Page 13 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

I don’t have windows to the outside in my office. I wish I did.

I don’t miss the surprised looks of the workers in the cubicles closest to me when the blinds open, but I ignore them.

I spend the next several hours going in and out, checking on things I shouldn’t have to check on and asking for things I shouldn’t have to ask for.

I notice too that with my blinds open, the people out on the floor are shooting looks toward the office—the people I can see, anyway.

Like they’re worried I’m inspecting them.

Good. I am inspecting them, as much as I’d rather wall myself off.

When lunchtime finally rolls around, I’m tempted to skip it altogether. I’m not particularly hungry, and one glance out my windows shows that about half the floor has gone to the break room already.

I’d prefer not to go in there while it’s full, so I decide to wait an hour.

Once everyone is back at their desks, I grab my empty mug and head out.

I can hear Rodney’s voice in my mind, reminding me to drink more water, and I know he’s right.

So once I get to the break room, I grab a glass of water; then I refill my tea, letting the bag steep while I stare blankly out the window, eating my cup of yogurt without tasting much.

The break room gets a window but I don’t. How is that fair?

After exactly twenty minutes, I grab my tea and leave, turning back into the hall that leads to the work floor.

Despite the desire to walk slowly, I keep my pace normal, and that familiar wave of exhaustion hits all too soon—the one that appears every time I come back to my office.

So I take a sip of my drink and exhale, savoring the flavor, and I’m just about to round the corner when I hear a word that makes me freeze in my tracks.

Barbie.

My halt is so sudden that my drink sloshes up the side of my mug and onto my hand; I hiss, but I don’t move.

I’m not sure I can. Every part of me is focused on the conversation just around the corner.

It has to be the group in the cluster of cubicles nearest to this hallway, but off the top of my head, I can’t place any of them.

I hear the word again, accompanied by more whispers and a chorus of laughter, soft and knowing.

Surely they’re not talking about Juliet. What are the odds that someone else would give her the same name I’ve been calling her in my head?

But…she started working here today. And, for better or worse, she does resemble Barbie. In fact…

My heart sinks and my stomach churns. I don’t have to like her, but I should stop calling her that.

I inch forward, and if anyone could see me right now—I glance around and sigh in relief to find myself alone in the hallway—they’d think I were nuts. But I creep closer to the corner and listen harder anyway. Snippets of conversation reach me now, words that make me feel even worse.

“—saw her this morning, literally in all pink ? —”

“—I almost laughed out loud ? —”

“—heels—”

They fall silent for a second, and then, more loudly, one of the voices says, “I’m sure she’s really nice, though.”

I roll my eyes at this, because the words are little more than a Bless her heart— insincere platitudes to soothe the conscience.

And I can’t keep standing here. I don’t even know why I care that people are talking about Juliet, because I shouldn’t. I don’t.

But it’s unprofessional to be gossiping on the clock, after all, and don’t these people have better things to be talking about? Like their work? It wouldn’t matter who they were talking about; it’s not appropriate, period.

I emerge from the hallway around the corner, my eyes on the block of cubicles that come into view. Sure enough, there they are: a group of three women, huddled together, giggling and whispering like a bunch of high schoolers.

It doesn’t matter to me how you talk to your friends, but don’t do it on my time if you’re supposed to be working.

“Ladies,” I bark, and all three of them jump, their eyes widening as they whirl around to face me.

“Is this the time to talk about a children’s toy?

Unless our inventory is moving in a direction I haven’t heard about, I don’t see how Barbie dolls are relevant to your job.

Do you?” I cock one brow at them, waiting.

Their cheeks turn red, and one of them even turns a splotchy purple color.

“It’s not—no,” one of the red-cheeked women says quickly. “There’s a new janitor. We were just—we’re not talking about Barbies?—”

But the woman with purple cheeks kicks her none too discreetly, and she falls silent.

“And how does the janitorial staff merit your discussion?” I say, my eyes darting over the three of them.

They’re slouching back in their chairs now—cowering, to be honest—but I don’t lighten my voice or infuse a warmth that I don’t feel.

“You’re on the clock. Do your work, please.

” I pause as they nod and then add one last thing.

“Remember this: If you’re all so eager to gossip about a janitor behind her back, what are you saying about each other when you’re not together? ”

Their mouths snap shut almost comically in sync, their gazes turning to each other as they sink further down in their chairs. I don’t wait for their responses, because frankly, I don’t care to hear. I just turn on my heel and head back to my office.

My drink doesn’t taste as good as it did before. In fact, I barely notice it going down, and I’m surprised when it’s gone. I blink, looking into the empty mug, and then set it down harder than necessary.

Did Juliet wear heels today? To be a janitor?

The reports I asked for earlier are on my desk, and I need to review them. But I’m standing up before I can stop myself, my mug back in my hand.

It’s a silent excuse. I’m not going to the break room. Even as I tell myself I might, I know I’m not.

Why am I going to the supply closet? What am I going to say when I get there? She might not even be around; she could be anywhere.

My strides are brisk and sure anyway—impatient, even. Because all I can think about is the way those women laughed.

