Chapter Thirteen

· Thirteen ·

Juliet

Will and I haven’t texted all week—not that we texted much the week prior, just enough to shore up our plans for the weekend. And while I do think at some point that man’s going to have to come to terms with practicing a flirty text here and there, I’m relieved he didn’t try it this week.

Because I am struggling mightily. Every night, since he kissed the hell out of me on Sunday and I watched him drive off in his shiny dark green truck, I’ve woken up throbbing with release, sweat beading my skin, a white-hot sex dream featuring Will doing unspeakably filthy things to me fresh in my head.

I’ve tried to reassure myself that it’s just because I haven’t had sex with someone since my breakup, and my libido got a kick start back into gear because I kissed someone last Sunday night like we were two horny teenagers about to tear off each other’s clothes. But it’s more than that, and I know it. It’s Will.

I sigh miserably, trying to refocus on this article on the gig economy that I have to turn in today. This is the pits. I have a crush on my romance workout buddy.

My phone dings just as I’m getting back in my writing flow. I wrap up the sentence I was working on, then glance down at the screen. When I see the text is from Will, my stomach flips. I groan in frustration with myself. Damn these butterflies!

Will: Morning, Juliet. Sorry I’ve been quiet this week. Work was obnoxiously busy.

Juliet: Morning . No sorry needed. I’ve had a busy week, too.

I have not had a busy week. I’ve written a dozen easy-peasy articles, did a massive clothes purge, rearranged my library alphabetically, then within each letter of the alphabet, by rainbow scheme, and read more Highlander romances than I have in a long time.

Come to think of it, maybe I need to pump the brakes on the horny Highlanders. I’m pretty sure Dream Will last night was in a kilt, and when I was lying beneath him, begging for it, he rucked up that plaid draped against his tree-trunk thighs, took me by the hips, and—

I shake my head and blink rapidly. My cheeks are on fire. Tonight, I’m going to bed with a thriller that doesn’t have a whiff of a romantic subplot.

My phone dings again. I peer down to read Will’s text.

Will: I have a couple meetings with clients lined up today, so I was thinking we could meet for a drink and dinner. Would that be good for your schedule?

Juliet: Perfect! I have to wrap up some work myself today, so that’ll be good timing.

Will: Great. Does a pub setting work for you? I know of one that has lots of gluten-free options.

My stomach does a backflip. I press my hand against it. I can’t handle these intestinal gymnastics he’s putting me through.

Juliet: I really appreciate you thinking about that. How did you know I need to eat GF?

Will: At Boulangerie, you got a GF lemon bar. Figured it was a dietary restriction. In my experience, nobody willingly eats GF unless they have to.

Juliet: No slander for my GF goodies!

Will: Slander unintended, promise. Thinking we could meet, 6pm at Fiona’s. How’s that sound?

I smile. Fiona’s is an adorable Irish pub that my sisters, friends, and I frequent, owned by one of my mom’s oldest friends, Fiona, or Fee, as everyone calls her. When Fee found out I had to start eating gluten-free, she went so far as to set up a dedicated gluten-free fryer in the pub and tweaked a handful of my favorite dishes to make them safe. It meant the world to me, and the fact that, of all the Irish pubs in the city, Will picked Fee’s…well, it feels just a bit magical.

Serendipitous.

Dammit, I have to stop thinking like that. I wave my hand in the air, like the word is a gnat I can brush off. I wish it was.

Forcing myself to move on, I type my response to Will and try to ignore the butterflies racing in my stomach.

Juliet: Sounds perfect. See you then.