Page 25 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

JULIET

This evening is not going like I had planned. I was going to bring Luca the platter of peach crumble bars, because he said I could. I was going to walk over here and enjoy the breeze, and then I was going to walk back home.

Instead, I am huddled against the window outside the living room—the living room that temporarily belongs to Luca—and I am freezing my butt off, shivering, trying to decide how mad Luca would be if I went inside.

It’s just—I told him I wouldn’t. And we’re friends now. A friend doesn’t break promises.

The problem is, I don’t know how long he’ll be gone, and I don’t know how long the rain is going to last. I was on the front porch, but the wind was blowing the rain sideways at me, so I came around back to get a bit of a wind break.

I’m torn out of my internal debate when my phone rings, Aurora’s name popping up on the screen. I’ve kept my phone dry by protecting it between myself and the window, so I answer it with shaking hands.

“Hi,” I say—and that’s when I see Luca stroll into the living room, his hand jumping to the light switch and bringing him into sharp relief.

I’m rescued.

“Jules,” Aurora says into my ear, only I’m barely paying attention, and she’s hard to hear. “You left on foot and now it’s raining. Do I need to send out a search party? You’ve been gone a long time. Are you in a rain gutter somewhere?”

“Um…” I answer, my voice trailing off, because what an entrance Luca has made .

He is shirtless. I repeat: Luca Slater is shirtless . He is without a shirt, and there are abs and shoulders on display, and I might start drooling?—

But no time for that. I begin tapping on the window as hard as I can. His head whips toward me at the sound, his eyes going wide, his jaw dropping when he spots me.

“Jules?” Aurora says, her voice sharper now. “Please just tell me if you’re okay. Do we need to come get you? It’s raining really hard.”

“I’m fine,” I say faintly as my eyes trail over Luca, noticing the sheen of his skin and the shirt draped over his arm. “I took shelter at Mom and Dad’s.”

“Oh, good,” Aurora says, but then she pauses. “Wait. Did Luca Slater let you come in?”

“He will,” I say, because Luca’s already hurrying out of the living room and toward the sliding door in the kitchen. “I have to go. I’ll be home later.”

And then I hang up, without waiting for Aurora’s reply. She won’t be thrilled about that, but she’ll get over it.

I shuffle to the sliding door just as it lurches open, and before Luca can say anything or invite me in, I’ve launched myself over the threshold.

I scoot inside just enough that he can slam the door shut again, and we’re plunged into silence—save for the steady drip, drip, drip coming from my soaking clothes.

I clear my throat as my eyes finally travel up and meet Luca’s, only to find his expression darkening.

We’re close enough that I can see him with perfect clarity. I can see the droplets of rain on his glasses, his wet hair, the faint color entering his cheeks as his gaze holds mine. His posture stiffens slightly as he looks me over, and it’s only then that I remember how I must look.

Awful. Horrible. That’s how I look, I have no doubt. And my crumble bars, my poor crumble bars—even the plastic wrap I put over them couldn’t save them from this wind and rain. They’re still on the front porch, a sad little platter that was already wilted and soppy before I came around the back.

There are goosebumps breaking out all over my body now that I’m inside, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other as my gaze darts awkwardly around the kitchen. Then I force myself to look back at the man whose eyes still haven’t left me.

“I brought you peach bars,” I say in a small voice.

He takes his glasses off slowly, letting them dangle from one hand as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I told you not to,” he finally says. His words are almost as quiet as mine.

I clear my throat. “I know,” I say. “But I actually was already here at your door when I called you.”

His brows pull low. “What—an hour ago? An hour and a half? You were already here?”

My shoulders twitch into a shaky shrug, because I’m drenched, and it’s cold.

“Something like that. So I waited for a while, and then it started to rain, see?” I point unnecessarily at the window.

“So I stayed on the porch for a little bit? But then it kept raining, and I was really wet, and I walked here so I didn’t have my car, and I thought under the circumstances”—I’m shivering now—“you wouldn’t mind letting me wait things out. ”

His gaze darts over me. “Where are they? The peach bars?”

“Still on the porch,” I admit. “Inedible and sopping wet. I can go?—”

But he stops me with a twitch of his hand.

“I’ll bring them in,” Luca says, still looking at me.

He blinks at me once, twice, and then his frown deepens.

