Page 98 of All's Well that Friends Well
“Luca,” she says, setting the bowl and fork aside. She turns a pleading look on me, clasping her hands under her chin. “Please. If you won’t let me throw you a birthday party, at least let’s celebrate like this. Please? Just one birthday hat.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
“Look,” she says quickly. She grabs the bag and hurries around the counter to me, those stupid heels clicking with every step she takes. She reaches into the bag and pulls out a stack of two conical party hats, shiny stripes of blue and silver with elastic chin straps. “Look, see? Aren’t they cute? Let’s put them on just while we sing happy birthday and eat your birthday dessert. Then you can take it off,okay?” She waves the hats in my face, still looking down at me with hopeful eyes.
I can’t quite keep her gaze, but I do shake my head again.
She crouches down next to where I’m seated in the kitchen chair, and a waft of strawberry shortcake finds me. “Look,” she says, separating the hats. She puts one on the table in front of me and then places the other on her head, hooking the elastic under her chin. “See?” She smiles brightly at me, and?—
And good grief. She just looks sohopeful.So excited. So utterly ridiculous in that hat, and so—so?—
Cute.The word pops into my mind as part of my heart sinks while the other part swells with something like fondness, but brighter, stronger.
When she flutters her dark lashes at me, I finally break. A reluctant smile breaks free at the absurd expression, and I grab the hat in front of me.
“Five minutes,” I say gruffly, trying and failing to hid my amusement. “You get five minutes of hat time.”
She squeals and straightens up, hurrying back over to the cabinets, where she grabs two plates and two forks. Then she returns to the table and settles in the chair next to mine, digging in her plastic bag once more.
“Here,” she says breathlessly as I stretch the elastic string under my chin. She pulls two candles from her bag—one in the shape of a three, the other in the shape of a two.
I stare at them, my brows rising as something stirs in my chest. “Did you—did you buy those for me?”
“Obviously,” she says. “You have to make a birthday wish! Let’s light these.” A lighter follows the candles out of the bag, and then she reaches for the foil-covered baking dish.
I can faintly smell the peach crumble, and I have to admit, it smells amazing.
But not as amazing as Juliet, whobakedthe peach crumble—who bought birthday candles for me, who came all the way to my house to force me to put on a birthday hat, just because?—
Because she wanted me to feel special.That truth dawns bright in my mind, clear and plain and undeniable. She came here because she wanted me to feel cared for on my birthday.
In fact, I’m not sure she would be content to stop there. I don’t think Juliet wants the people in her life to merely feel special. I think she wants them to beunable to denyher love. I think she’ll be satisfied only when it would be impossible, even absurd, to claim she didn’t care.
Juliet loves recklessly, abundantly, without reservation. And much, much better men than me would still be undeserving of the care she shows.
For a second I just stare at her, because it’s all I can do. Her hair is golden in the light of the flame as she lights each candle, soft shadows pooling in the curve of her collarbone, and I want—I want?—
I want to hold her. I want to pull her close, give her a place to curl up, protect her from the demons she fights. I want to return to her even a fraction of the things she’s given me. I want to kiss her, every inch of her, and then I want to?—
“Luca.”
I startle, my pulse jumping as my mind returns to the present, where Juliet is raising her eyebrows at me.
“Mmm.” I can’t even manage words.
“You still with me?”
I nod slowly.
Her expression clears, and she returns my nod with a happy one of her own. She carefully sticks the candles in the pan of peach crumble and then lights them, looking at me expectantly.
“Are you ready?” she says as she sets the lighter down next to the glass pan.
“Ready for what?”
“I’m singing to you,” she says, “and while I can carry a tune, I’m not particularly gifted.”
I find an easy smile springing to my lips. “I’m ready.”
