After Ian closed the front door behind him, Juliet put a hand to her heart and sighed. “I’m so very, very in love with him.”
“It’s pretty clear he’s like, very, very, very, very in love with you right back.”
Juliet scooped Lulu up and nuzzled the dog’s head. “Oh yeah? How can you tell?”
“By the way he touches you.” Willow grabbed a green bean and turned it in her hands. “You can tell a lot about a man by the way he puts his hands on you.”
Juliet kissed Lulu and put her down before she swung her long, brown hair over her shoulder and plopped back onto the stool next to Willow. “Oh, right. I forgot that all your years as a ballerina have given you so much experience with men putting their hands on you. You must be an expert by now.”
“Actually, they have.” Willow shrugged. “Think of all the times I’ve had to take a man’s hand in rehearsal. Or on the stage. And think how many times I’ve had a man’s hands on my waist. Or on my hips. Or my…” She widened her eyes and made a face that said you know what I’m talking about. “Modesty isn’t a thing in my career. It can’t be. I’ve had so many hands on so many places on my body…”
“I always said you were a floozy.” Julz grabbed a green bean out of Willow’s pile and snapped the ends off, smiling devilishly as she tossed it in the strainer before grabbing a handful for herself. “So do tell, oh wise one. What does the way Ian touches me say about him?”
“It says you’re the thing he cherishes most in his life.”
Juliet beamed, her love for her fiancé shining in her eyes. “You think so?”
“For sure. He’s careful and tender, but in a way that’s charged with so much passion it makes me feel like I’m intruding on your moment. When he puts his hands on you, he claims you and protects you at the same time.” Willow shrugged and ran a finger around the rim of her wine glass. “It’s super romantic. Totally beautiful. And I’m studying it like crazy so I can explain it to whoever ends up dancing the part of Romeo when we perform Romeo and Juliet in February.”
Besides, she thought, I wouldn’t mind someone touching me like that someday.
Though, the way things were going, the only way a man would touch her the way Ian touched Juliet would be if it was choreographed.
And that was okay.
Willow didn’t mind being married to her job.
Much.
Chapter Two
Harry
Harrison Moore paced his house. His brother Ian wasn’t expecting him for another couple hours. He knew that, but he checked the time anyway. Minutes ticked by at a glacial pace when he wasn’t at work. With nothing to occupy his mind, that itchy, unable-to-sit-still feeling always surfaced.
The need to move.
To busy his hands.
To produce something of value.
Harry wasn’t good at being bored and for as much as he enjoyed being alone, he didn’t exactly do that well, either. The house was clean, but he wandered around, straightening things anyway. In the garage, his fully restored ’69 GTO shimmered and gleamed like the masterpiece she was. He’d finished the last round of renovations on her the month before and almost wished he hadn’t. Working on her had brought a sense of Zen that had been missing ever since.
“I need another hobby,” he muttered to the walls. “Or a dog.”
At least if he had a pet, he wouldn’t feel crazy talking to himself. An image of Juliet’s little yapper popped into his head and Harry chuckled. Six months ago, if someone had said his brother would dote over a creature as ridiculous as Lulu, he’d have told them they obviously didn’t know Ian Moore.
Looked like the joke was on him, because his brother spoiled that dog more with each day.
Life had a way of throwing curveballs—especially when you thought you had it all figured out.
I sure could go for a curveball right about now, Harry thought.
Something to change things up. To occupy his mind. To break from the monotony of every day being a carbon copy of the one before it—and the one after.
As soon as he finished the wish, he regretted it. He had everything he wanted and really didn’t have room for whatever else a curveball might bring. He loved his life. His mood that day was an anomaly—one he hoped would dissipate soon.
If it wasn’t for the family gathering planned that evening, Harry would be at work, where the fast pace ensured he never felt the boredom that settled over him at home. The heat of the kitchen, the hustle of the servers, he lost himself in the energy. No two nights were ever the same and he’d quickly learned to love expecting the unexpected. His mind disappeared in the precision of cooking, the details of perfectly measured ingredients and artfully arranged plates.
The sizzle of meat in the pan.
The steam of bubbling sauces.
The flash of his knife as he diced vegetables.
The aroma of good food and the knowledge that just outside the kitchen, customers sat around tables in his restaurant, filling their bellies with meals he’d prepared. Every night felt like a performance and he embraced the challenge of ensuring each person who came into Harrison’s left satisfied.
He checked the time again. Exactly five minutes had passed.
He could go for a run, but he’d already showered. He could drop by the restaurant, but he’d promised his staff he wouldn’t make an appearance. They hadn’t believed him for a second and the good-natured teasing he’d endured had him unwilling to go back on his word.
With a rough hand through his sand-colored hair, he headed outside and inhaled the ocean air, but restlessness waited for him there, too.
Expectation hung suspended in the air around him.
The
