Page 9 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

She hesitates for a beat, then steps away from the window. I feel a ridiculous sense of loss, that she’s just disappeared. Then again, why am I surprised? She’s walked out on me twice before—at the pub, last night—why wouldn’t she do it again?

I’m used to being someone people don’t find worth hanging around for. And I know it’s partly my fault. I don’t talk well with strangers. I have zero romantic moves. I’ve accepted this about myself, told myself it doesn’t bother me. Except with her, well, it’s been bothering me.

More than I care to admit.

She’s back at the window again, and my heart does an absurd flip in my chest. She came back.

And now she’s holding up a piece of paper, large letters in black marker spelling outCOFFEE MAKER TROUBLES?

She didn’t just come back; she’s…trying to talk to me, still.And she doesn’t seem to mind that it required scribbling a note so I can figure out what she’s saying.

My heart’s racing, nerves making my hands shaky as I turn and glance frantically around the kitchen for pen and paper. Darting over to the shallow stretch of counter along the far wall, where I see an old-school answering machine and phone set, a jar with pens and markers, I start yanking open drawers. I find a notepad of lined paper that’ll do. Quickly, I pluck a Sharpie from the jar, then writeCAN’T GET IT TO WORK TO SAVE MY LIFEin big black letters, and tear the paper from the pad before rushing to the window. She’s still there, and now she’s cradling her mug in her hands.

I lift the paper and watch her eyes narrow as she reads it.

A smile lifts her mouth, then she sets down her mug, bends out of view for a moment, and returns with a new piece of paper that readsI CAN HELP. OK IF I COME OVER?

I swallow thickly, my heart racing faster, nerves darting through me. I could barely handle being around her last night, that creamy white dress plastered to her body, a tear in its fabric revealing a long stretch of curvy thigh. She was rain soaked and stunning, even with a shovel held menacingly in her grip.

Maybebecauseshe was holding a shovel menacingly in her grip.

Do I really want her to come over, when I’ve got no coffee in my system, my brain still barely online because I really do need coffee before I can formulate even the limited number of words willing to leave my mouth on the best of days? Do I actually want to make an ass of myself in front of her again?

A weary sigh leaves me.

I really want that cup of coffee.

And, foolishly, even more than that cup of coffee, I think I want to seeher, one last time. Even if I will make an ass of myself.

I lift that same piece of paper to the window with my answer:

YES.

—

She doesn’t knock. My only warning that Viola’s about to come in is the chirp of the back door’s lock code being punched in, before the door swings open.

God, she’s beautiful.

She’s wearing a pale pink T-shirt, its neckline scooping across the swell of her breasts, and tiny shorts with flowers all over them. Those dark, soft waves that graze her shoulders are now tucked behind her ears, revealing more of her face, the high apples of her deep-dimpled cheeks, as she smiles and shuts the door behind her.

“I keep telling Christopher,” she says, breezing past me, “that he needs to get a more user-friendly machine, but he won’t listen. It’s the least he could do if he’s going to sleep through his guests’ wake-ups and leave them to fend for themselves.”

I turn, mute, tracking her as she frowns in concentration at the machine and pushes a few buttons. “Took memonthsto learn how to work this thing,” she says over her shoulder. “What did you want? Coffee? Latte? Espresso? This machine can do it all, so drinker’s choice.”

She leans over the counter to reach the cord and plugs in the machine again. It puts her wide, round ass in those tiny flower shorts right on display, and oh God, I’m staring. I glance away, my cheeks turning bright red.

“Just, uh…” I clear my throat. “Coffee, please. And thanks.”

She turns, and her eyes lock with mine, a mesmerizing swirl of ocean blue-green rimmed with stormy gray, thick, dark lashes blinking slowly. Her smile is wide and warm. “Sure thing. Got a mug?”

“Uh. Yes.” I spin, searching for the mug I pulled out of thecupboard when I first tried to make a cup for myself. I spot the black ceramic mug on the counter behind me and hand it to her.

She plucks it from my grip, smiling up at me. “Eight or twelve ounces?”

Her scent wafts my way, and Christ almighty, she smells so good, like fresh air and wildflowers. It’s taking superhuman strength not to suck in a deep breath just to hold on to that scent. My throat works in a swallow. My stomach tightens as heat rushes through me, low and swift. I’m short-circuiting.

I’ve never slept over after being with a woman—too many sensory issues like scratchy sheets, mattresses that don’t feel right, unfamiliar noises in their place that would keep me awake. I’ve never seen a woman I’m attracted to rumpled and soft from sleep. I had no idea it would be so damn hot.

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