Page 29 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

“And tonight you need to look up the employee directory,” I go on, crossing my arms. “At least for the people who directly report to you. You need to memorize every name and face. And when you see them, you need to say hello.”

Now his eyes narrow as he looks down at me.

“You know, Miss Marigold,” he says in a soft, low voice. “If I recall”—he steps closer, forcing me to shuffle back—“I’m your boss, not the other way around.”

And there’s that blue-green scent again, swirling around me as my pulse picks up. He’s so close, so close I could go up on my tiptoes and?—

“So stop telling me what to do,” he says abruptly, shattering my out-of-control daydreams.

I clear my throat, grateful for the darkness that hides my heating cheeks. “Horribly sorry,” I say, trying to keep my voice normal. I pat him on the shoulder. “But someone needs to, because you don’t seem to know intuitively.”

And I think it’s best that I exit this situation before I do something crazy like actually kiss him.

So I step out, jumping when I round the corner to find Rod standing there, the faintest hint of amusement in his eyes.

Luca follows behind me, close enough that I can hear his friend speak in his creaky old voice.

“That was interesting?—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Luca growls at him, and Rod lets out a bark of laughter.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish my embarrassment.

Then I delve into the milling groups around the kitchen and living room.

Because if I’m giving Luca a pep talk on being personable, I need to follow my own advice.

So even though I’m still coming down from this morning’s emotions, even though my imagination is still thinking about how it might be to kiss Luca Slater, I push all that aside.

It’s time to mingle, and I think I’d like to try chatting with Marianne again. Maybe find some common ground to reconnect?

But I startle when I hear my name unexpectedly.

“Juliet.”

My heart sinks. It’s Quincey, standing behind me; I saw him earlier, but I was sort of hoping he’d ignore me .

“Hi, Quincey,” I say with a sigh, turning to face him. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he says, wiggling his plate. “Lots of good food. What did you bring?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I was signed up for breakfast casserole, but I wasn’t able to do it after all.” It’s a weird thing to say without offering an explanation, but I’ve got nothing.

Quincey hums through his thin lips, his nostrils flaring as his beady eyes look me over. There seems to be some sort of gel in his hair, plastering it to his head.

He’s not actually ugly, despite the bad hair. His features are normal enough, average. He just gives off vibes , you know? And bad vibes change a person’s appearance. Quincey feels uncomfortable, damp, cold.

“If you didn’t bring anything,” he says now, his gaze dropping to my plate, “you shouldn’t get to take anything, right?

” He accompanies his words with a big, joking smile—and it’s this, right here, that makes him so awkward to be around.

He says completely inappropriate things, bizarre and humiliating, but he pairs them with facial expressions that don’t match. The result is off-putting at best.

I’ve never decided if he knows the effect he has, if he does it on purpose, or if he’s just very unaware.

“I’ll bring something next time,” I say lightly, stepping to the side. I’d like to exit this conversation as soon as possible; I’m tired and still coming down from the panic of this morning. There’s a new anxiety pressing in on all sides, too, one that emanates from the food on my plate.

I swallow that feeling, the same way I’ll swallow the food when I eat it. Still, it slithers into my gut and makes me feel faintly sick.

“Well, I look forward to it,” Quincey says, pulling me back to the conversation that apparently is still going on. “It’s nice to see you more relaxed”—he nods at my casual clothing—“like you’re having fun. Not all dressed up for show.”

“I enjoy experimenting with fashion.” And I’m infinitely proud of myself for how polite I sound, how friendly and normal.

My voice matches the ones all around us—people sitting at one end of the table, laughing over their food, more people milling around in little groups, even a few drifting into the family room because of how cramped things are.

Still, despite the cheerful atmosphere, Quincey’s conversation leaves me feeling greasy. Oily. It doesn’t help that he’s clearly not the only one with these thoughts; as I look around again, I catch a few eyes, people looking at me and my casual clothes.

I swallow, my fingers clenching my paper plate more tightly. Is it really so weird to wear cute clothes to work? I’m not hurting anyone. Why do people care so much?

Of course, I know what my sisters would say. Your confidence makes them insecure.

It’s not untrue, but it’s not the whole truth, either. I’ve learned to cling to the little things that bring me joy.

