Page 5 of The Satyr Next Door
I looked from the note to the yard below. How had he gotten up here? No ladder. No fire escape. No reasonable way to reach this balcony without climbing gear.
My face heated, anyway. When was the last time anyone left me gifts? Not birthdays. Not the obligatory Christmas candle from a coworker. But something small and intimate? Maybe never. My ex-husband, Marco had brought flowers exactly twice in our marriage, both times after spectacular fights.
By rights, I should’ve been concerned. A man sneaking onto my balcony? If it were anyone else, I’d be calling the cops.
But this wasn’t anyone else. This was him.
And God help me, I was smiling.
I picked up a fig. Warmth spread across my palm.
One bite and holy saints. Honey-sweet, almost floral, with a richness that tingled on my tongue. Seeds cracked faintly, juice coating my lips.
“Mmmm.” The sound slipped out of me, helpless. The taste hit deep, summoning memories of summers in Tuscany, warm stone beneath bare feet and wild herbs.
“That’s… impossible,” I whispered.
Nonna had sworn Baltimore figs never matched the ones back home. She was right. Until this one. This tasted like Italy. Like magic.
A sound from the yard snapped me out of it. Not shears. Softer. Musical.
Humming.
I looked down and nearly dropped the fig.
He was there. Shirtless. Golden skin glowing like he’d been dipped in honey. Muscles flexing as he tore Virginia creeper from the fence like it had personally offended him. Sweat gleamed, every motion was fluid and graceful.
He was definitely putting on a show.
But it was the humming that made my breath catch. Low. Melodic. The tune wrapped around me like silk.
As if sensing me, he straightened. Eyes locked on mine. That slow, devastating smile.
“Good morning, Juliet.” His voice curled upward like smoke. “I see you found my tribute.”
Tribute.Not gift. Tribute. Like I was a goddess worth worship.
My cheeks burned. I held up the note like evidence. “You shouldn’t call women Juliet. It’s presumptuous.”
He braced a hand on the fencepost. Horns caught the light. Muscles flexed like temptation incarnate. “Then give me your real name,Bella,and I’ll write you a sonnet instead.”
The wordbellawent straight through me. Not the muttered version from old men at the Italian market. He said it as if he meant it.
“A sonnet,” I echoed, proud my voice didn’t crack. “You write poetry?”
“It's among my talents.” His grin tilted wickedly, sharp teeth flashing. “But be warned, my verses tend toward the passionate. It’s my nature.”
The way he saidnature,loaded with promise, sent heat spiraling through places that had been collecting dust for too long.
“I’m sure they do,” I managed.
“Disapproval?” His head cocked, eyes gleaming. “Or curiosity?”
Both, my traitor brain supplied. Definitely both.
I shoved another fig into my mouth instead of answering. Juice ran down my thumb. I licked it away. Then froze. He was watching the motion intently.
His nostrils flared. Hunger flashed across his face.
