Page 50 of All's Well that Friends Well
I find myself speaking anyway.
“It’s a book on studying,” I say. I force my words to remain steady, speak past the crack in my voice. I don’t letmyself shrink, either, or cower. “I’m not a good studier. I didn’t do well in school, I didn’t finish college. I tried really hard. But in the end I was just the dumb blonde.” When he doesn’t answer or even change his expression, I go on. “But now I need a job. I can’t be a janitor forever, and I can’t teach dance anymore. I need a proper job. So I took a career assessment; I was maybe going to look into online classes or something. But…” I trail off, because I don’t know the way forward now.
My words fall into the space between us quietly. He has no idea I haven’t told anyone but Cyrus about this. I jut my chin defiantly, trying to own everything I’ve said, trying desperately to be the person I want to be, just for this moment in time?—
But he shakes his head, and the briefest of smiles touches his lips. My eyes widen at the sight, embarrassment forgotten.
“What—” I point at his face. “What was that? Did you smile?”
“You’re many things, Juliet,” he says without answering my question. His voice is gruff but soft, even gentle, and my stomach flutters. “But dumb is not one of them.” Then, without another word, he pushes the folded shirt into my hands and turns on his heel, striding out of the room and leaving me gaping after him.
I turnthe shower on as hot as I can stand it, and I don’t let myself think about the fact that right on the other side of this bathroom wall, Luca is probably also showering off in themaster bath. I just lather up with an old bottle of my body wash—strawberry donut, my favorite—and linger under the hot water.
While I’m not going to take a thirty-minute shower, I do intend to let myself relax for a few. This plan is ruined, however, when the water suddenly drops a few degrees; I frown, turning it hotter until the heat comes back.
And from the other side of the wall, I hear a low growl of irritation. Three seconds later, my water once again strays cold.
I put my hands on my hips and turn to face Luca’s direction, even though I know he can’t see or hear me. My eyes narrow as I imagine him showering, enjoying all the hot water he keeps stealing from me.
“Not tonight,” I mutter under my breath. I turn the nozzle up a little more, inching closer to that red dot and further from the blue one, until my water regains its heat.
I sigh happily, smiling. Then I pick up the pace, because clearly I’m not going to get a peaceful shower like I want; it’s best to finish before all the hot water is gone?—
The temperature drops from pleasantly warm to ice cold, bitter and biting, in the space of two seconds.
I shriek and push myself against the back of the shower, and I swear I hear a low bark of laughter.
“Luca!” I shout, and another faint laugh reaches my ears.
I perform a series of gymnastics to rinse my hair without getting my body under the stream of water—which, no matter how far I turn it toward that red dot, reaches lukewarm at best—and then turn the shower off, stomping out onto the bath mat. I dry off quickly and put on the shirt Luca gave me along with some old biking shorts from India’s room, an old bra of Aurora’s, and an old pair of underwear frommine. Then I listen carefully, waiting until Luca’s water shuts off. I give him thirty seconds before I make my way out of the bathroom and down the hall to my parents’ old room, where Luca has taken up residence.
I pound on the door five times. “Luca,” I say, my voice raised. “I am aguestin this house. It’s rude to steal the hot water.”
No answer. My brows furrow in irritation.
“Luca,” I call again, and I give the door another three knocks. “You?—”
But I startle as the door swings open suddenly, and I almost lurch forward. I catch myself just in time.
“You stole my hot water,” I say as my eyes travel up, up, up his body.
Still no shirt. Low-slung sweatpants. He’s in the middle of drying his hair with a hand towel, and—I can’t believe it—he’s smirking.
Smirking. His voice is lazy, too, when he speaks.
“You screech like a cat, Miss Marigold.”
“I—you?—”
He waits, his brows raised. Then he points to my mouth. “You have some drool?—”
“Shut up,” I say, batting his hand away as my cheeks heat. “You stole my hot water.”
“I gave you ten minutes in the shower before I got in mine. That’s plenty of time. Also,I’mcurrently paying utilities on this residence, so it’smyhot—” But he breaks off as he seems to take me in for the first time, his eyes wandering slowly over my hair, wet and trailing over my shoulders; the shirt he gave me, creased from being folded and hanging to the middle of my thighs; what little can be seen of the biking shorts, too, where they peek out from under the shirt. Hisgaze lingers everywhere it touches, the hand drying his hair slowing to a stop as he stares.
And for one eternal second, our eyes meet, wide and unfettered and raw. Then the shutters go down—I watch it happen, watch the shield fall over his features. His brow tugs low as his attention fixes on my shirt.
“Did I give you that?” he says, looking faintly disturbed for some reason.
