Chapter Two

· Two ·

Will

I am a begrudging morning person. Growing up on a farm, I’ve been hardwired to wake up with the sun, but even so, I never wake up happy about it. This morning, I’m even grumpier than usual. Not only am I nursing a headache from all the whiskey I joined in drinking with my friends last night, after I came back inside, just so they’d stop asking why I was so mopey—the hell was I telling them I made an ass of myself with Viola—but I can’t get this damn coffee maker to work.

Swearing under my breath, I stab desperately at the buttons on Petruchio’s fancy espresso and coffee machine, as I rake my other hand through my shower-wet hair. All I want is a big, hot cup of black coffee in my system before I get on the road and head home. Is that too much to ask?

The machine beeps menacingly, and a shiny nozzle screeches as it starts hissing steam. “Shit.” I stab at more buttons, then resort to yanking the plug from the wall. The machine powers off with an ominous fading whirrrrrr that has me worried I just broke the thing.

Groaning, I scrub my hands over my face. When my hands fall, I glance out the window above Petruchio’s sink and freeze.

She stands framed in her kitchen window, too, like a mirror across the yard.

Viola.

Her hair frames her face in soft dark waves that graze her shoulders, the sun catching their frizzy edges in a bronze halo. Even from this distance, I can see how morning light glances off her eyes. It’s like looking at the ocean on a perfect day—blue-green irises the color of waves sparkling with sunlight, rimmed by pale gray curls of sea-foam.

I’m mesmerized. I just stand there, staring at her.

Eyes trained on me, she sips her coffee. As she lowers the mug, her eyebrows draw together. She lifts her mug toward me and tips her head.

I’m not great at reading nonverbal cues, particularly from people I don’t know. I’m not sure what she’s saying.

This time she points to her mug.

I grimace and shake my head a little. I have no idea what she’s getting at.

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 out COFFEE 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 write CAN’T GET IT TO WORK TO SAVE MY LIFE in 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 reads I 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.

Maybe because she 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 see her , 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 me months to 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 the cupboard 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.

“Will?” she presses, her smile faltering.

Shit, I’ve been staring, probably weirding her out. I clear my throat. “Sorry. I…um, twelve ounces. Please. And thank you.”

Her smile returns. “Twelve, it is.”

I watch her as she deftly operates the machine, trying and failing to think of what to say. It isn’t that I don’t have things to say, questions to ask—I just never know where to begin, what’s the right first move. Overwhelmed doesn’t begin to cover it.

“Here we are,” she says, turning with my mug and hers, which is now also full and steaming. “Just going to help myself to a little creamer.” She walks past me to the fridge, drags open the door, and holds it with her elbow.

I take a step and reach for the door to hold it for her.

She blinks up at me, clutching the creamer. “Oh.” A smile lifts her mouth. “Thanks.”

“Mm-hmm,” I manage.

Mm-hmm? That’s the best you can do?

I shut my eyes and grimace as she pours a hefty glug of some kind of flavored cream into her mug.

Anxiety seeps through me as I stand there, holding the door, tongue-tied. She’s helped me, and now she’s going to leave, because why wouldn’t she when I’m just standing here, silent and still as a statue?

Say something, you ass. Just talk to her already!

She slides the creamer back into the fridge. I let the door drop but it doesn’t close all the way. She shuts it with a nudge of her hip and peers up at me, her mouth opening, like she’s about to speak.

This is it. This is when she tells me she’s leaving. When I fumble it again.

Just. Talk.

“Thank you,” I blurt. “For the coffee. I would have asked Petruchio for help—I’m not, you know, above accepting help, obviously, since you’re here helping me—but he’s still asleep…” I swallow nervously. “All the guys are. Not that any of them could work that thing, either.”

Her smile brightens her face, turning those dimples so deep there are shadows in her cheeks. “Happy to help, especially when all the night owls are sleeping the morning away. We early birds have to stick together! At least, I’m assuming you’re a morning person, unless you just got up to get on the road. You did say you had to leave first thing tomorrow—well, today.”

Something warm and fizzy spills through me. I talked. She talked back. I didn’t blow it.

Don’t mess this up.

I take a deep breath. “I’m not exactly a morning person, but I do get up early every day. And I had planned to get on the road…” I push past my nerves, determined not to mess this up like I did last night. “But I’ve got some time. I could, um…” I lift my mug. “Drink this. With. You?”

I want to slap myself. Why am I so terrible at this?

Her smile turns sparkling, wide and warm. “How about we head outside, enjoy the sunshine?”

I swallow thickly. Yes , my brain thinks, but my heart is pounding; my throat is tight. My hands are getting clammy.

She doesn’t seem to mind the silence that stretches out, just smiles softly, her eyes holding mine as she sips her coffee. “If you’re worried about going outside with me,” she says, “because you’re concerned I’ve got more garden-tool weapons waiting out there, they’re all locked up in the shed. You’re safe. Promise.”

Her playfulness, her patience, they flip a switch in me. Finding my voice, I tell her, “Outside sounds…nice.”

My voice catches before I can continue. I swallow, wetting my throat, then reach for the door, which puts me close to Viola, bathes me in her sweet, soft scent.

I open the door, and a warm morning breeze rushes in, whipping back her hair, making it dance around her gorgeous face. I stare down at her, my heart thudding hard, and tell her, “Ladies first.”