Chapter Twenty-Three

· Twenty-Three ·

Juliet

I’ve already buzzed him upstairs, and when Will’s knock on my door echoes through the apartment, I’m ready to go, fancied up, just like he asked me to be. My hair falls around my shoulders in soft waves, ready to be twisted up later for my dominatrix outfit. I smooth my hands down my ivory dress as I step back from examining myself in my bedroom’s full-length mirror, satisfied with what I see.

The dress’s warm white hue makes my fair skin glow; the neckline is a flattering scoop that sits wide at the edge of my shoulders. My gold stud earrings, heirlooms from Grandma Viola, sparkle with tiny diamonds. I test the backs, make sure they’re in tight, as I walk down the hall into the open concept living, dining, and kitchen space. Then I reach behind me, checking that the zipper that sits at the small of my back is all the way up. My comfy-footbed, low-heel nude pumps click softly on the wood floors.

“Come in!” I tell him.

After a second, I hear the door open and bang into the coat hooks on the wall, followed by a muttered curse, and smile to myself.

“Don’t worry,” I call. “I’ve been living in this apartment for years, and it still happens to me…” My voice dies off as I round the corner into the little entranceway. I freeze in my tracks.

Will stands in the foyer, wearing a deep gray suit, his jacket open, a crisp white shirt beneath it. He stares at me, mouth parted, eyes wide. A fierce blush creeps up his cheeks—cheeks that I can actually see .

The big, bushy beard has been shaved down to a thick, tidy scruff. Which means that, finally, I can see…all of him.

And he’s breathtaking.

Sharp jaw, faint hollows at his cheeks, the tiniest cleft at his chin. I stare at his mouth, now that it isn’t hidden beneath his beard. All I can think about is tasting that mouth, dragging his bottom lip slowly between my teeth, earning his groaning sighs.

“Your beard,” I whisper hoarsely. “It’s…not very beardy anymore.”

Will brings a hand to his face, seeming self-conscious as he scrubs it along his scruffy jaw. His eyes are dancing over me. He looks…dazed. “Uh-huh.”

“You look great, Will.”

“Uh-huh,” he says again. A thick swallow works down his throat.

I take a step toward him. “You okay, big guy?”

He shakes his head. “Nuh-uh.”

A soft laugh jumps out of me. I smooth my hands down the lapels of his suit. “What’s the matter?”

He’s peering down at me, his gaze heated. His jaw tightens. He shoves his hands into his pockets, and I wonder why. Is he trying to keep them to himself? Good for him. I, however, am not strong enough to resist temptation.

“Jules,” he says roughly, staring down at me still. “You look…perfect. Your hair. Your dress…” He drags his hands out of his pockets, rakes them through his hair, and blows out a breath. “Jesus.”

My cheeks heat. I shrug, smiling wide. “Aw, this old thing?”

“I…” He huffs out a laugh. His hands fall to his sides. “I’m speechless. Which I know probably doesn’t seem like it’s saying much, but…”

I clasp his hand and squeeze. “Thank you,” I whisper, smiling up at him. “Ready to bowl?”

A faint, rough laugh rumbles in his chest. He turns his hand in mine and gently squeezes back. “Ready when you are.”

I should grab my stuff so we can go to wherever we’re actually headed, but I can’t seem to move my feet. My heart’s flying as I stare up at him.

Will frowns. “What is it?”

“It’s just…I can see you.”

His eyes hold mine. “Is that…a good thing?”

“It’s a fabulous thing.” I reach for the off-white wrap I plan to bring in case I get chilly, hanging on the back of a dining chair, then my purse on the table beside it. “You’re a fucking knockout.”

His cheeks turn beet red. He ducks his head, staring down at his polished brown boots, and scrubs at the back of his neck. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

When he peers up again, he offers me his arm. “Shall we?”

My heart spins. I take his arm and smile up at him. “We shall.”

—

“Will,” I hiss-whisper as we walk into the restaurant, my hand wrapped around his biceps. I’ve never been to this restaurant, but I know it’s the epitome of luxurious fine dining and wildly expensive. “This is way too nice.”

He steps behind me and tugs my wrap back up on my shoulders. “No, it isn’t.”

I don’t have the chance to argue with him because he turns to the host, who stands with menus in hand, ready to guide us toward our table. We follow them, Will’s hand on my back—my bare back—its rough warmth sending pleasure rolling down my spine. The host stops at a two-top tucked into a quiet corner of the restaurant, where candlelight dances across the dark linen tablecloth and a delicate crystal vase of peach-pink tea roses.

Will pulls out my chair, then slides it in after I sit.

