Chapter Seven

· Seven ·

Juliet

I might be late to meet Will, and it’s all my clothes’ fault. Nothing looked right, fit right, felt right. I tried on twelve outfits before I settled on a soft, flowy lavender sundress that’s comfy and pairs well with my pink and purple flower-print sneakers—a new wardrobe staple to give my joints as much support as possible when I traipse around. But even now, I’m not sure it was the right pick. I’m paler than I like to be when I wear pastel purple, thanks to one of my medications, which has increased my skin’s photosensitivity, and the neckline’s low and boobier than I remember it being. Not that I’m ashamed to show off the girls; I’m just not sure if it’s the vibe I want for my first date— practice date!—with Will.

I might be spiraling a little.

I don’t know why I’m a ball of nerves, why I woke up jittery, overthinking everything from how much creamer I wanted in my coffee to how to wear my hair. It’s just a practice date. It’s just Will.

Will, the very hot, very endearing cutie I’m going to spend the next four weekends practicing romance with.

Will, whom I honestly want to do very filthy things with but won’t, because we’re going to keep this romance practice regimen strictly G-rated.

Or maybe PG. I mean, maybe a handsy kiss and hug goodbye here and there wouldn’t be the worst. Come to think of it, that might be essential material to cover.

I shake my head and blow out a deep breath as I cross the street. I don’t need to get hung up on those hypotheticals. Right now, I need to get to the coffee shop, to Will. We’ll figure out the rest together. And while we do that, I’ll keep reminding myself why I’m going to be just fine practicing romance with a man I am very, very attracted to: Will Orsino’s got his eyes set on marrying not for love but for family duty; he’s near and dear to Christopher; in other words, he’s completely off-limits.

I’m not going to fall for someone who’s not looking for love. I might not be ready for love yet, but one day, I hope I’ll find it again, with someone who wants love, too. And I’m not going to fall for another one of Christopher’s friends. While I know not every friend of Christopher’s is my ex—Will thus far has proved to be his antithesis—my ex and Christopher were close, professionally at least, then personally, when he and I started dating, and when everything between us blew up, it hurt not just me but Christopher, too. I’ve sworn to myself I’ll never again get tangled up romantically with someone close to the important people in my life. The potential fallout is too messy, the risk of collateral damage too high.

Considering all that, Will is the safest person I could have chosen as my practice romance pal. With Will, I’m safe—from the risk of falling in love, of heartbreak—and my romance reawakening can finally begin.

So why, even with that reassurance front and center in my thoughts, am I so damn nervous?

As I walk down the sidewalk, I set a hand on my stomach, where butterflies are whipping around wilder than Puck when he gets the zoomies and tears through the house.

And suddenly, it hits me—this kind of nervousness is good. I’m supposed to have butterflies in my stomach. These are exactly the kinds of feelings I want to get comfortable with again.

All morning, I told myself I was getting ready to go practice. I should have realized the moment I woke up that practice was already here.

Breathing deeply again, I open the door to the coffee shop and instantly spot Will, head bent over what looks like a piece of paper, holding a pencil that he moves haltingly across it. A crossword, maybe? He’s seated in a cozy corner, the one farthest from the coffee bar, and he’s wearing a burnt-orange shirt, its color honestly the last one I would have picked for a man with hair like his, but somehow it works. It really works. He looks…striking, everything else fading around him, like a fire’s flames against a dark night.

Slowly, I weave my way toward him through the tables, those butterflies swirling through me.

It’s good, Juliet , a quiet voice says in my head. It’s good.

I smile. Because, for the first time in so many months, I believe that voice.

When I get to his table, I stop. Will’s head is still bent, his pencil moving over what I now see is a sudoku puzzle.

My smile widens. I set my purse on the table and tell him, “I was so sure you were doing the crossword.”

He jerks upright, like I’ve startled him, and blinks up at me. His gaze dances down my body. He swallows thickly, totally silent. And then he shoots out of his seat.

“Hi.” He offers me his hand.

I blink, taken off guard. Will immediately yanks it back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I just flubbed that so bad,” he mutters miserably. “A handshake ? What the hell is wrong with me?”

“Will—”

“Can I have a do-over?” He presses his hands together, holding my eyes. “Please.”

I’m torn. I want to reassure him, tell a little white lie that he didn’t flub it to make him feel better.

But I shouldn’t lie to him, not when he wants to get better at this. Will and I owe each other the chance to actually get better, and that means we have to make space for not just our successes but also our struggles.

I don’t tell him he flubbed it, but I don’t disagree, either. I just say, “Rewind time.”

Then I reach for my purse and slide it onto my shoulder. I take a quick glance behind me, making sure the path is clear, before I start walking backward. I walk backward through the whole coffee shop, to the door, whose handle I fumble with a little bit as I reach behind me to open it. I whip open the door, step outside, and let it fall shut.

