Page 104 of All's Well that Friends Well
“I would say smelling good falls under theattractionumbrella,” I say. I wipe my cheeks and blink away the remaining tears still in my eyes. Then I turn to face him. “And is this you trying?” I say, lifting one brow. “Working for what you want?”
Luca straightens his jacket, his expression unbothered—although there is a hint of color creeping up his neck. He’s not as unaffected as he seems.
“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “But I do have to admit, we’re walking a bit of a gray line, so I can’t openly pursue you while we’re on the clock.”
“Boo.”
His eyes drop to my mouth as humor flashes in his gaze. “I told you to stop pouting,” he says, “or I’ll bite that lower lip.”
I straighten up, nodding eagerly. “Yes! You should do that?—”
“Juliet,” he says, but the warning in his voice is halfhearted at best. He returns to his desk and says, “That’s enough. Get to work, Miss Marigold. Although”—he pauses, glancing over at me with the faintest smirk—“you may want to wait a moment. Your cheeks look a little red.”
LUCA
I feel betterthan I have in years, and I can’t tell if it’s because for the last week I’ve been hydrating properly, sleeping better, or spending my days in the company of Juliet Marigold.
If I had to guess? All three. It doesn’t hurt that things in the office are starting to look up, too. Juliet goes where I go, smiling cheerfully and chattering with everyone, reminding me to finish my water bottle before the end of the day, helping me phrase things less confrontationally. Everyone genuinely likes her, and the employees are starting to relax around me, too.
Ironically, it’s this relaxation that will prove helpful for getting the sales and marketing teams back on track. What they really need is a stern talking to, but I tried that the first week I arrived, and all I got was wide-eyed stares and scandalized whispers when I walked away.
It might be time to try again, with Juliet by my side, andmaybe fewer overt threats. We’ve more or less figured out what the Lucky community wants from an outdoor supply store. Now we just need to get it into their hands effectively, and the sales and marketing teams need to be on the top of their game.
I need to be on top of my game, too.
It’s a thought that keeps inserting itself into my mind every five minutes. Different wording, but always the same sentiment. Because as surprisingly good as I’ve been feeling—more energized, even more optimistic—there’s something I know I need to do, and I haven’t done it yet.
Talking to Maura’s parents feels like the final boss I need to conquer in order to win the video game—although granted, I’m not a video game guy. It feels like the exam I need to pass to get into grad school, maybe. And I can sense that experience hovering on the horizon, looming.
It’s time. As scary as the prospect is, I know it’s time. I want to move forward with my life. I think I even want to move forward with Juliet, just to see where things might go.
But regardless of what shadows you’re stepping out of, they still seem comfortably familiar compared to the glaring light you’ve been avoiding for so long—the sun that could burn you raw.
Sometimes Juliet feels like that sun. Sometimes I look at her and worry she sees everything I’m trying to hide, whether I want her to or not.
She doesn’t ask permission. She just shines anyway.
“Juliet,” I say on Tuesday morning, exactly one week after my birthday.
Juliet’s head pops up from where she’s seated on my couch, shuffling absently through a box of files I’ve asked her to alphabetize. It’s big and bulky on her lap, coveringmost of her light blue skirt and hiding her standard ruffly white top.
“Mm-hmm,” she says. And even though there’s no real reason for her to smile when she looks at me, she does—abnormally pink lips curving up as she eyes me expectantly.
“I need to deliver bad news.”
Her smile vanishes. “To me?”
“No.” I don’t elaborate, but she doesn’t need me to; the confusion in her eyes lingers only a second before it’s replaced with something softer, more knowing.
“I see,” she says slowly. She hesitates briefly and then says, “Do you feel prepared?”
The sigh that whooshes out of me is long and slow. “No,” I say, allowing myself to lean back in my chair. The leather squeaks as I swivel to face Juliet more directly. I’m glad she’s asked this question, because I wasn’t sure how to say what’s on my mind. “I don’t feel prepared at all.”
She hums again with another nod, her gaze more intent on me now. She hefts the large box on her lap off to one side and then crosses her legs, propping her elbow on her knee and resting her chin in her hand. “It’s going to be painful?”
I think of the Delaneys, their warmth and kindness. “Probably,” I say, my voice breaking, and my heart does the same.
“But it’s something you need to do.” She’s not asking.
