Page 49 of All's Well that Friends Well
Another silence falls, somehow heavier this time—expectant, deafening in its way. My heart is beating harder than ever, because his answer will tell me something.
It will tell me if his feelings for me are irreversible, or if there’s space for me to wiggle my way into his heart.
And I swear I wait forever. I sit there, listening for what feels like thirty minutes, even though it’s probably only a few seconds. But when I finally hear his voice, gruff and curt, I startle.
“Fine,” he says. One word, but I want to cheer.
I don’t cheer, but I do make my way out of the kitchen. My legs are shaky, my teeth still trying to chatter as I follow him down the hallway.
“Are you sure?” I say lightly when I see him, still frozen at the bottom of the stairs. “It might smell like me later. It might make you think about me, and we all know how you feel about my presence here.”
Another snort from him, though he doesn’t turn to look at me. He just starts moving again, hurrying up the steps. “You think a lot of yourself, Miss Marigold. ButIthink about you only when I’m forced.”
“Boo,” I say under my breath as he stomps up, reaching the top of the steps and then rounding out of my view. I listen as his heavy footsteps travel the length of the hallway to my parents’ old room, and the sound of the door closing filters down to me.
Is he going to bring me something to wear? I don’t think I can follow him into his bedroom. I do have limits.
I’ll wait for a few minutes, just to see if he comes out with something. So I trail tiredly up the stairs, and out of sheer habit, I find myself back in my old room, inhaling deeply and looking at the bed with the kind of longing I usually reserve for Luca.
I can’t lie down, though, or I might fall asleep, and then I wouldn’t get the chance to wear his clothes. I wouldn’t get the chance to show him how Ilookin his clothes. I’ve never actually tried a display like that, but TV and movies have led me to believe the effect can be potent.
He did say I could try to win him over, after all.
I drift to the bookshelf where my studying book once resided, looking at some of the other titles. There are a few romance novels, most I ended up listening to on audio, and a history of fashion that was too dense for me to get through.
“Are you much of a reader?”
I startle at his voice from the doorway, spinning around without thinking. But it’s just Luca, of course, still shirtless, still in his jeans—I’ve never seen him in jeans before—and his eyes are not on me but on the bookshelf.
“I’m not,” I admit. “I wanted to be.”
He jerks his chin at the shelf but doesn’t cross the threshold into the room. “What book did you take before?”
Slowly I shake my head.
He leans against the doorframe, raising his brow at me. “Not going to tell?”
I mime zipping my lips.
And I swear I almost see a spark of humor in his eyes. Am I imagining it?
He sighs and holds up a folded shirt. “That’s too bad. I was going to give you this.”
“That’s low,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
“How many times have you broken into my house, Miss Marigold?” he says with a snort.
“I—” I begin, indignant, and then I break off. “Just the two!”
“Two is two times too many.” He holds the shirt up high, much higher than I could ever reach, and then nods at the bookshelf again. “Tell me what book you took.”
My shoulders slump as I sigh. “It’s embarrassing. You’ll judge me.”
And something in his expression changes then, an inscrutable shift in his features as he speaks in a low, mild voice. “I think I’ve learned my lesson there, Miss Marigold”—what doesthatmean?—“so just tell me. Consider it reparations for your foray onto my property this evening.”
When I hesitate still, he pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, towering over me. “I want to know,” he says. “But I won’t force you to tell me. Take this, if you want.” He lets his arm drop, holding the shirt out.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, and there could be a million reasons; embarrassment at what I’m about to tell him, how close he is, the fact that he’s still shirtless.