Page 28 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

JULIET

I’ll be honest: I’m not proud of myself for what’s happened in the last twelve hours.

And yet…

I can’t bring myself to regret my actions, either.

I slip back down the hallway on light feet as I hear the lurch of the front door opening, after which a chorus of voices pipes up, most of them confused and worried.

Luca grunts some sort of vague reply, but once I’ve returned to my room, I can’t hear details.

I sit on the edge of the bed, looking around, trying to figure out what to do.

I’m not going to hide up here until everyone leaves, obviously. So what are my other options?

I guess I could sneak downstairs and make it seem like I was just arriving? Coming out of the bathroom, maybe? Or I could climb out the window and down the tree, but there’s a chance everyone will see me, and that would be a hard one to explain .

I nod and stand up. “Front door it is,” I say, taking a deep breath.

Once again, sneaking makes me nervous. I wipe my hands on my jeans—Aurora’s jeans, actually—and pull out my phone. Then I shoot a text to Luca, who had better read it pronto if he knows what’s good for him.

ME

Can you get everyone to go into the kitchen or even out to look at the backyard? I’ll sneak down and go out the front door and then knock so it seems like I’m just arriving!!

Also I can hear you being grumpy from all the way up here!! Smile please so people will like you!!!

It takes a minute or two for Luca to reply, but when he does, it’s so typically him that he may as well be standing next to me.

Luca

I don’t want people to like me.

But fine. I’ll bring everyone to check out the back. Count to thirty and then come down. Be quiet.

I nod at his response, even though he can’t see me. Then I sneak out of the room and down the hall, hovering at the top of the stairs, listening carefully; sure enough, I hear strains of Luca’s deep voice speaking, followed by a faint chorus of assent and the back doors opening.

This is my chance. So I take a deep breath and slip down the stairs as quietly as possible, step, step, step, down to the bottom, feet safely on the cool tile floor, when?—

“Miss Marigold?”

I jump so violently at the gruff, ancient voice that my hair briefly leaves my head.

Then I whirl to look at the speaker, who’s just emerging from the bathroom.

It’s Rod, the man who hired me, the one who wanted an assistant for Luca to help him become more personable; he’s some sort of manager, according to Susan Miller, and he’s catching me in this situation. Crap.

“Hi,” I say automatically, my voice high-pitched and nervous. “Hello. Hi.”

Rod’s bushy gray brows are climbing his forehead as he looks at me, then up the stairs, and then back to me.

“Ah,” I say as my skin grows clammy, my cheeks heating. “Um. So. It’s a funny story?—”

But he holds up one hand, a simple action that’s somehow authoritative. “Does Mr. Slater know you were up there?”

“Yes,” I say. The truth feels like the best option here, especially because despite how intimidating he is, I like this man. I even trust him, in a way I can’t explain.

He nods slowly, his gaze shrewd on me. “And he allowed you to be there?”

“Yes. But—” I crane my neck to listen for the sounds in the kitchen. “I’m sorry.” I give him a little bow and then point apologetically at the front door. “I really do need to?—”

“Of course,” he says wryly, and although I have no idea why, there’s something faintly amused in his voice. He waves one ancient hand at the front door. “By all means.”

“Thank you,” I whisper. I pause and then go on, “And if you’d be so kind as to not mention this?—”

But Rod just waves his hand at the door again, and I have a feeling that’s all I’m going to get for now. So I hurry to the door and open it, stepping outside and inhaling the breeze like it’s the first oxygen I’ve had all morning.

That was close. And possibly very bad. He didn’t seem upset, but what do I know? There’s no situation in which it’s appropriate for me to be upstairs in my boss’s home.

What happened last night and this morning were definitely not appropriate. But it’s not so cut and dry, either.

I take one more deep breath and open the front door, stepping right back inside like I’ve just arrived. Then I pass the stairs and round the corner into the kitchen, where I wave at everyone and smile.

My name is Juliet, and I have just arrived. I slept in my own bed last night. I did not catch several very shirtless glimpses of Luca Slater. These are the mental telegraphs I send to the people in this overcrowded kitchen.

Susan Miller is here, I see, standing by the sink with perfect posture, alert and satisfied with the turnout.

Next to her are Luca and Rod, who are talking together in low voices.

