Page 26 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

And something in his expression changes then, an inscrutable shift in his features as he speaks in a low, mild voice. “I think I’ve learned my lesson there, Miss Marigold”—what does that mean?—“so just tell me. Consider it reparations for your foray onto my property this evening.”

When I hesitate still, he pushes off the doorframe and steps into the room, towering over me. “I want to know,” he says. “But I won’t force you to tell me. Take this, if you want.” He lets his arm drop, holding the shirt out.

Heat rushes to my cheeks, and there could be a million reasons; embarrassment at what I’m about to tell him, how close he is, the fact that he’s still shirtless.

I find myself speaking anyway.

“It’s a book on studying,” I say. I force my words to remain steady, speak past the crack in my voice.

I don’t let myself shrink, either, or cower.

“I’m not a good studier. I didn’t do well in school, I didn’t finish college.

I tried really hard. But in the end I was just the dumb blonde.

” When he doesn’t answer or even change his expression, I go on.

“But now I need a job. I can’t be a janitor forever, and I can’t teach dance anymore.

I need a proper job. So I took a career assessment; I was maybe going to look into online classes or something.

But…” I trail off, because I don’t know the way forward now.

My words fall into the space between us quietly. He has no idea I haven’t told anyone but Cyrus about this. I jut my chin defiantly, trying to own everything I’ve said, trying desperately to be the person I want to be, just for this moment in time?—

But he shakes his head, and the briefest of smiles touches his lips. My eyes widen at the sight, embarrassment forgotten.

“What—” I point at his face. “What was that? Did you smile?”

“You’re many things, Juliet,” he says without answering my question.

His voice is gruff but soft, even gentle, and my stomach flutters.

“But dumb is not one of them.” Then, without another word, he pushes the folded shirt into my hands and turns on his heel, striding out of the room and leaving me gaping after him.

I turn the shower on as hot as I can stand it, and I don’t let myself think about the fact that right on the other side of this bathroom wall, Luca is probably also showering off in the master bath.

I just lather up with an old bottle of my body wash—strawberry donut, my favorite—and linger under the hot water.

While I’m not going to take a thirty-minute shower, I do intend to let myself relax for a few. This plan is ruined, however, when the water suddenly drops a few degrees; I frown, turning it hotter until the heat comes back.

And from the other side of the wall, I hear a low growl of irritation. Three seconds later, my water once again strays cold.

I put my hands on my hips and turn to face Luca’s direction, even though I know he can’t see or hear me. My eyes narrow as I imagine him showering, enjoying all the hot water he keeps stealing from me.

“Not tonight,” I mutter under my breath. I turn the nozzle up a little more, inching closer to that red dot and further from the blue one, until my water regains its heat.

I sigh happily, smiling. Then I pick up the pace, because clearly I’m not going to get a peaceful shower like I want; it’s best to finish before all the hot water is gone?—

The temperature drops from pleasantly warm to ice cold, bitter and biting, in the space of two seconds.

I shriek and push myself against the back of the shower, and I swear I hear a low bark of laughter.

“ Luca! ” I shout, and another faint laugh reaches my ears.

I perform a series of gymnastics to rinse my hair without getting my body under the stream of water—which, no matter how far I turn it toward that red dot, reaches lukewarm at best—and then turn the shower off, stomping out onto the bath mat.

I dry off quickly and put on the shirt Luca gave me along with some old biking shorts from India’s room, an old bra of Aurora’s, and an old pair of underwear from mine.

Then I listen carefully, waiting until Luca’s water shuts off.

I give him thirty seconds before I make my way out of the bathroom and down the hall to my parents’ old room, where Luca has taken up residence.

I pound on the door five times. “Luca,” I say, my voice raised. “I am a guest in this house. It’s rude to steal the hot water.”

No answer. My brows furrow in irritation.

“ Luca, ” I call again, and I give the door another three knocks. “You?—”

But I startle as the door swings open suddenly, and I almost lurch forward. I catch myself just in time.

“You stole my hot water,” I say as my eyes travel up, up, up his body.

Still no shirt. Low-slung sweatpants. He’s in the middle of drying his hair with a hand towel, and—I can’t believe it—he’s smirking.

Smirking . His voice is lazy, too, when he speaks.

“You screech like a cat, Miss Marigold.”

“I—you?—”

He waits, his brows raised. Then he points to my mouth. “You have some drool?—”

“Shut up,” I say, batting his hand away as my cheeks heat. “You stole my hot water.”

“I gave you ten minutes in the shower before I got in mine. That’s plenty of time.

