Page 2 of Once Smitten, Twice Shy

As I process his words, I realize the similarity of his vowels to mine. “Wait.” I tip my head. “You’re American?”

He nods.

Well, there goes my Highlander fantasy. Which is honestly for the best.

His brow furrows as he searches my expression. “Something…wrong?”

“I just thought with the red hair and”—I gesture up and down his body, which looks as impressive as it feels, long-limbed, broad, filling out faded jeans and a deep green plaid flannel shirt rolled up to his elbows—“your build, and, well, the location, that there was a good chance you were local. I mean, you know…Scottish.”

“Ah.” He clears his throat and glances down at the ground. “No, I’m just visiting.”

“Me, too.”

Relief sweeps through me. We’re both only here by chance, in passing. What harm could there be in a dance with a handsome stranger I’ll never see again? That, I tell myself, hardly qualifies as an “incident.”

“Well, then, if your offer still stands,” I tell him, smiling wider than I have in weeks, since everything fell apart, “I’d love to dance.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, but his touch is warm andsure as he wraps his hand around mine, drawing me close. Our bodies connect, and heat races through me, everything that’s dimmed and dulled in my sadness the past month flickering awake.

Our chests brush, our hips. His hand curves gently around my waist and draws me close. My hand settles on his hard shoulder.

His gaze sweeps over my face, my hair, my eyes, my mouth, like it’s memorizing me.

A blush warms my cheeks.

I force out a slow, steadying breath. There’s no need to get romantic about this. In fact, there is every neednotto get romantic about it, because this is where I get myself into trouble—my romance-novel-loving, pie-eyed optimist, foolishly hopeful heart stubbornly sees things the way Iwantthem to be rather than the way theyare. This is the mistake that cost me so much with my ex. It’s a mistake I’m not going to make again.

I need to burst this swoony bubble, shatter the magic of the moment.

“So.” I clear my throat.

He stares at my mouth intently. Then says quietly, “So.”

I narrow my eyes, playfully glaring up at him. “You’re supposed to help me out here, not just repeat what I said.”

He’s still staring at my mouth. Another wave of warmth floods my body.

“Not a big talker,” he admits. Deftly, he spins us, moving me safely out of the path of a dancing couple who’ve become very enthusiastic about kissing at the expense of their balance.

He peers my way again, his gaze settling first on my mouth, then on my eyes. He looks at me for so long, I feel every hair on my body stand on end.

“You’re staring at me,” I whisper.

He swallows audibly, his gaze fixed on mine. “Sorry. It’s…hard not to.”

My blush deepens, and I smile wider as I lean in, like a flower drawn toward the sun. I drink him in, his soft, clean scent; every stunning shade of his hair—cinnabar, russet, auburn—like a fire’s dancing flames.

“Well, I’ll just stare at you, too,” I tell him. “So, we’re even.”

He huffs a laugh that’s all air, soft as it gusts out of him. I catch a whiff of smoky whiskey on his breath that matches mine. It oddly comforts me, that we’re the same this way—two people alone for now, who’ve relied on a few whiskeys to get ourselves here.

“Who are you?” he asks, what sounds like wonder tingeing his voice. His fingertips circle the small of my back as he tucks me closer.

A daring thrill runs through me as I stare up at him, this handsome stranger, desire spilling warm and wistful through my veins. I think about how freeing this could be, to live a lie tonight. To be not a heartbroken Juliet but someone else, not even my old self, who I used to be, but someone new, someone better. Is it so bad to want a night indulging in the delectable pleasure of his gaze, his touch, his interest, without worrying about complications or consequences, a night to forget what I’ve been through?

“Viola,” I tell him.

It’s not a lie. My full nameisViola Juliet Wilmot. I was named for my paternal grandmother, Viola Wilmot, a spitfire of a woman whose presence was so formidable, the notion of my sharing her name as a little girl was laughable. By the time she’d passed away, I’d been Juliet or Jules for so long, it was the only name that felt right.

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