Page 20 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

And I find my mouth opening of its own accord. “Do you have a girlfriend?” The question pops out timid, uncertain, but hopeful too.

His answer is in his expression—his brows jump in surprise before furrowing with confusion, his lips turning down into a little frown. “What?” he says. “No. Why?—”

“I’m trying to get you to fall in love with me,” I say with happy relief—until my words catch up with my ears.

Oh, dear.

I should not have said that.

It’s one thing to tell him I like him; telling him I’m trying to get him to love me is on a different, more embarrassing level.

I clear my throat and go on, though. What else can I do? Moving past it will be best, I think. “But I would feel bad wooing you if you’re already with someone—are you okay?”

Because he’s devolved into a coughing fit, hands off the desk now, straightened up as he thumps his chest. He turns his back to me, still hacking up a lung .

I round the desk quickly, reaching up and patting his back in concern. But he jerks away from my touch, and I let my hand fall limply back to my side.

It takes another couple seconds for him to stop coughing; then he straightens up and whirls on me, his face significantly redder than before.

“You can’t—” he blurts out, looking less composed now. “You can’t just say things like that.”

I shrug, a light twitch of my shoulders as a faint twinge of regret plucks at my insides. I’ve clearly made him uncomfortable. “Sorry,” I say. Then I clear my throat again. “I’ll keep it to myself.” I look more closely at him, at his eyes behind his glasses, and?—

“Are you crying?” I say, leaning closer.

He rears back. “Of course I am,” he snaps as he turns away. He wipes his eyes impatiently. “Not emotional tears.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “It would have been nice for someone else to cry instead of me.” I pause and then hurry on. “Not that I want you to cry, because of course I don’t. I just—I’m always the one who cries.”

“So I’ve noticed,” he croaks, his back still to me.

“Yeah. It’s always me,” I say with a sigh. “I can’t seem to control it.”

He’s silent for a second, and then he says gruffly, “It’s not just you. Everyone cries.”

“Do they, though?” I say, thinking of Aurora. I raise one brow as I rack my brain. “When’s the last time you cried?”

It’s a personal question, too personal, but I realize too late. I’m about to take it back, but to my surprise, he speaks.

“It’s been a while,” he admits. “But it happens. Don’t worry about it.” The words are grudging, but I’m frankly amazed he’s said them at all. His voice is more normal when he goes on, “This time I just choked when you said that—that— ridiculous thing.”

I keep my hands calmly at my sides instead of letting myself fidget, my pulse pounding loudly in my veins. “Love isn’t ridiculous,” I say.

He scoffs at this, and some of his normal demeanor seems to return. “Love is definitely ridiculous,” he says. He skirts neatly around me and moves to his desk, reaching for a folder. But he doesn’t pick it up or even open it; he just pauses there for a second until he sighs.

“Miss Marigold,” he finally says, sounding tired. “I’m not going to fall in love with you.” He delivers the words gently, but they still pierce like arrows.

I swallow and then force out the words I know I need to say. “I would like to keep trying anyway, if you don’t mind.”

His head jerks up, his eyes wide behind his glasses, and for one infinite second, we just stare at each other.

When he doesn’t answer, I speak again, my voice smaller but steady. “Can I?”

And still nothing. His gaze is incredulous as it darts over my face, his lips parted, his brows raised with surprise.

“Do you have a problem with me specifically?” I go on, my hands gripping tightly to the fabric of my pants. “An aversion to me and only me?” Please say no.

“I mean—” he manages, and then he sighs again, his shoulders slumping. “I should say yes. You’ve basically been stalking me. You realize that, don’t you?”

I blink at him, my eyes widening, and he nods.

“Think about it. You break into my house. You come to the door all the time. How would you feel if a man treated you the way you’re treating me? ”

A knot is growing in my throat, expanding rapidly as my eyes start to burn.

Because if a man was doing those things to me, I would be terrified. I would call the police. I would make Cyrus and Felix stay over at our house until we could find someplace else.

“I’m a stalker,” I whisper under my breath as the lump in my throat grows further until I can barely breathe. The realization hits like a bowling ball to my chest, gut-wrenching and bone-shattering. Then my gaze flies to Luca’s as I cover my mouth in horror. “I’m a stalker.”

He grunts, letting his arm fall to his side, no longer pretending to reach for something on his desk. “You are, a little bit. I know you’re harmless. But…”

I blink rapidly, trying to force myself not to cry, but humiliation and guilt and shame are rising like a tide in my chest. “I’m so sorry,” I breathe as my vision blurs.

“I’m so, so sorry.” Then I swallow. “I can keep my distance, if you’d like.

” My voice cracks, but I force myself to go on. “I’ll keep my distance?—”

“That’s not necessary,” Luca says, and I startle, my brows jumping. He doesn’t meet my eye, but he nods. “We work in the same building. We can be—” He breaks off, clears his throat. “Friends,” he finally finishes. “We can still be friends.”

I nod vigorously as sweet, potent relief courses through me. “I’d like to be your friend. Truly,” I say, my voice waterlogged as I try to contain my tears. “And you absolutely do not have to fall in love with me. Just forget I said that, okay? There will be no falling in love. Friendship only.”

Stop talking! my brain screams at my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Luca says. He shakes his head. “How are you so calm saying things like that?” He pulls his glasses off and tosses them carelessly on the desk, running one hand down his face.

Then, not waiting for an answer, he says, “But fine. Yes. Friendship would be okay.” He pauses as something faintly like amusement crosses over his features, so brief I might be imagining things.

Then he snorts and goes on, “You can even try to get me to fall in love with you. I don’t care.

Just…ask permission if you want to come to my house, okay? And don’t break in.”

I nod quickly, my heart pounding in my chest. “Absolutely. I can absolutely do that.”

His gaze swings up to mine again, curious. “I’ll be honest with you, though—I’m not certain I’ve ever had a friend like you.”

A stalker. That’s what he means. He’s never had a stalker. My cheeks burn as I duck my head.

I want to melt into the floor and then all the way down into the core of the earth, where I will meld with whatever lava is down there and think long and hard about my actions.

But I’m happy to take what he feels comfortable giving. So I nod tentatively. “In that case…I heard there’s a breakfast on Sunday. At my parents’ house. Can I come?”

“It’s a work event. You should come,” he says briskly.

I hesitate, debating if I should go on.

But Luca can clearly tell. “Just say it,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Ask whatever you want to ask.”

I clear my throat, and my voice is small when I speak again. “It might be inappropriate now, given the conversation we just had.”

“Say it,” he repeats, waving his hand at me.

“I was going to bring you some breakfast bars on Saturday evening,” I admit. “And them let them chill overnight at your place for the breakfast Sunday morning.”

Luca snorts again and drops into his desk chair.

“I don’t have to!” I say quickly, waving my hands. “I really really don’t have to! I can chill them in my own fridge!”

His eyes roam critically over me for a second. Then he asks, “What flavor?”

I swallow. “Peach,” I say.

“Are they like that crumble you made?” he says after a second of silence. His eyes are now lingering on a spot just over my head, and he seems to be having some sort of internal debate.

“I…guess? A little, yeah,” I say with a shrug, my brows furrowing in confusion.

He clears his throat and meets my gaze just briefly before speaking. “That’s fine, then. Drop them off Saturday evening.”

I blink at him. “Really?”

“I said it was fine, didn’t I?” He turns his attention to the folders on his desk, clearing his throat again. Then he begins shuffling through papers, and he only says one more thing: “Now go clean up. You’re crying.” He pauses, his brow furrowing as he glances up at me. “You look like a raccoon.”