Page 19 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)
JULIET
I’ll say this for Luca: he keeps an immaculately clean space at work. The office he had set up in my old bedroom at my parents’ was a little messier, but here?
Orderly, tidy, everything in its place.
I don’t see him Wednesday when I come in, because as per his instructions, I’m changing out the trash can liner and doing a basic clean before he arrives. And while I don’t touch anything I’m not supposed to touch, I can’t quite keep my eyes from wandering around the little office.
Boring white walls, no pictures or art or even a diploma showing off fancy certifications.
His desk isn’t one of those heavy wooden things but rather some sort of particle board, cheaper than I’d expect from him.
It’s as clean as everything else in here, though, like he wipes it down himself on a regular basis.
About half the space on top is taken up by a month-at-a-glance calendar, and something in my chest sparks in delight at getting to see his handwriting .
“I knew it,” I murmur with a smile as I bend down, inspecting.
It’s a neat, consistent print, small letters, blocky.
Nothing untidy or scrawled, no excessive loops or curlicues.
I examine his week, but the only things I find are a couple appointments, including the office breakfast at ten on Sunday morning.
I heard someone talking about that yesterday, so I popped in and asked Susan Miller; it’s being held at my parents’ house, Luca’s rental, and everyone here is invited.
I’ll be the first one there, obviously, because delicious baked goods and Luca and my childhood home are three of my favorite things.
As I scan the calendar, I notice an appointment on Saturday, too, one that simply says Delaney, 6:00 p.m.
That sounds like a woman’s name. Is he dating? My eyes slowly widen at the idea that he might have had a girlfriend this whole time—Delaney, with a chic haircut and chunky glasses and a sky-high IQ, probably—but when I scan his desk for photos, there’s nothing.
What exactly did he say when I asked if he wanted to date me? All I remember is the part about needing more than beauty in a woman.
I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath, trying to still my racing thoughts.
If I’m going to pursue this man in earnest, I obviously have to find out if he’s already taken.
I’m tenacious, but there’s a line I won’t cross, and stealing a man from his significant other is on the wrong side of that line.
So. I will put that on my list of things to do. Right now, though, I just need to do my job. I stop my leisurely inspection of his office and get down to business, finishing the rest of my duties. Then, as I’m about to leave, I take one last look.
It’s too bad he doesn’t have any windows. I think some sunlight would do him good. Does he know about sun lamps? He might not know they’re a thing.
I bite my lip, debate for a second, and then scurry back over to his desk, where I grab a sticky note and a pen and scrawl a tiny little message: Have you heard of sun lamps? You should consider getting one since you don’t have any windows.
I don’t sign my name, because if he’s angry about the note, I’ll deny leaving it. I’ll deny it to my dying breath.
I just think he might benefit from one of those lamps, that’s all.
And we did agree to be friends, didn’t we?
Friends care about each others’ well-being.
So I press the sticky note right over the Delaney square on his calendar, and then I leave the office for real, ignoring Aurora’s voice in my head yapping about boundaries and personal space .
The rest of the day goes by at a glacial pace, not helped by the fact that I still haven’t made any friends.
It’s sort of hard when we’re all cleaning different stuff, you know?
Quincey seems like he’d be happy to chat, but there’s something snide about his expression when he talks to me that I don’t like.
And Marianne, despite seeing me several times since our first encounter, has yet to say another word.
I even waved at her, and all I got was a halfhearted wave in return—like she still had no clue what I was doing here.
I finish out my shift with an aching back, because even though I’m in pants now, I still have to crouch and bend a lot. By the time I go home for the day, the only thing I want is a steaming bubble bath and a massage.
Thursday morning when I arrive, I clock in, put my bag in a cubby, and head straight to Luca’s office.
I don’t know why I’m so excited. It’s just a room.
It will look exactly the same today as it did yesterday.
But my steps are hurried all the same, the sound of my heels muffled on the carpet.
I’ve got my bucket with me, full of wipes and gloves and a duster—a spray bottle, too, and another bag for the trash can. I’m ready to clean and tidy.
That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But I know that deep down, a part of me is also ready to scan the place eagerly, hunting for any clues about the office’s owner.
