Chapter Twenty-Six

· Twenty-Six ·

Will

Juliet’s smiling up at me like I’m the best damn thing she’s ever seen. It makes me feel ten feet tall. I’d like to smile back, but I’m short-circuiting as I take her in, head to toe.

She’s a vixen. Shiny black boots, tight black pants. A snug black blazer plunging low, revealing a torturously deep triangle of smooth white skin, the hint of a black lacy bra and the swell of her breasts.

I stand there, staring down at her, my hands turned to fists, no jean pockets where I can stow them to restrain myself. I want to touch her so badly it hurts. My heart kicks inside my chest, bangs and howls at how wrong it feels to look at her like this, to be this close and not be able to give in.

“Will!” she yells as the music ratchets up in volume.

Thank God she yells, because it’s beyond loud in here, and I’ve got the earplugs in, somewhat muting the noise around us, but the thumping bass, the background sound of blaring music, voices shouting, would make hearing her impossible if she were any quieter.

“You’re a Highlander !” she hollers, clutching my arm as she beams up at me.

I sigh as I peer down at her. “And you’re going to be the death of me.”

“What?” she leans in. “I couldn’t hear you!”

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

From the edge of my vision, I catch hands waving from the dance floor and glance up. Toni and Hamza, Kate and Christopher, Bea and Jamie, gesturing to join them.

Juliet grimaces and steps so close, we’re nearly chest to chest. “It’s so loud in here!”

She’s not stating the obvious. She’s acknowledging it for me, saying without saying it that she understands this might not be a great fit for me. Because she knows how draining I find these kinds of environments. In the past, when even an implication of my sensitivities and limitations would come up, prideful defensiveness would rear its ugly head. But not anymore. Not with her. With Juliet, I don’t feel self-conscious—I feel seen.

And when her hand gently wraps around mine, squeezing tight, I’d swear she had my heart in her grip, because it squeezes, too. Not just because I feel a rush of comfort from her touch, but because we’re standing here, where her sisters and friends can see us, and Juliet doesn’t seem to care at all.

I hope it means she doesn’t want to hide our closeness anymore, whether that closeness is practiced or real. Because the truth is, I don’t want to hide it anymore. I don’t know if I can hide it, either.

I clasp her hand and thread our fingers together. I watch her gaze drift down to my mouth, then back up. The music’s beating around us, everyone from the group who’s out on the dance floor hollering at us to join them.

I bend a little and say, close to her ear, “They’re telling us to come dance.” I hope, in the same way she showed me she knows this party could be hard but left me room to tell her what I can manage, that I’m showing her I see how this could be hard for her, too, that I’m putting the ball in her court, to tell me what she feels up for.

I’ve noticed the cane she’s holding, and unless it’s purely decorative for her costume, it probably means her knee’s giving her problems. I hope she’s not hurting. But if she is, I trust her to tell me the truth.

Juliet smiles up at me, and that sparkle in her eyes says she heard what I didn’t say, that I made her feel not self-conscious but seen, too. “I could go dance for a bit…How about you?”

I nod. No, I’m not going to be able to take this chaos for long. But until I hit my limit, I’m going to dance my ass off with Juliet, drench myself in the pleasure of being close to her, watching her shine, happy and carefree with the people she loves.

She wraps her hand around my biceps and turns us toward the dance floor. “I know this is probably very inappropriate,” she yells over the noise, “but I’ve got to ask: are you wearing anything under that kilt?”

I wiggle my eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

—

The third time Juliet’s knee gives out, she’s got her hands around my neck, her cane hanging from the crook of my arm, and I’m glad, because I can tell she was about to go down hard.

I’m braced for the embarrassment she seemed to feel when it happened on our first practice date, but it never comes. She just clutches my neck tighter and says, “I’ve hit my wall here.”

I nod. I have, too.

Over the past two hours, we’ve been out on the dance floor, then packed in with the group at the booth, gulping water, conversations stacked one over the other, then back out to the dance floor. My brain’s buzzing from it. I’ve had the best time, but I’ve just about hit my limit.

She leans in a little and says, “Want to get out of here?”

I frown, confused. My gaze drifts to her sisters and all her friends, scattered on the dance floor. She’s not worried they’ll see us leave together?

