Page 16 of All's Well that Friends Well
I glower at him, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. He just barks for me to help him out. By the time we reach his car, I’m fuming, and he’s got a rare grin on his face.
I’m still glaring when his car turns at the end of the street and out of my sight. So I take my glare inside and back to the living room, where I settle onto the couch and shoot daggers out of my eyes at the wall until the emotions inside me calm down a bit.
It was a presumptuous accusation I made earlier, that Juliet liked me. I don’t know why the words slipped out of my mouth, and I’m even less sure about why she answered so honestly.
Isn’t that something people keep to themselves? Unrequited loves, crushes, so on? She knows I’m not interested, but she looks at me with those big doe eyes anyway. She gives those smiles away for free.
I groan. What am I supposed to do if she talks to me at work the same way she talked to me earlier? She wouldn’t, would she? Rodney was right; we won’t cross paths much, if at all. But when we do—she knows how to be professional, doesn’t she?
I pull my phone out, and two seconds later, I have my inbox in front of me. I guess I’ll be emailing her after all.
“Miss Marigold,” I mutter under my breath. I’m slower typing on the phone than I am on the computer, but at this precise moment I’m too lazy to go upstairs. So I continue, “In preparation for our upcoming work together, I’d like to remind you that in the workplace you’ll need to remain professional. Conversations of the kind we had earlier today would neither be appropriate nor appreciated; the same goes for flirtations.” I pause, trying to think if I need to include anything else. One more idea pops into my head, so I nod and then add it to the email. “Kindly also refrain from mentioning any outside connections we have, in order to avoid the appearance of a relationship. Regards, Mr. Slater.”
There. I sound like a pompous jerk—Rodney wouldnotbe pleased, especially after the talk we just had—but considering Juliet’s feelings for me, that might not be a bad thing. I hitSendwith relief and then let my head drop back against the couch cushion.
But it’s not ten minutes before my inbox pings, and I startle out of the half sleep I was in. I look groggily at my phone and find, to my surprise, that Juliet has already replied. My brows furrow, because that was faster than I expected. I open the email.
“Dear Mr. Slater,” I read, “Thank you for reaching out with your concerns. I am slightly uncomfortable with a workplace superior contacting me via my personal email—what?” I break off as heat rises up my neck. “Her personal email? It’s the only email I had!” My jaw clenches, but I keep reading. “So in the future,” her message goes on, “could you instead please use the below-listed address? I would also appreciate if you could refrain from unprofessional topics of conversation with me, your lowly subordinate, like those you broughtup earlier—I was accused of harboring romantic feelings for you, for example, which was deeply distressing.”
It’s not just my neck that’s hot now; I can feel my ears burning too, with irritation and humiliation and the absurd, absolutelywildimpulse to smile. I suppress the urge and keep reading.
“I hope we’ll be able to work well together,” she writes in closing. “Should you ever venture to the supply closet, please let me know ahead of time so that I can find a mop bucket for you to sit on. I may need a bit to locate one sturdy enough to withstand the weight of your self-importance. Cordially, Miss Marigold.”
And then, just below her closing, is the email address she’s given me to use from now on:[email protected].
I can’t help it; I let out a bark of laughter. It’s a bizarre feeling, a sound rusty from disuse. And though I’ll never tell her…
I think Juliet has won this round.
JULIET
When my sisterscome downstairs Sunday morning and find me baking cupcakes, they are—understandably—a little concerned.
“So…” India says, looking around the kitchen.
Aurora’s eyes just ping from countertop to countertop, and I don’t blame either of them for their facial expressions.
Last time I baked cupcakes, I made a billion, and they were all done in a tearful state of panic. I was stress baking, because I was worried about finding a job. But this time is different.
“I’m fine!” I tell them, wiping my cheek with the back of my hand, because I’ve just gotten a little smudge of flour there. “I’m fine. I just felt like baking.”
When Aurora turns to stare at me for a solid ten seconds, I wave my hand in front of her face.
“Stop that,” I say. “What are you doing?”
“Checking for your crazy eyes,” she says. Then she glances at India with a shrug. “She seems fine.”
“I am!” I say, rolling my eyes. “I really just felt like baking something.”
India, at least, seems reassured that I’m in a good state of mind, because she slouches over to the kitchen table and sits down.
India is slower in the mornings than Aurora. Once Aurora wakes up, she’s good to go; you could plop her right in front of a conference table at work, and as long as she was dressed properly, you’d never know she just rolled out of bed. Cyrus is the same way, although he’s maybe a little grumpier in the mornings.
Then again, Cyrus is always grumpy, so it’s hard to tell.
“You’re up early, aren’t you?” Aurora says now, glancing at the clock. It’s seven-thirty, which, yes, is earlier than my weekend normal.
“I didn’t sleep well,” I admit, and India nods, rubbing the back of her neck.