I watch him unbutton his suit jacket with one hand, then drop into his seat across from me. Candlelight loves him. It sets his gorgeous hair aflame, glows in his striking gray-green eyes, washes warm across the planes of his face, and leaves sharp shadows that accentuate what I can see now is an unbelievably beautiful bone structure. My gaze travels down his face, the jut of his Adam’s apple, the hollow of his throat revealed by the opening at his shirt collar. Down his broad shoulders and arms, to his hands. God, even his hands are beautiful—elegantly long yet rough-knuckled, his nails trimmed short and neat.

I cross my legs beneath the table against the ache building between my thighs. I picture those hands skating down my body, smoothing over my hips, gently parting my legs, teasing their way higher, higher—

Will’s knees knock mine, wrenching me from my lusty trance. He scrunches his eyes shut. “Sorry.”

I playfully knock my knee into his again. “Don’t be. Footsie is classic flirting.”

He meets my eyes, his expression tight. “I don’t fit at tables like this.”

“This table does not seem to be made with tall, long-legged guys in mind. Want to go sit at the bar instead?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’ll be fine.”

I pick up my menu and start to look at it. Gently, I clench his boot between my heels and squeeze affectionately, hoping it helps him relax and dispels the nerves that have settled between us.

When I glance over the menu, he’s staring at me so intensely, I lower the menu a little, meeting his eyes. The faintest smile lifts the corner of his mouth, which I’m still pinching myself I can finally see so well. I drink in his face. I could stare at him for hours.

“Pinkie-promised honesty moment.” He leans in slightly. “I’m nervous.”

Butterflies swarm my stomach. I lean in, too. “So am I.”

It’s true. I am nervous. I know it’s not an actual date, that this is all practice, but it still feels special, like the stakes are higher tonight.

“Remember.” I squeeze his boot again between my feet. “We’ll wobble together.”

He swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

After a beat, he sits back, and I do, too. I watch him clasp the carafe of ice water that’s sitting at our table, and I reach for my glass, wanting to be helpful, to bring it toward him to fill. But my hand knocks over the glass, just as Will starts to pour. The glass clatters noisily against my silverware and rolls sideways. The water from the pitcher sloshes across my plate and onto the tablecloth.

“Shit!” I hiss. “I’m so sorry.”

“God, sorry,” he says at the same time, lunging for my water glass as it starts to roll toward the edge of the table. As he reaches for it, the audible thunk of his knee connecting with the table’s leg echoes around us.

Will lets out a groan as he drops back into his chair with the glass and half-empty carafe in hand.

Mortification heats my cheeks. “Will, I’m so sorry. That was my fault.”

Will shakes his head. His face is bright red. “Don’t be sorry, Jules. It’s okay.” He reaches to set my glass back down, and his hand hits the end of my fork as he does, flipping it up into the air, then onto his plate with a clatter.

He drops his head and lets out a defeated sigh.

I reach for my fork carefully to take it from his plate, to put it back where it belongs, but in doing so, my knit wrap snags on his fork and drags it with me across the table.

Will peers up quickly at the sound of his fork falling from my wrap, clanging onto my bread plate. I know I should be even more embarrassed than I have been the past sixty seconds of nonstop disasters, but it hits me the way some moments do, when it’s absurd how bad they are—I laugh. First, it’s a squeak I try to hold in. I slap a hand over my mouth. A snort sneaks out next.

Will blinks rapidly, glancing from my face down to the fork that just fell from my wrap. His tongue pokes into his cheek. The corner of his mouth quirks up. His shoulders start to shake.

It feels like the end of Guess Who at game night, but even better. A blast of laughter jumps out of me, and I double forward. A deep, husky laugh rumbles from Will’s chest. He covers his face with his hands as his shoulders shake harder.

“This is a disaster ,” he mutters.

“It really is,” I croak.

After a moment, we finally manage to get ourselves together.

Our eyes hold. Our amusement slowly fades.

Carefully, Will plucks the fork off my plate and sets it back in its rightful place. I watch him as he does it, so handsome in profile, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed in concentration. He peers up and registers me staring. A soft blush creeps across his cheeks.

I smile reflexively, because that’s what looking at Will, being with Will, does to me. Gratitude washes through me, warm and sweet. I clasp his hand and cling to that comfort. I need that comfort. Because there’s some kind of newness between us tonight that frightens me. I thought at first it was just the nerves, the butterflies from seeing each other fancied up, the palpable sexual tension and attraction that’s undeniably there.

But I’m starting to worry it’s something else, something beyond the comfort and familiarity of what we’ve built in the past few weeks.

Will turns his hand inside mine and rubs our palms together.

“Juliet—” he says.

Right as I say, “Will—”

I grit my teeth in frustration as our waiter appears, interrupting us. We pull apart, sitting back as they welcome us and efficiently swap out my watery plate, menu, and water goblet without a word about it. The wine menu is set in between us, and I’m told about all my gluten-free options. It’s the entire menu, either as is or with gluten-free substitutes available.

