Page 80 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

“When did you become a vegetarian?” I ask.

“On my twelfth birthday. When my mom gave me my first cow, Buttercup.”

I smile. “Couldn’t be any cuter.”

“Who?” he asks. “Me or the cow?”

“Both.”

He grins.

I tip my head toward the restaurant. “That was delightful.”

“Especially,” he says, “the butter-patch nut-squash.”

“Especially that. And the golden beet salad that you accidentally ordered instead of the citrus salad. That was my favorite.”

“It was pretty tasty,” he admits, rocking back on his heels. “With the honey drizzle and goat cheese on top?”

“And the chopped pistachios.” I hum with pleasure at the memory. “Delicious. Thank you again for dinner. For all of it. It was incredible.”

He gives me one of those adorable double-blink winks. “You’re welcome, Jules. I think it was pretty incredible, too.”

A silence falls between us, and I brace myself for our usual post-practice-date debrief. Because I’m dreading it. I’ve been living in a dreamy little bubble for the past two hours, pushing away all thought of practice. I’m not ready for it to be burst, to crash back down to reality.

The wind picks up and Will turns to face me, nearly placing us chest to chest. Gently, he smooths back my hair, which the wind has whipped forward, tucking it behind my ears. His thumbs graze my cheeks, my jaw, whisper down the sensitive skin beneath my ears, down my neck, to my collarbones. I shiver, and it’s got nothing to do with the cool evening air.

The valet rolls up to the curb beside us with Will’s truck just as I’m leaning in, contemplating how reckless and wonderful it would be to kiss the hell out of him. Will takes a step back but still finds my hand with his and clasps it gently, drawing me with him and helping me into the truck.

As he pulls out, I hold my breath, braced for the practice debrief that hasn’t yet happened, thatshouldhappen, because that’s what keeps us in safe, familiar territory. But Will’s focused on driving, apparently all thoughts of debriefing far from his mind. It’s front and center in mine, and I should bring it up, keep us safe, IknowI should. But dammit, I don’twantto. I want tonight to feel fun and free of practicing for other people, planning for futures without each other. I want to stay in my dreamy little bubble just a little longer.

So, instead of doing what I should, I turn in my seat to face him, and ask, “What are you dressing as tonight?”

He frowns, his eyes pinned on the road. “I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?” I ask indignantly.

“It’s asurprise,” he says. “Obviously. Tonight is the night of surprises.”

“Rude.” I slump back in my seat, arms folded across my chest. “You know my costume!”

“Not my fault you blabbed in the group chat.”

I slug his thigh playfully.

“Hey, that’s my driving leg, ma’am.” He clasps my hand, but instead of moving it away, he threads his fingers through mine.

I melt at that, just a little—okay, a lot. This feels so good. Every moment has, since he picked me up. Even the awkward moments, the clumsy ones. It’s all felt so damn good.

I can’t think about it a second longer, can’t let my mind wander down the path it wants to. The one paved with questions I shouldn’t be asking:

Why does it feelsogood?

Was that really practice tonight or was it…real?

Was that cryptic sentence really just about ordering food, or was it about…us?

Maybe tonight will be different. I’m…willing to try, to take a chance on something I haven’t for a long time.

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