My wardrobe brings me joy. If people don’t like it, fine.

The thought gives me strength, enough that I straighten up and breathe deeply through the anxiety trying to fester in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I say, because someone needs to end this chat, and it clearly won’t be Quincey. “I just need to?—”

But when he cuts me off, his words are too loud, too blaring to be an accident.

“You know,” he says, and half the room falls silent, all eyes flying to us.

“I think it’s great you managed to find a job after how you did in high school.

” His gaze on me is smug, his thin lips curling as he goes on.

“I know you struggle academically. You might not have been cut out for university. But the fact is, we need more blue collar workers.” He reaches his gross, clammy hand up and pats me on the head, like I’m a dog.

“What I’m saying is I’m proud of you, Juliet.

It’s good you’re trying to do something with your life. ”

The kitchen is silent now, save for the steady tick, tick, tick of the wall clock my mom loves so much—light blue with little country chickens on it.

Inside my head, though, the voices are loud and growing. Somehow Quincey has taken the truth and twisted it, made it sound horrible. He’s walked into my mind and plucked out my insecurities, wielding them as patronizingly as possible.

My response is not elegant, and I hate myself for not being able to come up with something. “I—why would you?—”

Quincy speaks again when my voice falters and fades away.

“Well, I mean,” he goes on, throwing a look around the room.

“No one dreams of being a janitor, do they? I certainly didn’t.

” It’s the most genuine thing I’ve heard him say, infused with something like bitterness.

“But those jobs need to be done, don’t they?

And with some hard work, you could rise in ranks. I really think you could do it.”

I open my mouth to speak again, but nothing comes out. Nothing at all, and I’m still hunting, hunting, when?—

“Are you being purposefully rude because she rejected you?”

Silence. Complete, utter silence, the kind I think Quincey was originally hoping for as every pair of eyes in the room turns to watch.

And then he appears, emanating the kind of power that has nothing to do with job or position and everything to do with aura: Luca, taking slow steps across the kitchen, his expression pleasant except for the muscle jumping in his jaw.

His eyes flash behind his square glasses, and in his presence Quincey seems to lose several inches of height.

Quincey tries to stand taller. He pushes his chest out, running one hand over his thin hair as his cheeks turn a splotchy purple-pink color. When he still doesn’t respond, though, Luca speaks again.

“I asked you a question,” he says, his words still mild. “Miss Marigold is working hard at her job, much like you do. So I’m unsure about why she’s being antagonized.” Luca approaches Quincey until he towers over him, closer than is polite. “Is it because she’s rejected you in the past?”

“I—” Quincey finally says, his hands fisting into balls, his voice trembling. “She never. I never. I’m only telling her I’m proud of her?—”

“Three times.” The voice pipes up from one end of the kitchen table; I turn, startled, my eyes widening further when I see Marianne.

She clears her throat and says, “She rejected you three times.” Her gaze darts to me, her cheeks turning pink, and then she looks back at her plate of food, pushing what’s left of her quiche around with her fork.

The tangled knot in my throat swells as my eyes begin to sting, for an impossible number of reasons—humiliation, gratitude, residual stress and anxiety. I turn to Luca without even knowing why, only to find his focus on me.

And I don’t understand the look we share. I only know that after a second of staring into his eyes, I’m able to breathe a little easier. Some of the tension in his body eases too, until the silence in the kitchen becomes crackling and unavoidable .

It breaks abruptly when Rod clears his throat, and all heads turn toward him.

But his gaze is on Luca, who raises his eyebrows in question.

“The job,” Rod says with a significant look. “Offer her the job.” Then, incredibly, his eyes dart to me.

Luca blinks at the old man. “I—are you serious?” he says.

Rod hums, seeming completely unaware of the fact that everyone in this room is watching their exchange. “Yes,” he says thoughtfully as he looks at me again, much the same way he did when we first met—a look of interest and curiosity. “Yes, I think so.”

Luca’s expression morphs into one of faint disconcertion; he shakes his head as though pleading, but Rod squares his shoulders and returns Luca’s look of pleading with a stern one of his own.

“Don’t complain. Just do it,” Rod says firmly.

Luca’s shoulders slump. Then, with a sigh of resignation, he turns back to me and Quincey.