My heart twists as I glance over at Will watching me intently, the tiniest curve up at one side of his mouth.

Our server leaves, and I knock his knee with mine. “How dare you?”

His eyes narrow a little as he leans in. “How dare I what?”

“Find a place where I can eat everything on the menu.” I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I already forgot what that’s like, what I used to take for granted—just looking at a menu and being able to pick whatever I wanted.” A beat of silence passes as I try not to cry. “It means so much, Will. Thank you.”

His gaze holds mine. “It was the least I could do, to make sure you could eat at the restaurant I brought you to.”

I give him a playful glare. “Stop being too good to be true, Will Orsino.”

“Trust me, I’m not.”

“Lies,” I tell him.

“Just you wait.” He points to the menu. “You’ll see.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans in, voice lowered. “I have a very serious condition. Order-itis.”

“Order-itis?”

“I can’t order from a menu to save my life.”

“What do you mean?”

He picks up the menu, tipping it my way. “That dish, the butternut squash paccheri?”

I nod.

“That’s what I want.” He grimaces. “But when our server comes back, order-itis will kick in, and I will either mangle the name, or I’ll flat-out order another item that I don’t even want.”

“Why?”

“Anxiety, I guess? Who knows. I just get…flustered.” He shrugs. “I’ve done it for as long as I can remember.”

I bite my lip. “I hate to say it, because it can’t be fun to deal with but…that’s kinda cute?”

He arches an eyebrow as he leans in closer, skepticism etched in his features. A fiery lock of hair slips out from behind his ear and brushes his temple. “You’ll be revising that statement when I order butter-squash nut-packs.”

A laugh jumps out of me. I lean in and brush back that lock of hair, tucking it behind his ear, softly tracing the sharp plane of his cheekbone, before I even realize what I’ve done.

I start to pull my hand away, but Will catches it and clasps it gently. His eyes hold mine. Slowly I turn my hand inside his, then slide my fingers down until they’re tangled with his, our hands resting on the table between us.

“You ordered a blueberry muffin and cold brew just fine,” I counter softly, “that first day, at Boulangerie.”

He nods, like he anticipated this. “I wanted a chocolate chip scone.”

I bite my lip. “Oh.”

“You can laugh,” he says. “It’s pretty ridiculous.”

“Nope.” I tangle our fingers tighter. “At Fee’s, too? Did you not want the Reuben?”

“Oh I wanted the hell out of that Reuben. But Fee’s like family. She’s easy to talk to, so it was easier to keep my thoughts straight and tell her what I wanted.”

With my free hand, I draw a menu between us, for us both to look at. “Well, I could always order for both of us?”

He sighs. “I thought about asking you to do that, honestly. But…I’d like to try, to see if I can break a thirty-four-year streak. Well, maybe thirty-one. That’s the first time I remember doing it. At the farmer’s market. I was three. I wanted a chocolate ice cream cone in the worst way.”

I set a hand over my mouth. “I can’t take it. Don’t tell me how badly disappointed tiny Will was.”

“I asked for a Firecracker Popsicle instead.”

I groan. “Nooo.”

“Or, as I said it back then, a fie-cwacka.”

“Stop.” I clutch my heart, in agonies. “I can’t take it.”

He laughs softly. “Like I said, maybe tonight will be different. I’m…willing to try, to take a chance on something I haven’t for a long time.”

I search his eyes, my heart racing. I know he’s talking about ordering, but for a moment, I can’t help but give in to a delusional hope that he’s talking about something else, too. Something more.

Something that just might be us?

Don’t hope, Juliet. Don’t you dare do it.

I force myself to look away, to gently draw my hand back on the pretense of needing it to hold my menu.

“So, important question,” I say to him, “even if you are ordering for yourself—are we sharing meals?”

Will looks offended that I even asked. “Obviously.”

I throw him a teasing scowl. “How would I know if that worked for you?”

“Because it’s romantic!”

I smile. “You get that tidbit from a certain romance novel I sent you home with last week?”

He peers down at his menu, dragging a hand along his jaw. “Not just the romance novel. Which I do like, by the way.”

“Oh goodie! Have you gotten to the adorable grocery store meet-cute?”

He glances up, then leans in, voice quiet, “I might have just gotten to their first make-out.”

I gasp. I know that romance novel very well—I’ve reread it twice, so I know exactly when that very sexy make-out happens and how far it is in the novel.

“You read that much already?”

“Audiobook,” he says, eyes back down on the menu. “I’ve done a mix of reading the paperback in the evenings and listening to it when I had time during the day and on the drive down—at least, when Australian Siri wasn’t telling me about this dominatrix party tonight.”

I laugh. “I’m glad you like it so far.”

