Page 77 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

Will shakes his head. His face is bright red. “Don’t be sorry, Jules. It’s okay.” He reaches to set my glass back down, and his hand hits the end of my fork as he does, flipping it up into the air, then onto his plate with a clatter.

He drops his head and lets out a defeated sigh.

I reach for my fork carefully to take it from his plate, to put it back where it belongs, but in doing so, my knit wrap snags onhisfork and drags it with me across the table.

Will peers up quickly at the sound of his fork falling from my wrap, clanging onto my bread plate. I know I should be even more embarrassed than I have been the past sixty seconds of nonstop disasters, but it hits me the way some moments do, when it’s absurd how bad they are—I laugh. First, it’s a squeak I try to hold in. I slap a hand over my mouth. A snort sneaks out next.

Will blinks rapidly, glancing from my face down to the fork that just fell from my wrap. His tongue pokes into his cheek. The corner of his mouth quirks up. His shoulders start to shake.

It feels like the end of Guess Who at game night, but even better. A blast of laughter jumps out of me, and I double forward. A deep, husky laugh rumbles from Will’s chest. He covers his face with his hands as his shoulders shake harder.

“This is adisaster,” he mutters.

“It really is,” I croak.

After a moment, we finally manage to get ourselves together.

Our eyes hold. Our amusement slowly fades.

Carefully, Will plucks the fork off my plate and sets it back in its rightful place. I watch him as he does it, so handsome in profile, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed in concentration. He peers up and registers me staring. A soft blush creeps across his cheeks.

I smile reflexively, because that’s what looking at Will, being with Will, does to me. Gratitude washes through me, warm and sweet. I clasp his hand and cling to that comfort. I need that comfort. Because there’s some kind of newness between us tonight that frightens me. I thought at first it was just the nerves, the butterflies from seeing each other fancied up, the palpable sexual tension and attraction that’s undeniably there.

But I’m starting to worry it’s something else, something beyondthe comfort and familiarity of what we’ve built in the past few weeks.

Will turns his hand inside mine and rubs our palms together.

“Juliet—” he says.

Right as I say, “Will—”

I grit my teeth in frustration as our waiter appears, interrupting us. We pull apart, sitting back as they welcome us and efficiently swap out my watery plate, menu, and water goblet without a word about it. The wine menu is set in between us, and I’m told about all my gluten-free options. It’s the entire menu, either as is or with gluten-free substitutes available.

My heart twists as I glance over at Will watching me intently, the tiniest curve up at one side of his mouth.

Our server leaves, and I knock his knee with mine. “How dare you?”

His eyes narrow a little as he leans in. “How dare I what?”

“Find a place where I can eateverythingon the menu.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I already forgot what that’s like, what I used to take for granted—just looking at a menu and being able to pick whatever I wanted.” A beat of silence passes as I try not to cry. “It means so much, Will. Thank you.”

His gaze holds mine. “It was the least I could do, to make sure you could eat at the restaurant I brought you to.”

I give him a playful glare. “Stop being too good to be true, Will Orsino.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

“Lies,” I tell him.

“Just you wait.” He points to the menu. “You’ll see.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans in, voice lowered. “I have a very serious condition. Order-itis.”

“Order-itis?”

“I can’t order from a menu to save my life.”

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