Page 31 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

It has been three days since the breakfast, and everywhere I go, I smell strawberry shortcake—especially my office.

All the time. It smells like strawberry shortcake all the time. She’s in here for a few minutes every morning, but somehow her scent lingers.

It has to stop. It must stop. And yet…if anything, it’s going to increase. Because on Monday Juliet will start as my assistant.

I didn’t know Rod was going to offer her that job on Sunday.

Or, rather, I didn’t know he was going to make me offer her the job.

I didn’t mean to say any of those things to Quincey Brewer, either.

But Quincey was talking to her like that and I knew, I knew , how sensitive she is about her job, as much as she pretends not to care.

I know how embarrassed she still feels about her experience in school.

Quincey took all those things and threw them at her, and she was standing there with that look on her face, and the next thing I knew I was speaking.

If you ever need somewhere to rest…I’m here.

I startle as her words run through my mind—not for the first time, and probably not for the last. Because how did she know? How could she possibly have known?

I throw my pen down in frustration, leaning back in my chair and closing my eyes. That only invites other memories, though.

Sniveling Quincey Brewer, still chewing sour grapes, trying to wield what little power he has over someone he resents.

Juliet’s frozen expression, easier to read than she would want.

Memories from that morning, too—the polka dot bra, or the moment I told her I liked seeing her in my clothes.

It was true; there’s no denying that, as much as I wish I could. My mouth goes dry at the memory of my shirt hanging off her, her hair wet, her face screwed up as she told me off for stealing the hot water—looking more like an angry kitten than the tiger she was trying to be.

Still, true or not, I have never in my life admitted something like that to a woman I wasn’t dating. Ever. I’ve never told another woman about Maura, and I’ve never let a woman sleep in my house.

Something is shifting, changing. She’s wearing me down in a way I can’t define. It’s not necessarily romantic. It’s just…

She’s coming closer. She’s burrowing deeper. And somehow, despite all my attempts, I haven’t been able to stop her.

I need a vacation. I don’t care where; just someplace with a bed. I need to leave Lucky, Colorado, and sleep for a week straight.

To give myself a break, I stand up. Everything on the form in front of me is starting to blur, so I stretch for a second as my jaw gapes in a yawn I can’t quite stop.

Then I drift aimlessly out from behind the desk, meandering from one side of the office to the other until I find myself staring out my glass-paneled walls.

My eyes find Marianne and Josh on the far end of the work floor—Marianne Florissant and Joshua Vara, I now know, because I did indeed memorize the names of the people on my work floor. They’re standing up too, talking quietly, both looking down at the papers Marianne is holding.

Juliet said they’re dating, I think, my eyes narrowing.

No matter how I look at it, though, I don’t see anything more than normal coworker behavior—quietly discussing whatever papers are there.

They’re just friendly, even chatting with anyone who passes as they’re talking.

But I didn’t notice anything at the breakfast. Their expressions aren’t flirtatious, either, and they’re not even really touching.

So where did Juliet come up with that idea? Did she see something?

I sigh, shaking my head until something out of the corner of my eye draws my attention. It presents as a blob of pink, and before I can stop myself, I’ve turned my gaze to the hallway that passes by our work space.

It’s Juliet, of course. Today she’s got on a pair of gray, fitted pants and a pink shirt, ruffled at the sleeves and collar—she’s nothing if not consistent in her wardrobe. She didn’t even seem to care about casual Friday last week, when everyone else was wearing jeans .

Not me, of course—I glance down at my own outfit—but the rest of them. I’m not sure I’m capable of casual clothing in my workplace. My eyes fly back to her, and once again, something uncomfortably potent stirs in my chest.

Juliet’s bright smile is sunshine in what I would normally call a light-enough space; there are windows out there, for instance, and fake potted trees in several corners, and a buzz of energy that’s often missing in stale, dull buildings.

But in the face of Juliet Marigold and her million-watt smile, all those factors seem to dim.

I’m not the one she’s currently aiming that smile at, though, even as she lugs her mop and bucket on wheels. She seems to be smiling at Marianne, whose cheeks turn pink. Marianne returns a tentative smile and looks quickly away again.

Juliet isn’t trying to win me over today, I see. She’s trying to win Marianne over instead. How do they know each other? They must have gone to school together, right, if Marianne knows Quincey too?

