Page 12 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

Rodney is already in my office when I get to work on Monday morning, and he looks to be in suspiciously good spirits.

“Hello,” I say slowly, closing the door behind me, the blinds rattling against the glass.

“Morning,” Rod responds. He’s seated in the seat across from mine at the desk, his hands clasped over his paunch, and I shake my head.

“If you’re here and I’m not, just sit in the good chair,” I say, pointing to the rolling chair I use. “You’re an old man, Rodney. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Someone is prickly today,” Rod says with gruff amusement.

“And you seem strangely happy,” I counter. “So we even things out between us.” I round the desk and put my bag down before hanging up my jacket; it’s a cool morning, but the day should end up being warm .

I feel lame admitting I have a favorite season, but I do, and it’s spring. I get grumpier in the winter, and summer is too hot. Fall is fine, I guess.

I just like all the green, and the sunshine, and that feeling in the air that something new is coming.

Possibility. That’s what spring feels like to me. Infinite possibilities.

“Well,” Rod says as I settle myself in my desk chair. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

“Why you’re in such a good mood?” I say, glancing up at him. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are bright, which for Rod is basically a giant smile. “No. I’m not going to ask.”

Because I have the feeling it has something to do with Juliet Marigold, and I don’t want to think about her. In fact, I’d like to forget she exists. No matter where I go, there she is, in my face and in my space, smiling and feeding me the most delicious desserts I’ve ever had.

I need space from that woman. So, no. I’m not going to ask why he’s so chipper this morning. I’m not going to ask if Juliet started work today, though I’m positive she did. I’m not going to ask if Rod has seen her. I don’t want to know.

“Fine,” Rodney grunts as he pushes himself out of his chair.

I stand quickly to help him, but he waves me away, and I sink slowly back down.

He more or less hobbles over to my office door and then tugs the string that opens the blinds.

“Leave these open,” he says—and it’s Mr. Ring talking now, my senior business partner and boss.

“Do you know how unapproachable you are? I’m still looking for someone to help with your image problem, but good grief—do some of the lifting yourself.

” He pauses and then goes on in his weathered voice, “You might see someone interesting through these today, anyhow. Or hear about her. ”

Then he looks over his shoulder at me and smirks. The man with permanent frown lines smirks.

He’s talking about Juliet, of course. He has to be. But why would I hear about her? We hire new people fairly regularly.

My question is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it in, even when Rod lifts one wiry brow at me. I just turn my gaze back to my desk, looking blindly at the unimportant piece of paper in front of me as though it holds all the secrets of the universe.

“Have it your way,” Rodney grunts, and the blinds rustle again as he opens the door. “I spoke to Susan about the breakfast you’re hosting”—I shudder at the reminder—“so she’ll be in touch. I’m off. Don’t let me hear any more complaints about you—and I will hear.”

I give him a sharp nod in response to the look of warning he’s giving me, and it’s only when he’s gone that I let myself relax back into my chair. I pull my glasses off and set them on my desk, running my hand down my face.

I’m too tired for this. I’m too tired for everything, always. But I have to keep going anyway, because I don’t have time to stop.

I don’t know where rest is supposed to fit in my calendar. Sometimes I think it would be nice, resting.

My phone buzzes on the glass top of my desk, and with a sigh, I open my eyes.

A sinking feeling in my gut reminds me of the call I’ve been expecting, but I let myself hope for a brief moment anyway.

I let myself hope that I won’t hear a warm, motherly voice when I answer; that I won’t hear a good-natured murmur of laughter in the background.

My hope is in vain, though. Because when I pick up the phone and look at the screen, I see the name I dread: Delaneys.

Mr. and Mrs. Delaney were supposed to be my in-laws. They love me like a son; they’re thrilled to see me and hear from me every time we talk. Maura was their pride and joy, their only child. And they think we were going to get married. They think I loved their daughter unconditionally.

They don’t know that I?—

I shut the thought down before it can emerge. I need to answer the phone; I don’t have time to wallow. The guilt will come anyway, and I’ll deserve it when it does.

So I hit the green Call button and hold the phone up to my ear. “Hello,” I say, the word hoarse.

“Luca?” Mrs. Delaney says, and her voice is just as warm and inviting as always. “Oh, good. I worried I was calling at a bad time.”