He peers up again and smiles. “I do. Thanks for lending it to me.”

“That one has a great dinner date. Did that inspire tonight?”

Will glances back down at the menu. “Not exactly.” After a beat, he says, “ Lady and the Tramp was my favorite movie, growing up.”

Dear God. This man is going to kill me. “Are you kidding me?”

“It’s my truth, Juliet. I won’t deny it.”

I sigh and shut my menu. “Well, now we have to get the pasta dish.”

—

We step out of the restaurant, where the air outside is deliciously cool on my hot cheeks, which are flushed from wine and laughing and shameless flirtation. My hand drifts instinctively to its rightful place, wrapped around Will’s biceps.

“So your sisters,” I say to him. “Helena, Celia, Imogen, Miranda. Did I get the order right?”

He nods.

“You didn’t say, where do you fall in birth order?”

“Oldest.”

“No way!” I offer him a high five. “Me, too.”

He meets it with a satisfying slap. “It’s a tough job, bossing everyone around and always being right, but someone’s gotta do it.”

A laugh jumps out of me. “A cross to bear, but we bear it nobly.”

Soft, husky laughter rolls out of him, too, and pleasure zips across my skin. I love earning his laugh.

Will stares down at me, drinking in my face. “What’s that smile for?”

I squeeze his arm. “I just like you, Will Orsino. That’s all.”

His cheeks turn pink. His gray-green eyes glitter like starlight on frosty leaves. “I like you, too, Juliet Wilmot.”

Will stops us at the valet desk outside, handing one of the valets his ticket and cash, while thanking them. Then he turns back and peers down at me, his gaze warm.

“When did you become a vegetarian?” I ask.

“On my twelfth birthday. When my mom gave me my first cow, Buttercup.”

I smile. “Couldn’t be any cuter.”

“Who?” he asks. “Me or the cow?”

“Both.”

He grins.

I tip my head toward the restaurant. “That was delightful.”

“Especially,” he says, “the butter-patch nut-squash.”

“Especially that. And the golden beet salad that you accidentally ordered instead of the citrus salad. That was my favorite.”

“It was pretty tasty,” he admits, rocking back on his heels. “With the honey drizzle and goat cheese on top?”

“And the chopped pistachios.” I hum with pleasure at the memory. “Delicious. Thank you again for dinner. For all of it. It was incredible.”

He gives me one of those adorable double-blink winks. “You’re welcome, Jules. I think it was pretty incredible, too.”

A silence falls between us, and I brace myself for our usual post-practice-date debrief. Because I’m dreading it. I’ve been living in a dreamy little bubble for the past two hours, pushing away all thought of practice. I’m not ready for it to be burst, to crash back down to reality.

The wind picks up and Will turns to face me, nearly placing us chest to chest. Gently, he smooths back my hair, which the wind has whipped forward, tucking it behind my ears. His thumbs graze my cheeks, my jaw, whisper down the sensitive skin beneath my ears, down my neck, to my collarbones. I shiver, and it’s got nothing to do with the cool evening air.

The valet rolls up to the curb beside us with Will’s truck just as I’m leaning in, contemplating how reckless and wonderful it would be to kiss the hell out of him. Will takes a step back but still finds my hand with his and clasps it gently, drawing me with him and helping me into the truck.

As he pulls out, I hold my breath, braced for the practice debrief that hasn’t yet happened, that should happen, because that’s what keeps us in safe, familiar territory. But Will’s focused on driving, apparently all thoughts of debriefing far from his mind. It’s front and center in mine, and I should bring it up, keep us safe, I know I should. But dammit, I don’t want to. I want tonight to feel fun and free of practicing for other people, planning for futures without each other. I want to stay in my dreamy little bubble just a little longer.

So, instead of doing what I should, I turn in my seat to face him, and ask, “What are you dressing as tonight?”

He frowns, his eyes pinned on the road. “I’m not telling you.”

“Why not?” I ask indignantly.

“It’s a surprise ,” he says. “Obviously. Tonight is the night of surprises.”

“Rude.” I slump back in my seat, arms folded across my chest. “You know my costume!”

“Not my fault you blabbed in the group chat.”

I slug his thigh playfully.

“Hey, that’s my driving leg, ma’am.” He clasps my hand, but instead of moving it away, he threads his fingers through mine.

I melt at that, just a little—okay, a lot. This feels so good. Every moment has, since he picked me up. Even the awkward moments, the clumsy ones. It’s all felt so damn good.

I can’t think about it a second longer, can’t let my mind wander down the path it wants to. The one paved with questions I shouldn’t be asking:

Why does it feel so good?

Was that really practice tonight or was it…real?

Was that cryptic sentence really just about ordering food, or was it about…us?

Maybe tonight will be different. I’m…willing to try, to take a chance on something I haven’t for a long time.

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?