He puts his glasses back on and peers down at me.

“Are your—good grief.” His eyes close for a second like he’s collecting himself, and then they fly open again. “Are your teeth chattering?”

“It’s very cold,” I say apologetically.

He grunts, his gaze still lingering on me. “You look horrible.”

“I know,” I say, my voice fervent even as my heart sinks.

This was not what I had in mind for this evening.

Not at all. So I sigh. “If you’re all right with it, I actually would like to go upstairs and shower and put on different clothes.

” Then I let my gaze travel slowly over his bare chest. “You should do the same, or I might find myself swooning.”

This gets a rough exhale from him, something I might almost call laughter. He turns away and strides quickly from the room. “Do what you want,” he says over his shoulder, his footsteps thudding down the hall. “Just stay out of my way.”

My heart beats faster in my chest as I answer, a delightful idea springing into my mind. “Do you have clothes I can borrow?”

Those footsteps stop abruptly, plunging us into silence. Then, finally, he says, “Don’t you have a closet full of your own clothes?”

“I don’t, actually,” I say, my voice light. It’s not even a lie. I took my sweaters a while ago; everything else left in my room is breezy and summery, nothing that will help me warm up.

My sisters probably have a few things I could wear here, but that’s not what he asked—and it’s not what I want.

Another silence falls, somehow heavier this time—expectant, deafening in its way. My heart is beating harder than ever, because his answer will tell me something.

It will tell me if his feelings for me are irreversible, or if there’s space for me to wiggle my way into his heart.

And I swear I wait forever. I sit there, listening for what feels like thirty minutes, even though it’s probably only a few seconds. But when I finally hear his voice, gruff and curt, I startle.

“Fine,” he says. One word, but I want to cheer.

I don’t cheer, but I do make my way out of the kitchen. My legs are shaky, my teeth still trying to chatter as I follow him down the hallway.

“Are you sure?” I say lightly when I see him, still frozen at the bottom of the stairs. “It might smell like me later. It might make you think about me, and we all know how you feel about my presence here.”

Another snort from him, though he doesn’t turn to look at me. He just starts moving again, hurrying up the steps. “You think a lot of yourself, Miss Marigold. But I think about you only when I’m forced. ”

“Boo,” I say under my breath as he stomps up, reaching the top of the steps and then rounding out of my view. I listen as his heavy footsteps travel the length of the hallway to my parents’ old room, and the sound of the door closing filters down to me.

Is he going to bring me something to wear? I don’t think I can follow him into his bedroom. I do have limits.

I’ll wait for a few minutes, just to see if he comes out with something. So I trail tiredly up the stairs, and out of sheer habit, I find myself back in my old room, inhaling deeply and looking at the bed with the kind of longing I usually reserve for Luca.

I can’t lie down, though, or I might fall asleep, and then I wouldn’t get the chance to wear his clothes. I wouldn’t get the chance to show him how I look in his clothes. I’ve never actually tried a display like that, but TV and movies have led me to believe the effect can be potent.

He did say I could try to win him over, after all.

I drift to the bookshelf where my studying book once resided, looking at some of the other titles. There are a few romance novels, most I ended up listening to on audio, and a history of fashion that was too dense for me to get through.

“Are you much of a reader?”

I startle at his voice from the doorway, spinning around without thinking. But it’s just Luca, of course, still shirtless, still in his jeans—I’ve never seen him in jeans before—and his eyes are not on me but on the bookshelf.

“I’m not,” I admit. “I wanted to be.”

He jerks his chin at the shelf but doesn’t cross the threshold into the room. “What book did you take before?”

Slowly I shake my head .

He leans against the doorframe, raising his brow at me. “Not going to tell?”

I mime zipping my lips.

And I swear I almost see a spark of humor in his eyes. Am I imagining it?

He sighs and holds up a folded shirt. “That’s too bad. I was going to give you this.”

“That’s low,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.

“How many times have you broken into my house, Miss Marigold?” he says with a snort.

“I—” I begin, indignant, and then I break off. “Just the two!”

“Two is two times too many.” He holds the shirt up high, much higher than I could ever reach, and then nods at the bookshelf again. “Tell me what book you took.”

My shoulders slump as I sigh. “It’s embarrassing. You’ll judge me.”