It’s none of your business , I tell myself.

I take a step back from the blinds, then another, and I’m about to turn back to my desk when I see something else that makes me stop in my tracks.

Someone following Juliet, his eyes fixed on where she’s just disappeared out of sight.

I hurry back to the window, so close to the glass that my breath fogs it up, my eyes narrowing as I take the man in.

Quincey Brewer.

I looked him up after the breakfast on Sunday.

His photo looked like a mugshot, but so does my employee picture—and the one on my license, and the one on my Costco membership, and every other picture that’s ever been taken of me.

It didn’t matter—I still would have disliked him, even without hearing the way he spoke to Juliet.

If you ever need somewhere to rest…I’m here.

I shake my head against the memory. Quincey’s not creeping or sneaking now; his strides are slow, shuffling, his hands in his pockets, and he’s a bit soft, sort of doughy.

His hair is a nondescript color of brown—although really, most brown looks the same to me, so what do I know?

—but it’s what I can see of his expression that pings an alarm in my mind.

There’s something furtive about it, scrunched up in a weird way—drooping, almost, and forlorn.

And you know what?

I’m suddenly a bit thirsty.

I reach blindly for my mug and grab the handle too tightly before making my way to the door and then out of my office. I’ll just take a stroll down the hallways and see what’s going on around here. Make sure everyone is doing their work.

I burst out of my office with more force than necessary, and I don’t blame the employees who startle at my appearance, their eyes widening as they jump.

“Sorry,” I mutter as my blinds rattle and rustle. I guess I could say something stupid like Don’t know my own strength, but I can’t bring myself to. So I just give a nod to the ones looking at me. “Frank,” I say as I meet his eyes. “Prue.” They hesitantly nod back.

And I think…that was a greeting. An acknowledgment, not irritable or bad tempered but simply cautious.

Has that happened before?

I file the question away to look at later before hurrying past the blocks of cubicles and into the hallway, already turning in the direction Juliet and Quincey have gone. My speed is increasing, I realize, and my eyes widen when I realize what I’m feeling.

Protectiveness—that’s the strange emotion stirring behind my sternum.

Not because I care especially for Juliet or because I’m falling for her.

Of course not. It’s just…she makes herself so vulnerable, and she doesn’t seem to notice.

She plays nothing close to the chest; she puts all her cards on the table.

And…well. I’ve felt kind of bad about the way I treated her. The way I’d been judging her without actually knowing anything about her, other than that she’s persistent, intrusive, and a phenomenal baker.

I’ve never seen someone so enthusiastic about being a janitor, never seen someone so cheerful and determined. The least I can do is ensure no one is making her job unnecessarily harder for the last few days.

And I think…

I can’t believe I’m admitting it. But I even think I’ll appreciate her help as the PR assistant Rodney promised me—or threatened me with, more like.

Having her constantly under foot won’t be ideal.

I don’t want to be any more involved with her than I already am, because Juliet Marigold is an experience .

She’s not someone that will enter your life quietly, be it as a friend or lover or even just an employee.

She’s too alluring, and I’m too tired for her, too weary.

But will she be helpful?

Yes. I think so.

When I round the corner and reach the bathrooms, I find the yellow sign set up, indicating that she’s cleaning inside.

Quincey, I’m grateful to see, has not followed her in; he’s leaning against the wall outside, probably waiting for her to come out, like a weirdo.

He straightens up when I appear, though, his body going from relaxed to rigid.

“You,” I bark at him, and I don’t bother to make my voice friendly. “Any reason you’re just standing around?” I nod at the bathroom. “Waiting to pounce on Miss Marigold again?”

His eyes dart to the bathrooms where I can hear the faint echoing clatters and bumps of cleaning, but when he looks back at me, he shakes his head, his limp hair plastered to his scalp.

“I was waiting for the bathroom,” he says, looking sketchier than ever. “I’ll use a different one. Sorry.”

What a liar. I scowl at him and then jerk my chin down the hallway that leads to the stairwell. There’s a bathroom in this same place one floor down; he can go there if he really needs to use it.

“Go, then,” I say, and he nods quickly before hurrying off.

I think he really is a creep like Juliet said.