Through the glass door, I see Will standing in his cozy corner, this bewildered expression on his face that’s tinged with…I’m not sure what, but I think it just might be amusement.

I smile at him, then wave my hand, gesturing that he should sit.

He does. My smile widens. Then I whip open the door to walk in. Take two.

More confident than last time, a lot less shaky, I stroll through the restaurant. This time, Will watches me the whole way, his eyes holding mine.

When I get to the table, he stands, smoother than last time, calmer.

“Juliet,” he says, his gaze dancing over me. “Hi.”

I smile. “Hi, Will.”

He clears his throat. “I’m not going to offer you a handshake this time.”

I bite my lip. “Okay.”

“But…” He clears his throat again. “I’m not exactly sure what I should offer you.”

“What feels right?” I ask. “What’s your gut instinct?”

He scrubs at the back of his neck. “We’re not total strangers, but if we were, my gut instinct would be to stand, pull out a chair for you to sit, then push it in.”

“Gentlemanly,” I tell him. “I like it.”

“But we’re not strangers,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “We’ve talked enough, we’re comfortable enough with each other that…well, a hug hello, that’s my instinct. I’d ask first, of course.”

My smile deepens. This man. “Go on and ask me, then.”

He blows out a breath. “Juliet, can I hug you hello?”

“Yes, please.” I step around my corner of the table and right into his arms.

Will wraps himself gently around me in a brief, sweet hug. Perfect for a first-date greeting.

I lightly rest my arms around his broad back and breathe him in. He smells so darn good, and there go those butterflies again. I smile to myself, my cheek brushing his soft cotton shirt, and sigh. He lets go, and I make myself pull away. “That was delightful,” I tell him.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I spy an eyelash I left on the pocket of his shirt and swipe it off with my fingers.

He glances down, frowning.

“Just cleaning up after myself,” I tell him. “An eyelash.” I blow it off my fingertip, for good luck. “I like the shirt. It’s really handsome on you.”

His cheeks turn bright pink. Gah, what is it about a man who blushes?

“Don’t flatter me,” he says, pulling out my chair. “I look like a pumpkin.”

I laugh as I sit and he pushes in my chair. “You do not! I wouldn’t lie to you. We promised to be honest with each other, and I’m sticking to my word. I really do think it suits you.”

Will sits across from me and gives me a skeptical look. “We can agree to disagree, then. I feel like a gourd in this thing.”

“Then why are you wearing it?”

“My niece,” he says, pushing the sudoku aside.

“Your niece?”

He nods. “She gave it to me yesterday. And then she was around this morning when I was packing up, getting ready to leave…I didn’t really have a choice.”

My heart does a somersault. “You mean she wanted you to wear it, and you’re too big of a softie to say no.”

He grumbles under his breath, turning the pencil for his sudoku between his fingers.

“Will, that’s a compliment.” I lean in over the table, lowering my voice. “That’s the stuff you tell the lady you’re trying to romance. It’s very attractive.”

Will’s head snaps up. “How?”

I sit back in my chair. “You put your ego aside to do something kind for a little person who loves you. That’s a major green flag.”

A milk steamer screeches on the other side of the table as a throng of people jostles past us, quickly filling up the large round table nearby. They’re a rowdy bunch, teens basking in their summertime freedom, talking loud and laughing. The volume in the place instantly doubles.

Will slips a hand beneath his hair and seems to fiddle around his ear.

That’s when I remember the earplugs he was wearing when we met at the pub. His sensitivity to noise.

Dammit, I should have thought of that when I suggested where we meet up for coffee. Somewhere with a quiet back patio and outdoor seating would have been much better.

Will forces what I think is meant to be a smile but can only be construed as a grimace. He’s trying to muscle his way through it. But he shouldn’t have to.

I clasp my purse and slide it back onto my shoulder. “What do you say we get our coffees to go?”

—

Something happens between leaving the table and making our way toward the counter. My nerves are back, and not the swoony butterfly ones—these feel like a swarm of bees stinging my insides, making my hands tingle, my heart race.

Where has my capacity for small talk gone? Why does my smile feel like a rictus on my face? And I thought I was spiraling before I got here.

“What is it?” Will asks quietly.

I peer up to see him frowning down at me, concern etched in his expression.

“I, um…” I force a swallow down my throat. “I don’t exactly know. I think I’m just…feeling pretty rusty, right now.”

Will slows his walk, his eyes holding mine. “What can I do?”

My heart pinches at his kindness. “Not sure there’s really anything to be done,” I admit. “Just…maybe reassure me I’m not alone?”

“Well, I’d like to reassure you I’m feeling rusty, too,” he says. “But remember, I’ve got nothing to rust.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Stop it.”

He gently nudges me back, peering down at me. “I might not be rusty like you, Juliet, but I am feeling pretty wobbly, even with those training wheels we just put on.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “ Wobbly is a good word for it.”

