Page 11 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

Susan’s slow gaze travels over my outfit, but there’s no judgment there. Then she stands up, pursing her lips and adjusting her glasses. “Come with me, then,” she says without looking back at me.

And though I have no idea why, it feels like I’ve passed some sort of test.

Susan Miller deposits me in a room that’s bare save for a small table and a few chairs; she leaves as soon as she sees me settled.

Her jacket and skirt are both tweed like mine, I notice, but hers are brown and oversized.

They’re neatly pressed, though, and her shoes are scuff-free as she returns briskly to her desk.

Yep, I think with a little smile. I like her.

I fill out my packet of paperwork as neatly but quickly as possible, trying to keep my hand steady. It’s obnoxious that my dance training gives me better-than-average control over my movements, and yet I still shake when I get nervous.

I also, for some reason, really struggle with chopsticks.

When I’m done with the packet, I stand up, tuck the chair neatly back under the table, and return to the front desk, where I find Susan seated once again.

“Where should I put this?” I say, holding up the papers.

“Here,” she says blandly, reaching out for them.

I pass them over and then smile again. “Am I all set? Where should I—” But I break off as someone enters the room from behind me.

Susan’s eyes widen, her brows popping in surprise, so I turn around to look too—and then I smile.

“Oh, hi!” I say. It’s the man from Luca’s, still gray-haired and very old but clearly wide awake despite the early hour.

When I’m that old, I’m going to sleep until noon every day. I will luxuriate in my advanced years.

Susan speaks just as I’m about to. “Mr—” she begins, but the man waves his hand at her, and she falls silent.

“You can call me Rod,” he says to me. He holds out his hand, and I shake it.

“Rod,” I repeat, smiling. “It’s good to see you again.”

“You made it here, I see,” he says to me in that gruff voice. Still, there’s a sparkle in his eyes, and I nod.

“Here I am,” I say. “I just finished my paperwork. Susan was very kind.”

“Susan is never kind,” he says, jerking his chin over my shoulder. I glance behind me just in time to see Susan’s lips purse into a frown.

“She was,” I say quickly. “She was very helpful.” I look the old man over, my eyes lingering on his stooped form. “How are you doing?” I say, because whatever he told Luca, I definitely saw him stumble on those steps. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” he says, waving at me now with one wrinkled, arthritic hand. “Just fine, so don’t you worry.” He takes me in and then gestures at my outfit. “You look as professional as I do.”

“Thank you,” I say with exasperation. I smooth my hands down my jacket and skirt.

“I can clean just as well in this as I can in something else, you know? I’m dressing for the job I want, not the job I have.

” Then, when I realize I’m rambling—and when I remember that this man gives off important vibes—I straighten up. “Sir,” I add, like an idiot.

But he just grunts. “Let’s see how things go,” he says. He turns around and begins shuffling toward the back of the little office. “Susan, a word when you’re done,” he calls over his shoulder. “And good luck, Miss Marigold.”

“Thanks,” I say, smiling, and I try to make myself believe the next words that come out of my mouth. “But I don’t need luck.”

“No,” he says, still walking. “I imagine you don’t.”

My smile grows. I watch him until he disappears around a corner, just to make sure he’s all right—he’s so old—and then return my attention to Susan.

“He’s some sort of manager, right?” I say, keeping my voice low. I’d like to at least know who I’m speaking to. “Someone important? He gives off that aura.”

Susan hesitates for only a second. “Something like that,” she says, ducking her chin, and I nod too.

“I thought so. Well,” I go on, “I’m ready. Where to, Mrs. Miller?”

“ Miss Miller,” she corrects in a flat voice.

There’s a brief flicker of interest on her face now, but it disappears when she speaks again.

“And go down this hall, take a left, all the way down to the end, another left, and you’ll find the supply room.

The crew should be there. Your supervisor will take it from there. ”

“Down the hall, left, down the next hall, another left, and I’ll find the supply room,” I repeat. When Susan nods, I do the same. “Got it. Thank you,” I say with a little wave.

She doesn’t wave back, but I think she’ll warm up to me.

This time my heels are silent as I make my way down the hall, my strides long and steady despite my nerves. Even so, I’m feeling better than I did when I arrived; I like everyone I’ve seen so far, and that goes a long way in my book.

I arrive at the supply closet with no problems; the door is thrown open, revealing an unfinished room with pipes and tubes overhead as well as a variety of supplies. Giggles and friendly murmurs are coming from within, so I knock on the doorframe and step inside, looking around hopefully.

There are three people here, one woman and two men, and they all look up at me when I enter, their voices and laughter ceasing. None of them are wearing pink tweed, or even regular tweed for that matter; the woman is in overalls, and the two guys are in jeans.

That’s okay, I remind myself. I knew I would probably be the only one. I don’t have time to take in the rest of their appearances, though, because my gaze locks on the guy approaching me with a smile on his face.

It’s not a friendly smile, because he’s not a friendly man. He’s Quincey Brewer. Quincey Brewer . Here, walking toward me this very second—an old high school classmate of mine, and someone I once rejected.

Multiple times, one of them in public .

But he asked in public! So I sort of didn’t have any choice, you know?

I take a deep breath and then chide myself, because my thoughts are not very nice. Cut it out. He’s not a weird high school kid anymore , I think. You wouldn’t want people to judge you now based on who you were then, so don’t judge him that way, either.

Yes; that’s right. We’re basically meeting for the first time here, so old grievances have no place. I paste a bright smile on my face and hold out my hand.

“Quincey,” I say, injecting warmth into my voice. I might have to force it until the smile comes naturally. “It’s good to see you again.”

This is a lie, but like I said—I will fake it until I make it.

And to his credit, Quincey smiles and shakes my hand too.

Except his skin is damp and warm; his smile is too keen. His mousy brown hair has thinned, but there’s a look in his eye that reminds me of his high school self, uncomfortable and faintly unpleasant.

“Juliet Marigold,” he says. “Great to see you too. You’re my new employee?”

His new employee. I glance at the tag on his chest, where sure enough, the word Supervisor is written.

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Looks like we’ll be working together, huh?”

“Looks like it,” I say. He’s still shaking my hand, and when I tug on it, he lets go only reluctantly. I put that hand discreetly behind my back so I can wipe the dampness off.

“But you know,” he says, and now his eyes are roving over my pink tweed. “I don’t think you’re appropriately dressed for this job. And”—he breaks off, a knowing glint in his eyes—“weren’t you doing something with ballet? So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

I am not interested in how he knows I was teaching ballet. Still, I don’t shrink. The Quincey in high school—the guy I turned down not once, not twice, but three times—would probably be enjoying this moment of humiliation. I hope he’s changed.

“I needed a job,” I say honestly, because no matter how embarrassed I am, I shouldn’t be. My brain knows that keeping a place clean is incredibly important.

My emotions are just taking some time to catch up.

“Well,” Quincey says, his eyes dropping to my tweed again, “good luck. I’m looking forward to being your supervisor.”

My heart sinks as I realize that the curl of his lips is undeniably smug, his eyes glinting with mean satisfaction.

I guess maybe he hasn’t changed. Not as much as I’d hoped, anyway.

“Thank you,” I say with a nod.

He nods to a mop propped against the wall, emerging from a large bucket. “Put your stuff in a cubby,” he says, nodding to a small row of cubbies on the opposite wall, “and then grab the mop and some rags. The bathroom floors are waiting for you.”