Page 84 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

I spin around, my mouth falling open. Jamie is dressedperfectlyin a sharp three piece tweed suit and overcoat, a houndstooth-print deerstalker on his head, an old-fashioned pipe clutched tight in his teeth. “Wow,” I tell him. “Step aside, Benedict Cumberbatch. There’s a new Sherlock in town!”

Bea beams up at him. “Whilewedon’t match themes,” she says, “we are embodying our hidden desires—mine, as the epitome of grace.”

“And mine,” Jamie adds, “being remotely capable of sleuthing cold-blooded murders from anywhere except in cozy murder mysteries from the safe confines of my couch.”

“Sherlock Holmes!” Margo yells, drawing Jamie from our little circle toward the rest of the group. “I need to see that tweed up close and personal!”

Christopher’s got his back to us, his phone out as he takes a picture of Toni and Hamza striking a seductive pose—Toni in a sexy floor-length black gown, holding a red pitchfork, and matching red horns on his head, Hamza, angelic in a tight white suit that fits him like a glove, a glittery halo headband on his head.

Kate asks, “And who are you, JuJu?”

I stand taller, drawing my shoulders back. “A persona of my own creation, Viola Cesario. By daytime, a heart-eyed writer of swoony historical romance. By night, a heartless dominatrix.”

My sisters know I have a dream of one day writing and publishingromance. They know I’ve been trying to find my way toward reclaiming romance in my own life, too. They read between the lines of this hidden-desires persona. I feel them step closer, a small moment of sisters closeness.

“Viola Cesario,” Kate says, “sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”

Bea wiggles her eyebrows. “And I’d like to read her stuff. You know I love me a good spicy hist-rom.”

“Maybe you will, one day,” I tell them, before I break into a laugh. “Well, minus the dominatrix part.”

—

Inside the club is absurdly loud, even from my seat at the round booth Margo reserved for our group, farthest from the dance floor and the DJ. If Will were here, I have zero doubts he’d have those earplugs in.

But he isn’t here. I’m not worried yet. He’s not late enough for me to worry about him—we only walked in ten minutes ago.

I’m worried aboutme. Because I miss him. Because I’m already having so much fun with everyone, and I still can’t stop feeling like all of this would be even better if he were here.

And that does not bode well for just over a week from now, the end of our last practice weekend, when I’ll have to say goodbye.

I try to push aside the missing as I sip my whiskey sour and watch my friends and sisters, dancing, laughing out on the floor. I don’t feel like dancing just yet.

When I take another sip of my drink, I get only a burble of liquid through the straw. Somehow, I’ve already sucked down my cocktail. I don’t feel the buzz yet, and I’d like that right about now, to quiet my racing thoughts.

Time for another.

Slowly, I stand, clutching my cane, and wend my way towardthe bar with a few swats of the cane at stubbornly obstructionist legs to part the way. Mobility aids are great for getting through a crowd.

Sidling up to the bar, I hook my cane on the ledge and safely wedge it between my chest and the bar top. I’ve just flagged down Margo’s friend and coworker, Aila, who takes a look at my empty glass and winks to let me know they’ve got my refill underway, when a hand delicately wraps around my wrist.

“Basti?” a smoky voice says. “What are you doing here?”

I turn toward the voice and jolt. The woman holding my arm is gorgeous. Like, one of those people who is so beautiful, her features so perfect, it’s almost freakish. Lush, rosy lips. Wide green eyes and thick dark lashes. Long, golden hair falling in waves, accented by thin braids bearing tiny blue and green flowers.

She’s in what looks like a ren faire–type outfit—a flower crown of blue and green flowers that look honest-to-God real, a thin white shift falling off her shoulders, tight across the swell of her breasts, her waist cinched beneath a green corset that matches her eyes, and a sky-blue skirt beneath it.

For a second, I stare at her, wracking my brain. Something about her feels familiar. Where do I recognize her from?

“Oh.” She drops my wrist as she gets a good look at my face, and her stunned expression dissolves to what I’m pretty sure is disappointment. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I could haveswornyou were someone else.”

“That’s okay.” I smile politely, still trying to pinpoint where I know her from. I hate when this happens. “No harm done.”

She smiles back, a little hesitant, and cocks her head to the side. “It’s uncanny, though. Like I would have bet my entire wardrobe you were Basti. From behind, you could be her twin!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. As long as you tell me she has a great ass.”

She throws back her head and laughs. “She definitely does.”

---