Page 36 of All's Well that Friends Well
And somehow she can tell. “In that case,” she says, her gaze brightening even further. She clasps her hands behind her back, looking at me with a little smile on her face. “I have a proposition.”
I raise one brow at her, and she shakes her head.
“Nothing crazy. I just think—” She breaks off, takes a deep breath like she’s steeling herself, and then goes on. “I think we should officially be friends.”
I’m not sure why this surprises me so much. “I—friends? Why?” It’s not my finest moment.
But her smile just breaks free into something brighter. “Because I like you. So I want to be friends.”
“You helped me with one email. That doesn’t form a magical bond,” I point out.
“But we’ve been friendly here, right?” she says. “And I did help you, and even though I know you’ll deny it”—her gaze sharpens into something keen, discerning—“you helped me with the clothes. So I think we can be friends. Iwantto be friends.”
“Even though I’mmean?” I say drily.
She shrugs. “Maybe I’m a masochist.”
And although I try desperately, I can’t quite stop the twitch of my lips. “Apparently.”
“Boo,” she says as her smile furrows into a frown. “Come on. Friends.” Then she holds out her hand for me to shake.
And there’s nothing else I can do. So I squeeze my eyes shut and then open them again. “If I agree to be your friend…” I trail off, letting my gaze dart over her face, full of hope now, bright and starry-eyed. “If I agree to be your friend, will you stop looking at me like that?”
Her expression fades into something genuinely curious. “How do I look at you?” she says with a tilt of her head—like she doesn’t know. Like she truly doesn’t realize the way she looks at me.
With hearts in her eyes. That’s how she looks at me—like I’m everything she’s ever wanted.
“Never mind,” I say, because I can’t bring myself to explain. Not when I’m the one she’s looking at. So I push the words out: “Sure. Call us friends, if you want.”
“And you’ll call us friends too?” she says, extending her hand further.
I sigh, taking her hand, engulfing it in mine. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll call us friends too.”
“Excellent!” she says with the most brilliant smile I’ve seen yet. She lets go of my grip and twirls around, trash bag swinging. “I’ll get back to work, then.”
“One last thing,” I say, my eyes already back on the screen. I didn’t bring it up earlier, but since she’s on her way out, I need to ask. “Who’s your supervisor?”
“Oh,” she says, sounding surprised. “Quincey. Quincey Brewer.” She pauses and then goes on, “He pursued me in high school, and I was never interested. It’s just a little awkward now. But that’s all.”
I hum, tucking the name away in my mind. I wave at the door, and she nods before slipping out of the office.
The words were offhand, but she said he was gross.So I’ll keep an eye on Quincey Brewer—just to be safe. And, I guess…
I’ll try to make peace with the fact that Juliet Marigold will now be cleaning my office every day.
JULIET
I’ll saythis for Luca: he keeps an immaculately clean space at work. The office he had set up in my old bedroom at my parents’ was a little messier, but here?
Orderly, tidy, everything in its place.
I don’t see him Wednesday when I come in, because as per his instructions, I’m changing out the trash can liner and doing a basic clean before he arrives. And while I don’t touch anything I’m not supposed to touch, I can’t quite keep my eyes from wandering around the little office.
Boring white walls, no pictures or art or even a diploma showing off fancy certifications. His desk isn’t one of those heavy wooden things but rather some sort of particle board, cheaper than I’d expect from him. It’s as clean as everything else in here, though, like he wipes it down himself on a regular basis. About half the space on top is taken up by a month-at-a-glance calendar, and something in my chest sparks in delight at getting to see his handwriting.
“I knew it,” I murmur with a smile as I bend down, inspecting. It’s a neat, consistent print, small letters, blocky. Nothing untidy or scrawled, no excessive loops or curlicues. I examine his week, but the only things I find are a couple appointments, including the office breakfast at ten on Sunday morning. I heard someone talking about that yesterday, so I popped in and asked Susan Miller; it’s being held at my parents’ house, Luca’s rental, and everyone here is invited. I’ll be the first one there, obviously, because delicious baked goods and Luca and my childhood home are three of my favorite things.
As I scan the calendar, I notice an appointment on Saturday, too, one that simply saysDelaney, 6:00 p.m.
