Page 32 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

The sounds of cleaning are coming from the men’s bathroom, so I round that corner, making my steps extra loud so Juliet will hear me coming. She stops humming just as I get close enough to hear it.

“Excuse me,” she says, her voice echoing slightly. “We’re—oh.” She breaks off and smiles when I come into view. “It’s you.” She pauses, her eyes darting to the corner I’ve just come around. Then she steps toward me and lowers her voice. “Is he still out there?”

She knew he was following her?

I raise my brow, trying to figure out if I’m feeling amusement or exasperation. “No,” I say. “I sent him away.”

“Oh, good,” she says, her shoulders falling, expression relaxing into something easier. “Thank you. ”

I jerk my head in the direction of the entrance. “Does that happen a lot?”

“No,” she says. “Only when we’re in the same general area. He comes to check on my work.” Her face falls. “Probably more now, after what happened. He’s sort of been shuffling awkwardly around near me.”

“He really is a creep, isn’t he.” It’s not a question.

But to my surprise, Juliet hums, her eyes drifting to the exit of the bathroom. “I’m not sure. He’s been a bit strange the last few days.”

“Well,” I say skeptically. “Creepy or not, I don’t think it’s necessary for him to check on your work.”

“I agree,” she says. “I’m getting good at this.”

“You’d better be.” I fold my arms, strolling around the small bathroom. “You told Rodney he’d be able to see his reflection in any surface after you were done with it.”

“Rodney?” she says, tilting her head at me.

“Rod. The man who was at my house. Who stumbled coming up the steps?”

“Oh!” she says, another wide smile spreading over her face. “Rod, Rodney. Of course.”

I nod. “You promised him, and you only have a few days to make good on it.” Despite my words, though, I can’t quite make my voice as stern as I want. Somehow it comes out teasing, poking, even amused.

What is that? I don’t tease. I don’t poke fun.

“Yes, well,” Juliet says airily. If she notices anything strange about my behavior, she doesn’t comment on it. “That was before I got a look at this tile.” She taps one high-heeled toe against the grimy tiled floor which, now that I examine it, probably cannot be polished to a shine.

I grunt, trying to rein in the bizarre amusement I still feel. No one made a joke; nothing funny is happening. Smiles and humor have no place here. “Well,” I say, nodding at the bucket of sudsy water. “Get back to work, then.”

She stands up straight and gives me a salute, even as her eyes shine with laughter. “Yes, sir.”

“Cut it out,” I say, rolling my eyes. I turn away so she won’t see the smile I’m still trying to get rid of, heading back out, but she calls after me just as I’m about to round the corner.

“Wait,” she says, and I quirk a brow at her over my shoulder. She nods, apparently understanding my silent invitation to go on. “Are the lunch breaks better?”

It kills me to admit it, but…“They are,” I say heavily. “The last few days have been good.”

She nods again, a satisfied smile touching her lips. “Excellent. Did you thank your employees?”

I stare blankly at her until her brow furrows in disapproval.

“Number three,” she murmurs, her gaze darting away as she looks lost in thought for a second. “Prove yourself an asset.” Then she meets my eye. “I’ll help you write it.”

A hint of suspicion rises in my mind at these words. Didn’t she say something about number one on Sunday? And now she’s talking about number three?

When I still don’t speak, she sighs and goes on.

“The thank you note that you send to your employees, commending them for the quick response to your earlier memo,” she says.

“I’ll help you write it once I’m done here.

You’re welcome.” She gives me another one of those smiles.

“Now head out, please. I bend over in all sorts of unflattering positions while I’m cleaning toilets, and I want you to think I’m pretty, so I’m not ready to let you see that sort of thing. ”

I shake my head at her as she clicks toward me on her pink heels, shooing me around the corner and out of the bathroom altogether.

The Juliet who strides into my office thirty minutes later doesn’t look like she’s been cleaning bathrooms. Granted, I’m not sure what someone would look like in that scenario, but it’s not fresh and put together.

She doesn’t even seem sweaty or tired. Her hair is still perfectly coiled into some sort of bun on top of her head, and she still smells of strawberry shortcake.

I’m not entirely sure she’s human. No one is perfect. They’re just not. So where are her flaws?

She broke into your house, I remind myself. And she can’t seem to take no for an answer. And…

“How old are you?” I say absently as she enters.

“Twenty-four,” she says promptly.

My breath whooshes out of me. “So young,” I mutter, quietly enough that she won’t hear. “That’s so young.”

The problem is she seems so harmless. But the last beautiful woman I let into my life broke me.

I am a different person after Maura than I was before her.

