Page 3 of The Satyr Next Door (Convergence Quickie #1)

Gina

The next morning, I told myself I wasn’t rushing.

The kids had caught their bus with minimal drama. Aria remembered her science folder without prompting, Luca wore actual shoes without divine intervention, and I’d brewed coffee at my normal pace. Normal. Totally normal.

I wasn’t hurrying to the balcony like some lovesick teenager. And I definitely wasn’t hoping to see my new neighbor again.

But my hands shook as I reached for the sliding door.

Get it together, Gina. You're forty years old with two kids, and a mortgage. Act like it.

Still, when I slid the glass door open, my pulse jumped. And when his yard was empty, the tug of disappointment was… telling.

Then I spotted them.

A cluster of figs sat on my railing, plump and purple, the kind my Nonna used to wrap in paper towels until they were “just right.” Beside them, a handful of dusky grapes, the sort Caravaggio might have painted into a still life. And tucked beneath: a folded slip of paper.

My breath caught. My fingers trembled as I picked it up.

For my Juliet. Don’t drop your coffee. —Your devoted gardener.

The handwriting was looping, confident, the kind that belonged in family prayer books before everything turned into Times New Roman emails.

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 word bella went 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 said nature, 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.

Madonna mia. Could he smell me from down there?

The thought should’ve horrified me. Instead, I pressed my thighs together.

I wanted him. Not in the safe way I admired actors. Not in the distant way I noticed men in grocery lines. This was immediate. Reckless. A thrum under my skin that whispered: climb over the railing, find out what he feels like.

“The figs are perfect,” I said quickly. Safer than blurting my real thoughts. “How did you get them up here?”

“I have excellent taste,” he said smoothly, mischief in his eyes. “And a male needs some secrets.”

A male. As if there were any question.

I should’ve gone inside. Answered emails. Reminded myself I was a responsible adult with kids and a mortgage.

Instead, I stayed. Mug warm in my hands. Eyes shamelessly tracking the play of his shoulders, the alien grace of those powerful haunches. He moved like a dancer. Like a predator. Like someone who’d never doubted his place in the world.

Of course he caught me staring. Of course, he winked.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, amused.

“The garden’s coming along nicely,” I said primly, like I wasn’t imagining those hands on my skin.

He laughed, head thrown back, full of joy. The sound did something to my chest I hadn’t expected. Lust was there, yes, but there was also an ache. I hadn’t heard laughter like that in too long.

“Indeed it is, Bella. Indeed it is.”

A car door slammed down the street. Reality crashed back.

What was I doing? What would people think? My kids? Flirting with a satyr like some desperate housewife cliché?

But when I looked back, his eyes were softer. Understanding. Like he could read the conflict on my face.

“Same time tomorrow?” he asked gently. No pressure. Just invitation.

I should’ve said no. Should’ve retreated.

Instead, I heard myself say, “Maybe.”

His smile lit up the whole yard. “I’ll take maybe for now.”

I lingered too long. Until the figs were gone. Until my coffee went cold. Until my face ached from hiding a smile. Until I realized I was memorizing the golden hair on his chest, the curve of his horns.

When I finally dragged myself inside, the mirror startled me.

Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. A mouth curved in a way I hadn’t seen in years. Lips stained from fig juice.

Not tired. Not invisible. Not forgotten.

Alive. Awake. Wanted.

Like someone who might actually deserve a sonnet.

My phone buzzed, a work email, Italian maritime contracts. Normal. Safe.

But all I could think about was the way he’d called me Bella.

And instead of scaring me, that thought made me smile wider.

Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’d ask his name.

Or maybe I’d let him keep calling me Juliet.

After all, Juliet got her balcony scene and her Romeo.