“Yeah. In the song.”
“And you must be Juliet then.”
I nod. “I’m actually Juliet.” Then, “My name. Calliope Juliet Thorne.”
“Calliope Juliet Thorne,” he repeats in his rich deep voice.
Also smooth.
And it feels as if instead of plucking at the edges of my wing, he’s swirling the ends of my nerves with his long fingers. And he’s doing it somewhere in the small of my back so that my spine bows for him even more.
He appreciates my efforts too.
He runs his eyes over my stretched-out body once more.
“And you’re Reed Roman Jackson.”
“You know my name, huh?”
“It’s not a secret. Your full name. Girls chant it pretty often. Like a prayer.”
He smirks. “Do they?”
“Yes,” I answer, slightly irked. “They also call you Romeo.”
His eyes narrow. “What?”
I nod. “Because everyone knows that Roman is just another version of Romeo.”
“Yeah, bullshit.”
It’s my turn to smirk at his irritation. “It’s okay. They do it with love. But you should be careful.”
“Of what?”
“Of coming anywhere near me.” I raise my eyebrows. “I’m Juliet, remember? Our names are tragic. Shakespearean. We’re bad luck together. So maybe you shouldn’t lock me up in a closet and should stay away from me instead.”
“Or what?”
I eye his bruise then. “Or you get beaten up by my brothers.”
“I told you I can handle myself.”
“You know –”
“Besides what does Shakespeare know anyway?”
"What, Shakespeare knows everything.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.”
He cocks his head to the side as he says, “Well, how about we do something about that then?”
“Do something about what?”
“Our names.”