Luca’s brows are pulled down over his eyes, so far he could almost wear a monocle instead of his glasses, and then the old man nudges him.

Luca closes his eyes like he’s bracing himself; then he straightens up, clears his throat, and speaks.

“Everyone,” he says in a halting, gruff voice.

And I see it on his face: he is in Hell. This is his worst nightmare. He is dying a slow, painful death, surrounded by his subordinates who are hovering awkwardly, looking for direction, trying to figure out what’s going on and what they’re supposed to do.

“Right,” he says gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s too wet outside to eat there. So we’ll just—” He gestures to the kitchen table and then goes on, “We’ll line up our food here.”

The food is already lined up there, which he obviously realizes, because I catch the faintest hint of him rolling his eyes at himself.

“And we can all just—eat,” he goes on, every word dropping from his lips like it’s being forced out.

There’s a deafening silence for a second, one that reverberates around the kitchen as employees look at each other. There are some twenty of them, really too many for the space, but this is what we have to work with.

When the moment grows too painful, I paste a big smile on my face and waltz into the room. Number three on my list of how to win over Luca is to make myself useful, after all—to prove myself an asset. This is a good time for that, right?

“Oh, thank goodness,” I say brightly. “I was so worried it was going to be cancelled after the rain. I’ve been looking forward to this, haven’t you?

” I aim the question not at one person but at the group, making eye contact with a few random people.

They nod, and some of the tension drains.

The atmosphere grows more comfortable still when I hurry over to the stack of paper plates and begin piling food on my plate.

It’s this, finally, that breaks the ice. Chatter breaks out, a few small laughs, and then a line begins to form behind me. I glance over my shoulder to sneak a peek at Luca, only to find him watching me, Rod still by his side. I shoot them a brief smile and then turn back to my plate.

I don’t know why I’m putting all this stuff on—I don’t even like quiche Lorraine. There’s some kind of French toast bake that looks delicious, though, and a few loaves of breakfast breads, so I keep going anyway, thinking mournfully of my poor peach bars that didn’t make it out of the storm.

My heart sinks at this thought. I probably shouldn’t have told Luca I only brought those over as an excuse to see him. And I definitely shouldn’t have admitted this morning that I just wanted a chance to wear his shirt.

I’m not a slow-going woman. When it comes to my heart, I’m all in, or I’m all out.

But I know not everyone is the same. I know some people require finagling, a gentle touch, a subtle approach.

Luca is clearly one of those people, and he just as clearly has no idea what to do with me.

Half the things I say off the top of my head leave him gaping, slack-jawed.

Why can’t I stop saying impulsive things?

Let it go , I tell myself. Then I look at Luca, because my eyes always find him when he’s in the room. Rod is no longer by his side, and Luca stands there stiffly, keeping his distance, his eyes shuttered.

I sigh. That is a man who has no idea what he’s doing. So I weave around a few people until I reach him, glancing around to make sure no one is watching. I set my plate on the counter next to him; then I grab his hand and tug him around the corner and into the pantry.

“What are you doing out there?” I say as the smell of spices fills my nostrils. Even though Luca is staring down at me with furrowed brows, I go on, “You need to be hosting.”

He bristles at this. “I am hosting?—”

“No, you’re not.” My words are kind, but I keep them firm, too. “You’re just standing around. Interact with people. The job of a host is to keep things moving. Don’t let there be any awkward silences, either.”

“I prefer silence,” he grunts, his glasses flashing as he looks away from me.

“I know,” I say, exasperated now, “but your guests don’t, and you need to make a good impression.” I narrow my eyes up at him. “Do you even know these peoples’ names?”

“I—some of them,” he says.

I hum skeptically. “The woman in the red shirt. What’s her name?”

Silence.

“Prue. Her name is Prue,” I tell him. “She has a brother in the military and her mom was a single mom.” Then, tilting my head, I try again. “What about the guy in green? The one with the scruffy hair?”

In the faint light, I see the shadow of Luca’s twitching jaw. “Something with a D ,” he says.

This is worse than I thought.

“Dell. His name is Dell.” I frown up at him. “He has two daughters. He’s working two jobs because his wife doesn’t stick to a budget very well.”

When Luca sighs, his giant frame deflates slightly. “How do you know all this?”

“Because,” I say patiently, “I talk to people, Luca. You need to do the same.”

He doesn’t answer.