The light is off when I let myself in, the blinds lowered just like yesterday, and I slip through the door quietly.
Then I flip the light on and allow myself one cursory glance before I get to work.
I don’t allow myself to start at the desk, because that’s the best part of this room; I start with the blinds instead, and the dusting, and the wiping down of surfaces that collect germs like the door handle.
Only when I’m done with everything else do I move to the desk, and the bookcase next to it. I give each shelf a brief dust, noting a few book titles that I didn’t pay attention to yesterday.
Luca clearly likes to read, judging by the amount of books on this shelf, and yet some of these look untouched. A couple manuals about marketing, sales funnels—whatever that is—some self-help books, even. There’s a line of classics, too, bound in ugly brown linen.
And despite my lack of interest in most of these titles, I’ve never wanted to be a reader more than I do right now. I swallow the sudden shame pushing up into my throat, forcing myself to look away from the shelf and turning my focus to his desk instead.
It’s only then that I see a sticky note—not the one I left yesterday but a new one, placed smack-dab in the middle of the desk calendar .
If you must leave feedback on my office decor, please do so outside of business hours.
It’s not addressed to me, but the tone makes it clear he knows exactly who left the first note; I can hear him saying these words. I can picture the facial expression. Something bright and excited leaps in my chest as I reread it, a hopeful little flame that I blow on encouragingly.
I peel the sticky note slowly off the calendar and fold it gently, tucking it safely into my pants pocket. Then I grab another sticky note from the pad and press it down on the calendar.
My teeth dig into my bottom lip as I think for a second, debating what to write, until finally I find the right wording. I grab a pen from the pen cup and, as neatly as possible, record my message:
So…does that mean you want to see me outside of business hours, friend?
I’m still smiling when I leave the office.
There’s another sticky note waiting for me Friday morning, containing one grumpy sentence:
That’s not what I meant, and you know it.
I actually laugh out loud. And even though I haven’t cleaned anything else in the office yet, I reach for the pad of sticky notes so I can reply.
The Juliet who forced herself to save the best part of the office cleaning for last is no longer here. I am now anxious Juliet, excited Juliet.
But I’ve just peeled the Post-It off the pad when the office door flies open, so suddenly and loudly that I let out an embarrassing little squeak. I stumble away from the desk, because even though Luca doesn’t truly seem to mind, I would probably get in a lot of trouble for leaving notes?—
“Ha,” he says triumphantly, pointing at me and my guilty expression, and that’s when I realize that my intruder is Luca himself.
Which, you know, of course it is. This is his office, after all. The anxiety in my chest loosens as my shoulders slump in relief, and Luca steps inside, closing the door behind him.
Something like giddy excitement flares to life, washing away the last bit of my nervousness. “We really have to stop meeting like this,” I say lightly, holding up the sticky note he left me.
Luca’s eyes narrow on me as he lets his briefcase drop carelessly by the door. “Stop messing with my stuff,” he says, only it’s more of a growl. His approach is slow, prowling, and for a second I feel like one of those antelopes you see on the Discovery Channel documentaries.
Like Luca is a lion, about to pounce and rip me to shreds.
“If you recall,” I say, my voice as casual as I can make it, “it’s my job to?—”
“To use my stationery?” he cuts me off, one brow rising.
“To clean your office,” I say. “But also, as your friend ”—he rolls his eyes at this, but I keep going—“it’s my job to do all the things friends do.”
His voice is soft and low as he says, “Like…pry into my business?”
“Keep in touch,” I correct him.
“Use my things without asking?” He takes another step closer, and I shake my head quickly.
“Make sure you’re doing well,” I say .
He’s reached the other side of the desk now, and he places both hands on top, leaning across. “Use up all my Post-Its?—”
“Just a few of them,” I cut him off loudly as my heart begins to thud in my chest. “Also, I think making future plans is definitely something a friend would do.”
He glares at me, his brow pulling lower over his dark eyes, and I swallow under that look. Slowly, as discreetly as possible, I fold his last note and slip it into my pocket. He sees every move, though, his eyes sharp as he follows the motions.
When his gaze darts back to meet mine, he speaks again. “There are no future plans, Miss Marigold,” he says.