Page 8 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

His mouth quirks at the corner. Damn that beard, I wish itdidn’t make it impossible to tell if I just made him smile. “That’s how that story goes, huh?”

“I clearly muscled you into submission.”

Another mouth quirk beneath that bushy auburn beard. Maybe, just maybe, it’s a smile.

A blush hits my cheeks as I stare up at him. “Sorry,” I tell him. “You know, for the garden-tool ambush.”

He stares at me, unblinking. I fight a shiver that dances down my spine. “It’s all right.”

I stare at his mouth. And I think he’s staring at mine, too.

Suddenly, a phone buzzing pierces the quiet. Will glances at his pocket, then deftly settles Puck against his chest with one arm, freeing a hand that he uses to unearth his phone. He groans as he stares at the screen.

“Christopher and your friends wondering where you are?” I guess.

He nods.

Puck shimmies higher in his grip and plops his chin on Will’s shoulder. Will winces when Puck sinks his claws into his shirt and tries to cuddle in even closer.

“Here, I’ll take him.” I reach for Puck, who grumbles ameowas I ease him off Will’s shoulder, then step back.

I smile nervously, trying to find my courage. I’m not sure what I’m ready for, what this second chance meeting means, but I want to be brave, to try, even just a little. “We keep bumping into each other,” I tell him. “Maybe…I’ll see you around again. Are you staying long?”

Will’s throat works in a rough swallow. He pockets his phone. “Ah, no. Leaving first thing tomorrow morning.”

I’ll admit it, for a moment, I wait and hope. Maybe he’ll follow that up with abut come have a round with the guysorcan I walk you back to your house?

But nothing comes. “Gotcha,” I finally muster, forcing my smile to stay intact, praying my face doesn’t show how small his crisp put-down has made me feel. “Well…bye, then!”

I can’t take the embarrassment a second longer. Clutching Puck so tight he lets out a strangled howl of protest, I speed-walk out of the greenhouse.

•Two•

Will

I am a begrudging morning person. Growing up on a farm, I’ve been hardwired to wake up with the sun, but even so, I never wake up happy about it. This morning, I’m even grumpier than usual. Not only am I nursing a headache from all the whiskey I joined in drinking with my friends last night, after I came back inside, just so they’d stop asking why I was so mopey—the hell was I telling them I made an ass of myself with Viola—but I can’t get this damn coffee maker to work.

Swearing under my breath, I stab desperately at the buttons on Petruchio’s fancy espresso and coffee machine, as I rake my other hand through my shower-wet hair. All I want is a big, hot cup of black coffee in my system before I get on the road and head home. Is that too much to ask?

The machine beeps menacingly, and a shiny nozzle screeches as it starts hissing steam. “Shit.” I stab at more buttons, then resort to yanking the plug from the wall. The machine powers off with an ominous fadingwhirrrrrrthat has me worried I just broke the thing.

Groaning, I scrub my hands over my face. When my hands fall, I glance out the window above Petruchio’s sink and freeze.

She stands framed in her kitchen window, too, like a mirror across the yard.

Viola.

Her hair frames her face in soft dark waves that graze her shoulders, the sun catching their frizzy edges in a bronze halo. Even from this distance, I can see how morning light glances off her eyes. It’s like looking at the ocean on a perfect day—blue-green irises the color of waves sparkling with sunlight, rimmed by pale gray curls of sea-foam.

I’m mesmerized. I just stand there, staring at her.

Eyes trained on me, she sips her coffee. As she lowers the mug, her eyebrows draw together. She lifts her mug toward me and tips her head.

I’m not great at reading nonverbal cues, particularly from people I don’t know. I’m not sure what she’s saying.

This time she points to her mug.

I grimace and shake my head a little. I have no idea what she’s getting at.

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