“You sure?” I ask.

Her mouth quirks with a smile. “I’m sure. One sec!”

She plucks her cane from my elbow, then slips off toward her sisters, head bent as she talks to them. They both glance my way and smile. I have no idea what she’s telling them, but I’m relieved that, whatever it is, they seem okay with it.

Juliet circles back to me and wraps her hand around my arm. “How do you feel,” she yells over the music, “about getting a little surprise of your own?”

—

I don’t usually like surprises, but I trust Juliet. She asks if I want to take her straight home—I do, not because I’m tired and ready to head back to my place, but because I want to take her back to her apartment and tear off her clothes and make her come until she begs me to stop, until she can’t take one more ounce of pleasure.

Obviously, I can’t tell her that, so I tell her a truth, if not the whole truth: that I’m not tired, that I’m up for something else, so long as it’s not real loud.

And with that criterion, we set off, following not the instruction of my Australian Siri but of Juliet, who holds her phone close to her chest and tells me what turns to make and when, determined for me not to peek at the map on her screen.

I’ve been following her directions dutifully, and as I make our last turn, veering left, I still don’t know what to expect of our destination, which is allegedly right around the corner. When I see what it is, I lurch on the brakes.

The parking lot drive-in sits right at the water’s edge, a tall, wide screen to the left, the downtown skyline to the right, twinkling across the river.

A drive-in.

“What’s the matter?” she says. Her hand settles on my thigh and squeezes gently. “Still too loud? We can do something else—”

“No.” I shake my head, then glance her way, trying to force a smile even though I’m shit at it.

Juliet’s reaction confirms this. “You look like you’re in gastrointestinal distress.”

A snort jumps out of me. I think I’m in shock. Of all the places, the first time since we started our dates that she’s the one who picks where we go, and this is what she chooses.

A drive-in.

A place that is all but sacred in my family, that has such a special meaning to it, one she has no way of knowing about.

Is this a sign? Or is the fact that I want it to be a sign, in and of itself?

“I’m okay,” I tell her, squeezing her hand. “Promise. You just…surprised me real good. I would have bet the truck we were going bowling.”

Her expression turns crestfallen. “Oh. We could totally do that, if you want. Especially since”—she points to the sign at the entrance—“it’s rom-com night. Maybe you’re not feeling that vibe—”

“Juliet.” I squeeze her hand again. “I’m okay here. Pinkie promise.”

That convinces her. Her smile returns as she sits back in her seat and claps her hands. “Eek! It’s How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days . A fave. Have you ever seen it?”

I shake my head. “But I am obviously a convert to the genre.”

She beams up at me. “You’re gonna love it.”

And she’s right, I do. I laugh at all the antics, at Matthew McConaughey and Kate Hudson’s absurd efforts to wear each other down that only end up making them fall in love. I tear up at the end. I love the heck out of it.

Fuck, the cloud I’m floating on when the movie ends is almost as good as endorphins after a hard workout. I think I’m about to do a deep dive into rom-coms.

“The love fern!” she says as we pull out of the parking lot. “Like, who thought of that? How can I crawl inside their brain? I feel like any time I try to write a funny moment, it’s not nearly as funny as I want it to be.”

“Are you writing a rom-com?” I ask, switching lanes.

She’s quiet for a beat, then says, “I’m sort of chipping away at a historical romance, but a historical rom-com—at least, I’d like it to be.”

I glance her way. “That’s incredible, Jules. Can I read what you have so far?”

“God, no!” she yells, clapping her hands over her cheeks. “Are you kidding me? It’s a dumpster fire of twenty thousand words that I constantly tweak and rewrite and never go any further than. It’s the last thing I’d want to be your introduction to historical romance.”

I smile as I accelerate. “Well, it wouldn’t be. I’ve now read three historical romances, and I’m hooked.”

“What?” She leans in across the console. “How? When?”

“Borrowed them from my mom—snuck them, actually. She would be an insufferable gloat if she knew I finally caved when she’s been yelling at me to give them a try for nearly two decades.”

Juliet sighs, then says, her voice shaky, “Tell me they haven’t been Highlander romance.”

“I could tell you that…” I throw her a quick smile before I set my eyes back on the road. “But I did pinkie promise to be honest with you.”