“Not at all,” I say. I clear my throat to get rid of the pain blocking my throat. “How are you doing?”

“We’re just fine,” she says. I can picture her fluttering brown hair, thick like Maura’s but shiny and touched with gold. Her smiling lips are less like my former fiancée’s, however; Maura’s smiles were rare toward the end. “How are you, sweetie?”

“I’m good,” I lie. The sick, churning regret is settling heavy in my stomach, guilt like the shining oil that stains pavement and blackens water. Toxic. Suffocating. “Doing really well.”

“Well, I know you’re still out in Lucky,” Mrs. Delaney goes on, “but if you’ve got a bit this weekend to nip out to dinner, we’d love to have our meal with you. Are you free?”

“Of course,” I say .

Every month. I eat dinner with them every month, over in Boulder. It’s not a horrible drive—twenty to thirty minutes, depending on traffic and weather—but the experience is painful.

I go anyway. It’s the least I can do, and some savage part of my soul wallows in the crippling guilt I feel, trying to punish myself.

Maybe I’ll find peace that way. Maybe I’ll be able to make up for what happened.

“How’s Saturday?” Mrs. Delaney asks, probably pulling out her little appointment planner.

“Saturday is fine,” I say heavily. “Six?”

“Oh, that’s perfect.” I can hear her smiling. Beaming, even.

I want to throw up.

“We’ll see you then,” she says. “Have a good week at work, sweetie.”

“I will,” I say, swallowing the bitter acid in the back of my throat. “See you later.”

We hang up, and I all but throw my phone down. Then I lean forward and let my head rest on my desk.

Am I going to do this forever? Sometimes I think I might—think I should. Because I feel even worse when I imagine trying to tell Maura’s parents the truth.

Sometimes, though…sometimes I wonder what it would be like to set this burden down and let myself breathe.

Just for a while.

Just for a bit.

“How’s the report going?” I more or less bark at the block of cubicles on the far end of the room.

After some deep breaths earlier, I was able to get my game face on instead of letting myself drown in all the negative emotions that live inside of me.

It’s not all negative emotions in there; I feel good things too. But sometimes the darkness gets overwhelming. Those are the times that I pull out my breathing exercises and focus on the present—the things I can control.

I don’t know how much control I have over this staff, but at very least, I need to try to get this branch back up to standard and then choose someone to take over. So I look at the group on the other side of the room and wait for their answer to my question.

The team leader, Marianne, gestures to the man in the cubicle next to hers. Josh, I think? He gives her a look, and she smirks, but he stands.

“Should be ready by Wednesday,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” I correct him irritably. “Tuesday. If we wait until Wednesday we won’t have enough time. Denver always takes longer to respond, and Mr. Ring wants to get moving by next week.”

Most of these people couldn’t pick our company’s founder out of a crowd, much less recognize him shuffling around their own floor, but they still know Rodney’s name. Josh’s mouth twists unpleasantly, but he nods and then sits down again.

They take too long to get things done, this branch.

We’re trying to expand inventory, maybe even move into more rentals, and I need the report on what Lucky’s outdoor needs are—what they want to see in our stores based on what they do around here.

We can’t count on a quick turnaround from the Denver office, and they’re the ones who have to give us the final stamp of approval.

I turn to the block of cubicles closest to me and raise my brows at them, waiting; when no one speaks or reports, I say, “Well? Sales reports? Are they available?”

“Oh.” One fumbling man stands up—Jerry, maybe?—dropping several papers as he does. I wait for him to pick them up, and then he says, “Yes. I’ll get the Bronson and Minter and Little Heights info to you right away.”

I inhale deeply, holding my tongue until I’m calm. Then I grit out my words: “Don’t wait for me to ask. I should not have to request these things.”

I spin on my heel and return to my office.

This is the problem. Bronson, Minter, and Little Heights are the nearby towns that report to us, and we in turn report to Denver. I should already have their information on my desk.

But these employees come in and chat and take their time getting settled and heavens know what else. The wheels don’t really start turning until I ask.

They’ve clocked in; they need to be working. And I shouldn’t have to start that process every day. I fling myself down in my desk chair, and it’s only when I look back up that I realize I’ve closed the blinds again.

I could leave them closed. But Rod told me not to. So, once again gritting my teeth, I stand up and open them, letting in the little bit of light that comes from the windows out on the floor.