Page 57 of All's Well that Friends Well
This is worse than I thought.
“Dell. His name is Dell.” I frown up at him. “He has two daughters. He’s working two jobs because his wife doesn’t stick to a budget very well.”
When Luca sighs, his giant frame deflates slightly. “How do youknowall this?”
“Because,” I say patiently, “Italkto people, Luca. You need to do the same.”
He doesn’t answer.
“And tonight you need to look up the employee directory,” I go on, crossing my arms. “At least for the people who directly report to you. You need to memorize every name and face. And when you see them, you need to say hello.”
Now his eyes narrow as he looks down at me.
“You know, Miss Marigold,” he says in a soft, low voice. “If I recall”—he steps closer, forcing me to shuffle back—“I’myourboss, not the other way around.”
And there’s that blue-green scent again, swirling aroundme as my pulse picks up. He’sso close,so close I could go up on my tiptoes and?—
“So stop telling me what to do,” he says abruptly, shattering my out-of-control daydreams.
I clear my throat, grateful for the darkness that hides my heating cheeks. “Horribly sorry,” I say, trying to keep my voice normal. I pat him on the shoulder. “Butsomeoneneeds to, because you don’t seem to know intuitively.”
And I think it’s best that I exit this situation before I do something crazy likeactuallykiss him. So I step out, jumping when I round the corner to find Rod standing there, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes. Luca follows behind me, close enough that I can hear his friend speak in his creaky old voice.
“That was interesting?—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Luca growls at him, and Rod lets out a bark of laughter.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish my embarrassment. Then I delve into the milling groups around the kitchen and living room. Because if I’m giving Luca a pep talk on being personable, I need to follow my own advice. So even though I’m still coming down from this morning’s emotions, even though my imagination is still thinking about how it might be to kiss Luca Slater, I push all that aside.
It’s time to mingle, and I think I’d like to try chatting with Marianne again. Maybe find some common ground to reconnect?
But I startle when I hear my name unexpectedly.
“Juliet.”
My heart sinks. It’s Quincey, standing behind me; I saw him earlier, but I was sort of hoping he’d ignore me.
“Hi, Quincey,” I say with a sigh, turning to face him. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” he says, wiggling his plate. “Lots of good food. What did you bring?”
“Nothing,” I say. “I was signed up for breakfast casserole, but I wasn’t able to do it after all.” It’s a weird thing to say without offering an explanation, but I’ve got nothing.
Quincey hums through his thin lips, his nostrils flaring as his beady eyes look me over. There seems to be some sort of gel in his hair, plastering it to his head.
He’s not actually ugly, despite the bad hair. His features are normal enough, average. He just gives offvibes, you know? And bad vibes change a person’s appearance. Quincey feels uncomfortable, damp, cold.
“If you didn’t bring anything,” he says now, his gaze dropping to my plate, “you shouldn’t get to take anything, right?” He accompanies his words with a big, joking smile—and it’s this, right here, that makes him so awkward to be around. He says completely inappropriate things, bizarre and humiliating, but he pairs them with facial expressions that don’t match. The result is off-putting at best.
I’ve never decided if he knows the effect he has, if he does it on purpose, or if he’s just very unaware.
“I’ll bring something next time,” I say lightly, stepping to the side. I’d like to exit this conversation as soon as possible; I’m tired and still coming down from the panic of this morning. There’s a new anxiety pressing in on all sides, too, one that emanates from the food on my plate.
I swallow that feeling, the same way I’ll swallow the food when I eat it. Still, it slithers into my gut and makes me feel faintly sick.
“Well, I look forward to it,” Quincey says, pulling meback to the conversation that apparently is still going on. “It’s nice to see you more relaxed”—he nods at my casual clothing—“like you’re having fun. Not all dressed up for show.”
“I enjoy experimenting with fashion.” And I’m infinitely proud of myself for how polite I sound, how friendly and normal. My voice matches the ones all around us—people sitting at one end of the table, laughing over their food, more people milling around in little groups, even a few drifting into the family room because of how cramped things are.