He dips his head a little, leaning in, and whether he meant to or not, the backs of his knuckles brush against mine. “Some wise woman told me we’d wobble together.”

Another swallow rolls down my throat, but this one feels easier. A full, deep breath fills my lungs. I hook my pinkie with his. “She does sound wise. But she also might sometimes find it easier to preach something than to practice it.”

He squeezes my pinkie gently, then lets go. “Well, I’ll be happy to remind her sometimes, that she’s not the only one wobbling. If that helps.”

I nod. “I think that would help a lot.”

“Can I help the next person?” a voice behind the counter yells.

Will and I both glance forward and in silent agreement move up a few feet to get in line.

I set a hand on my stomach as it grumbles, and I realize the swarm of bees is gone, the only sensation left a sharp hunger, after having skipped breakfast, thanks to my nervous tummy. I scour the display case of baked goods, exploring my options. Thankfully, Boulangerie has a case of gluten-free pastries that are always well stocked.

The line moves up, and the person in front of us orders a drip coffee. I reach in my purse for my phone, so I’m ready to tap and pay after ordering. As I tug it out, my hand catches on the flap of my romance novel, yanking that out, too, and sending it tumbling to the floor.

Will ducks and scoops it up before I’ve even begun to crouch, then stands just as the person in front of us moves aside. I’m about to thank him, but the words die on my tongue when he sets a hand on my back and gently guides me forward.

A bolt of pleasure zips down my spine.

“You first,” he says, eyes narrowed on the menu.

I order an iced oat milk vanilla latte and a gluten-free lemon bar. Will orders a blueberry muffin and a cold brew. I step aside to wait first, making sure to pick the side of the coffee bar farthest from the screeching milk steamers, near the front door.

Will’s still holding my romance novel, and I offer my hand to take it. “Thanks for grabbing that for me.”

He glances down at the book, then up at me. “Oh, sure.”

I take the historical romance, slip it back into my purse, and smile. “Can’t go anywhere without a trusty romance.”

“What made you start reading them?” he asks. “The romance novels?”

I’m relieved to hear curiosity and none of the condescension I often get when asked about reading this genre, one lots of people disparage as trivial and unliterary. Not that I expected him to be dismissive of romance, given he seemed on board with reading it back when we formed our plan last week. Still, there’s a difference between indulging someone and engaging them. It’s nice to know he’s doing the latter.

“Because they make me happy,” I tell him. “I’ve only realized it recently, but I’ve struggled with anxiety for a long time; even before I understood what I was dealing with, I think I gravitated toward romance novels because they never made me anxious, because I could always count on a happily ever after. Even when things get rough in the story, it always worked out. That reliability is really comforting. And…I love love. Friend love. Family love. Romantic love. Romance novels celebrate all of that.”

He nods. “What do you read more of? Historical or contemporary?”

“Historical,” I tell him. “But I’d be up for buddy-reading a contemporary with you, if you’re still interested.”

A couple with a baby stroller is coming right toward me, cutting the corner around the coffee bar awfully close. I’m just glancing around to figure out where I can move so I won’t get mowed over, when Will steps close and plants himself right beside me, his hand hovering at my back, so they have to go around us.

Those butterflies are back, swirling in my stomach. So many butterflies.

“You think that’s a better choice?” he asks.

I blink, snapped out of my swoon. “Contemporary romance? Definitely. At least, for the purpose of exploring how modern-day flirting and romance can play out.” I grin up at him. “Unless you plan on wooing your future wife by waltzing in ballrooms and taking her on courtly carriage rides through the countryside.”

Will peers down at me, his eyes crinkling. I can’t tell if there’s a smile beneath that thick beard, but it feels like a win all the same.

The barista shouts our names, breaking the moment. In two long strides, Will steps into the throng of people waiting for their orders, grabbing both our drinks and pastry bags with one smooth swipe of his big hands. I manage to slip my way through the crowd, Will close behind me, until we’re finally outside, greeted by birdsong and the hum of Saturday morning traffic.

“There are some café tables across the street in the park,” I tell him. “Want to head over there?”

Will frowns down at the pigeons starting to hop around us. He doesn’t answer me.

“Will?”

“I’ll eat wherever,” he says, still watching the pigeons. “As long as these flying rats aren’t nearby.”

“Flying rats!” I gasp. “They are not flying rats . Pigeons are adorable.”

“Adorable,” he grumbles, shimmying past me as a pigeon waddles toward him.

“Will, are you… afraid of pigeons?”

“No,” he barks, before hopping back as another pigeon waddles toward him.

“Shoo!” I say to the pigeons, waving them away. They flutter up into the air and land farther down the sidewalk. “See? All taken care of.”

Will gives me a narrow-eyed look. “I had it in hand.”

“Sure you did.” I step closer to him, smiling wide as I loop my arm through his. “Now, let’s go claim that empty table across the street. I promise, I’ll keep the pigeons at bay.”