Are they bad people, evil to their cores?

Of course not. But careless words can still do damage.

And it’s only when the door to the supply closet is in sight that I realize my real purpose in coming: I don’t want to talk to Juliet, or have a conversation with anyone at all.

I just want to make sure she’s okay. That she’s not off crying somewhere.

She was excited to get this job. Clearly desperate. And I was…well.

I was already rude to her about it.

So I want to check, that’s all.

My steps are nearly silent as I approach the closet—which is not actually a closet, by the way.

It’s more of a small room, unfinished with visible insulation and gray floors.

I can hear someone humming quietly, a female voice, but I’m not close enough to tell who, so I inch further, further, until finally?—

Yes. I think that’s Juliet, even though I’ve never heard her sing. But the sound is sweet and bright and pleasant, somehow, even if a bit off-key; her voice is pleasant.

I peek my head around the corner, but not too shiftily, just in case she sees me and asks why I’m sneaking around.

I have to look natural. The good news is that she doesn’t seem to be upset, based on her cheerful tune.

I don’t hear anyone else in there, either, and my suspicion is confirmed when I lean in further and she comes into view.

She’s alone, her back to me. She’s dressed entirely in pink, from what I can tell—not sensible pink clothes either, but a skirt and blazer. Her blonde hair cascades down her back in a sleek ponytail, and even from here I can smell a faint hint of strawberry and vanilla.

She looks like no janitor I’ve ever seen. Like no woman I’ve ever seen. And yet?—

Good grief. She’s sitting on an upturned bucket. She joked about it in her email, but now she’s actually sitting on one.

Why does that make me feel like a jerk? No one is making her sit there. Although, I notice as my eyes dart around the room, there’s not really anywhere else. Why don’t they have any chairs?

The faint sound of buzzing startles me out of my examination, and for one panicked second I think it’s my phone; I slump in relief against the wall when Juliet leans down and grabs her phone from the floor, though.

“Hi,” she says, sounding happy. She listens for a second and then says, “No, it’s fine. I’m eating my lunch. Did you talk to them?”

There’s another pause, and she deflates slightly. “Oh.” She perks up, though, after a second. “But there’s a test? One they recommend?”

She reaches down as she listens, and for the first time, I notice the sandwich bag full of baby carrots on the floor by her upturned bucket. She grabs it and then says, “Boo. I don’t want to pay for the results. I’m so broke, Cy.”

Cy. I rack my memory, and a faint image comes to mind of a scowling blond man with glasses. Cyrus. The oldest Marigold, I think. He was there when I got hit over the head with that cake pan.

I look back at Juliet as she speaks again.

“Oh, yeah, that would work. Whatever I get from the free version will still be better than what I have figured out now. Can you email me the link?” A little crunch sound filters toward me, and when she goes on, the word is garbled: “Thanks.”

I hear a few more crunchy chewing noises as Juliet then looks around the supply room, and her shoulders curl in a little. She ducks her head, too, but when she talks, her voice is bright.

“It’s great so far!” she says, even as her body language says otherwise. She clears her throat and goes on, “Everyone is really nice and welcoming.”

Liar. If I’ve heard people talking about her, she definitely has. They’ve likely been snickering about her all day. She draws attention.

“Oh, did you talk to her?” Juliet goes on, still oblivious to my presence. She pauses. “That little snitch.” Her head ducks again—looking down at herself, I think—and then she says, “There’s nothing wrong with what I wore. I can clean floors in anything.”

Part of me might actually believe this—until she shifts to the side and twists to examine one foot, letting her high heel hang from her toes. The back of her ankle is angry and red; she rubs it gently, her shoulders flinching.

Oh, Juliet, I sigh internally. I’m not sure if I’m feeling pity or exasperation or pure frustration right now; the three of them seem to be warring in my mind as I look at her.

But there’s no way she can do janitorial work in those clothes, right?

Does she even have anything else? Can she buy something? She said she was broke.

“My favorite part of my wardrobe is my office wear, and I never get to use it, Cy,” she snaps now as she straightens back up, and she might as well be answering my silent words.

“It makes me feel pretty and professional. Don’t nag me about clothes when you go days without changing.

” She straightens up, sandwiching her phone between her ear and her shoulder as she unscrews the top of a water bottle.

She takes a drink while listening to her brother, and then she sniffs—a prim, haughty little sound. “Work is not an excuse to be a slob.”

I glance down at my own clothes without thinking, checking to make sure I don’t look like a slob.

I don’t, of course; I never do. The brief examination does, however, give me a dose of reality, which is that I am a grown man standing outside a storage closet, eavesdropping on a private conversation I have no right to hear.

Eavesdropping. It’s the exact same thing I scolded Juliet for, mere days ago, a fact that makes me feel not great about myself. I sigh and back away from the open door, my shoulders slumping as a sudden wave of exhaustion hits me .

I’m losing it. Totally losing my mind. So I turn on my heel and stride briskly back down the hallway, nudging my thoughts in other directions.

Juliet Marigold is none of my business—not at work, not at home, and nowhere in between, either.

So why do I feel bad for her?