Also, I’m currently paying utilities on this residence, so it’s my hot—” But he breaks off as he seems to take me in for the first time, his eyes wandering slowly over my hair, wet and trailing over my shoulders; the shirt he gave me, creased from being folded and hanging to the middle of my thighs; what little can be seen of the biking shorts, too, where they peek out from under the shirt.

His gaze lingers everywhere it touches, the hand drying his hair slowing to a stop as he stares.

And for one eternal second, our eyes meet, wide and unfettered and raw. Then the shutters go down—I watch it happen, watch the shield fall over his features. His brow tugs low as his attention fixes on my shirt.

“Did I give you that?” he says, looking faintly disturbed for some reason.

“Of course,” I say, glancing down at the shirt. It’s a normal navy tee, unique only because of the weird orange patterns on the inside of the neck cuff and the inside of the sleeves. “You tossed it at me while shiftily avoiding my gaze. You know—after you forced me to spill my secrets.”

His gaze lingers on the orange neck. “I just grabbed it out of the drawer of shirts I don’t wear. I didn’t—I didn’t realize.”

I pause, lifting one hand to finger the orange accent. “I didn’t take you for a hidden-pattern man.”

“Yeah, well,” he says with a shrug that’s not quite as casual as he’s going for. “You don’t know anything about me, do you?”

I raise my brow at him. “There’s no need to be rude.”

Tension drains out of his gloriously broad shoulders when I say this, a sigh passing through his lips. “I didn’t choose that shirt. It was a gift. You’re correct—I’m not a hidden-pattern man.” He pauses. “I prefer to know upfront what patterns I’ll be dealing with.”

“Mmm,” I say softly, looking closely at him. “A woman, then.”

His jaw clamps shut, but he gives me one jerky nod.

I run my hand down my front, feeling the fabric.

It’s nothing fancy; it wouldn’t have been expensive.

Then I lift the shirt to my nose; it smells faintly musty.

“You keep it but never wear it,” I say slowly.

“So it’s from a lover—one you can’t hate.

Or your mother?” But at the look on his face, I shake my head.

“From a woman you loved.” I swallow, forcing myself to clarify. “Still love, maybe.”

His voice when he speaks is tight but firm. “Loved.” He hesitates and then adds, “She passed. Years ago.”

I hum as a few pieces of the puzzle slide into place. “I see,” I say, even though my heart is sinking.

I’m wearing a shirt his deceased lover gave him—a shirt that’s probably painful for him to look at or remember. In no universe does that bode well for me.

It’s not always about you, Juliet, I remind myself, fighting away the urge to rip the shirt off and get another one. Any other one.

I remain still and quiet instead, a queen of self-control.

Luca just stares at me for a second, almost expectant, and then he snorts, looking away. “What—you’re finally respecting boundaries for once? You’re the most invasive person I’ve ever met. You’re not asking inappropriate questions?”

The words hurt, even more because they’re true, but I simply shrug.

“I’m not cruel.” I take a step back, and then another, finally turning around and heading toward my old room.

I only pause when one last thought hits me.

“I don’t know what happened between you, but I hope you know that you’re allowed to mourn.

” Something else occurs to me, too, equally as possible, so I go on.

“Or to stop mourning. You’re allowed to do that, too.

” I swallow. “Just in case you need permission…” I look over my shoulder at him, noting the stricken look on his face. “You’re allowed to do those things.”

Then I turn back toward the room he now uses as an office, in which I know I’ll find a lovely, comfortable bed.

I’m suddenly very, very tired, and it’s still raining, and—yes—I could call my sisters to come get me.

I could even ask Luca to take me home. But I’d rather stay here.

“I’m going to take a nap,” I say casually.

He’ll tell me if he wants me to leave. “Wake me up in an hour, will you?”

He doesn’t answer until my door is halfway closed. “What did it say?” His voice is rough, casual, even uninterested. “The career test?”

But I stop, my hand still on the doorknob. “You really want to know?”

A faint grunt of assent filters down the hall to me. Despite the heavy emotions now swirling in my chest, I smile.

“Something I’m incompatible with,” I say. “But if you’re extra nice to me from now on, I’ll tell you.”

I hear a bark of laughter, and then footsteps heading for the steps. “I’m going to go grab the food you left on my doorstep for all the wild animals to find.”

“My poor peach bars,” I say. “But thank you.”

I don’t wait for his response. I just go into my old bedroom and shut the door, grabbing my phone from the desk to text my sisters and tell them not to wait up.

Because Luca is letting me stay longer. He had the chance to kick me out, but he didn’t.

I’m going to live in this moment for as long as possible.