I don’t fit at tables like this.”

“This table does not seem to be made with tall, long-legged guys in mind. Want to go sit at the bar instead?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll be fine.”

I pick up my menu and start to look at it. Gently, I clench his boot between my heels and squeeze affectionately, hoping it helps him relax and dispels the nerves that have settled between us.

When I glance over the menu, he’s staring at me so intensely, Ilower the menu a little, meeting his eyes. The faintest smile lifts the corner of his mouth, which I’m still pinching myself I can finally see so well. I drink in his face. I could stare at him for hours.

“Pinkie-promised honesty moment.” He leans in slightly. “I’m nervous.”

Butterflies swarm my stomach. I lean in, too. “So am I.”

It’s true. I am nervous. I know it’s not an actual date, that this is all practice, but it still feels special, like the stakes are higher tonight.

“Remember.” I squeeze his boot again between my feet. “We’ll wobble together.”

He swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

After a beat, he sits back, and I do, too. I watch him clasp the carafe of ice water that’s sitting at our table, and I reach for my glass, wanting to be helpful, to bring it toward him to fill. But my hand knocks over the glass, just as Will starts to pour. The glass clatters noisily against my silverware and rolls sideways. The water from the pitcher sloshes across my plate and onto the tablecloth.

“Shit!” I hiss. “I’m so sorry.”

“God, sorry,” he says at the same time, lunging for my water glass as it starts to roll toward the edge of the table. As he reaches for it, the audiblethunkof his knee connecting with the table’s leg echoes around us.

Will lets out a groan as he drops back into his chair with the glass and half-empty carafe in hand.

Mortification heats my cheeks. “Will, I’m so sorry. That was my fault.”

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