Page 81 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

If it was about us, what does that mean?

And, the scariest question of all—have I romance-practiced my way with Will Orsino right into very real romantic feelings?

•Twenty-Four•

Will

Juliet doesn’t want me to give her a ride to the hidden desires party that starts in just under an hour. She promised she’d catch a ride with some of the friend group and wouldn’t be taking the train to the event on her own, so I have peace of mind.

At least, for now. Until I see her dressed up like a dominatrix.

“Can’t think about that,” I mutter to myself, tugging off my suit jacket and tossing it onto the bed.

I tug down my suit pants next, remembering too late that my phone is in one of the front pockets. It clatters to the floor, and I scoop it up, relieved to see the message I’ve been waiting for.

Fest:Made it into the city, but this traffic! Finally started moving at least. Be there in 10, so says Google Maps, but who the hell knows.

The message was sent fifteen minutes ago. I frown at the screen, not sure how I missed his text, when I had my phone connected to my truck. Then again, I drove back from Juliet’s place to Fee’s in a distracted daze.

Because I’m spiraling.

Our dinner date tonight didn’t feel one bit like practice. I didn’t talk about practice. Juliet didn’t, either. And it felt so right,so good, even when it was awkward and clumsy at first, when my nerves got the best of me—but really, can I be blamed, when she looked like a goddess? I’m lucky I could form complete sentences.

Over shared meals, forks dipping from one plate to another, nudging each other, to try this biterighthere, we talked so easily. Juliet asking about how I found Hector, my favorite music, about my parents, the distillery, the farm; wanting to know about my sisters, their birth order, their names, what they do for work; begging to see pictures of my niece and nephew; peppering me with questions about my agricultural studies in college, my trips to Scotland for work. My endless questions about her life growing up in the city, why she studied public relations and corporate communications in college, how her work has changed since she shifted to freelance business writing, her relationship with her sisters and parents, what romance novels are her favorite, where she wants to travel to, what flowers she’d grow if she had a garden all to herself.

Every moment of it…flowed.

That want for her that began weeks ago—hell, who am I kidding, it began when I saw her across a Scottish pub last December, and the work trip I’d taken in place of Mom, who was hurting too bad to travel, became infinitely more worth it—at first, it was simply lust. But ever since we started these practice dates, it’s been snowballing, growing bigger, denser, packed with everything I’ve learned about her past, what she wants from her future, what I’ve figured out makes her smile and earns her laugh, what makes her feel safe and seen.

Unbuttoning my shirt, I stare down at the floor and try to calm my racing heart.

I told her, at dinner tonight, that I was going to be brave and order my meal, knowing there was still a very good chance I’d fuck it up—which I did—that I wanted to try anyway, to take a chanceagain and hope it might work out this time, when I haven’t hoped that way for so long. And I realized, as I said it to her, that I wasn’t just talking about swallowing my pride at the restaurant. I was talking about pushing myself, hoping for myself, in a much bigger arena—in my heart.

WhatifI held out hope for the kind of love with my future wife that Juliet believes in and wants for herself? What if I took a chance, trusted that I could give and receive what Juliet wants from a partner and that it wouldn’t lead to hurt and rejection again? I still don’t know if I believe that it’s possible.

But…I think Iwantto.

And yet.

I know it’s unfair to read into what Juliet did after I confessed that, the way she drew back her hand and breezily carried the conversation forward in that effortless way she has. Of course she couldn’t read my mind, couldn’t possibly know what I was really saying. I, of all people, as someone who strugglesmightilyto read between the lines of what others say and has experienced plenty of times how shitty it is to be resented for that, shouldn’t expect it of her, shouldn’t hold against her how she responded or endow it with some grander significance.

But my fear, my uncertainty, clings to what she did. And I can’t help but feel in my gut that she pulled back because somehow she sensed what I really meant and it wasn’t something she wanted from me.

Or worse, something she didn’t think shecouldwant from me, something she didn’t think I could do any more than I could order a damn pasta dish off the menu without making an ass of myself.

“Yoo-hoo!”

Fest’s voice from the other side of the apartment door makes me jump. I set a hand on my racing heart and breathe out slowly as I walk toward the door.

I open it a crack and hold out my hand. “Thanks, Fest. You can hand them over.”

“Now, hold on,” he says. The door smacks into my shoulder as he pushes against it. “Let me in.”

I shove back. “Fest. Just hand over the clothes. I’m in my boxers.”

“What do I care?” He shoves harder. Dammit, he’s strong for a wiry man who’s half a foot shorter than me.

“Icare.”

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