So even though this woman is mind-boggling in every way, someone I simply don’t understand, I try to ignore the impulse to figure her out—and more than that, I try to ignore the impulse to let her figure me out.

I just nod, waiting as she closes the door behind her and then approaches my desk.

“I’m not entirely sure another memo is necessary. ”

“There are different kinds of necessary,” she says, and I frown. “There are,” she insists as she all but waltzes toward me. “Necessary to survive. Necessary to thrive.”

I guess she’s not wrong there. “Fine,” I say. “What should I write, then?”

“Thank them. Commend them for giving heed to your previous memo and express your appreciation. Tell them you hope you’ll all continue to work well together in the future.”

I nod slowly, but my fingers don’t move over the keyboard.

“A greeting,” Juliet says with a sigh, closer to me now. She’s leaning over my shoulder, so near I can taste strawberry shortcake. If her hair were down, it would be tickling my face. “Come on,” she prompts. “A greeting. Dear employees. ”

“Just Employees ,” I say gruffly, typing the word.

“Fine,” she says. “Do that, and then just thank them.”

And once again, it’s an incredibly strange feeling, typing with someone dictating over my shoulder. Especially because she’s saying things I feel, more or less; I just wouldn’t have thought to vocalize them.

I am grateful that people are listening to me. And I do hope we continue to work well together.

“Mention the lunch breaks specifically,” Juliet adds, and I press delete a few times to change my wording. “And less abrupt.”

“It’s not abrupt,” I grumble.

“It’s abrupt,” she says. “Come on. Oh, and thank them for coming to the breakfast, too.” She gives my shoulder a little nudge, and with reluctant fingers I continue typing.

“Better?” I say, not bothering to keep my annoyance out of my voice .

“Much.” She’s silent for a second, and I get the sense she’s reading the final product.

Then she speaks again. “Yes,” she says, and as she stands up, her warmth evaporates from around me.

My neck is suddenly cold, a feeling I firmly embrace rather than trying to linger in the heat. “That looks good.”

I nod but don’t speak, pressing send on the email that now reads Employees—I’d like to commend you on your response to my previous memo regarding lunch breaks.

This is the sort of efficiency that will allow this office to run smoothly, so I appreciate your efforts.

I hope we continue to work well together.

Thanks again, and thanks for your participation in our weekend breakfast. Mr. Slater.

“I really think you could just call yourself Luca,” Juliet says, but my voice is dry when I respond.

“I draw the line at a first-name basis with my employees. Not when they’re having so much trouble keeping things professional already.”

“Hmm,” she says, and even in that simple sound there’s a hint of something I don’t like—something teasing, pleased. “But you don’t complain when I call you Luca.”

She’s right; I don’t. I hadn’t realized. “That’s different,” I say shortly.

“Why?” she says quickly, a smile in her voice. Sure enough, when I turn around and stand up, she’s beaming at me. “Because you like me?”

“No,” I say, skirting past her and heading to the door so I can see her out. “Because we met first as Luca and Juliet, and it’s difficult to think of you differently.” When her smile doesn’t fade even the smallest bit, I add, “Don’t get the wrong idea. ”

She adopts a straight face and nods solemnly. “I won’t,” she says, the words serious. “I definitely won’t.”

“I kind of feel like you are, though,” I say. “Just don’t?—”

But I break off as we reach for the door handle at the same time, my hand wrapping around hers by accident.

And I do it without thinking—about how it will look or how she’ll take it. I trail my hand over hers, wrap my fingers firmly around her slim wrist, and tug until she lets go of the handle.

Her head whips up toward mine, and our gazes clash. There’s pure surprise written in her features, her lips parted into a little ‘o’ and her gorgeous blue eyes wide.

Wide, yes—but they’ve got dark circles underneath them, I notice for the first time. Mostly hidden by makeup but definitely there. Is she tired today?

“You’re touching me,” she breathes after a second of silence—silence because my mind is fuzzy and preoccupied by details I shouldn’t notice. “Do you like it?”

My jaw snaps shut as I let go like I’ve been burned. “ What? ” I say.

I once heard that when people answer your question with another question, especially asking you to repeat what you’ve said, it’s because they’re stalling.

I am stalling. Just enough to get my head on straight.

“Touching me,” she says earnestly, still looking up at me with wide eyes. “Do you like it? Does it give you butterflies in your stomach?”

“There are no butterflies,” I say hoarsely. “Stop overthinking things.”

“You liked how I looked in your shirt,” she points out, and I roll my eyes .

“Yes, well, we’ve already established you’re beautiful,” I say with exasperation. “There’s a difference.”

“You think I’m beautiful,” she says gleefully, dancing on her toes.

“Cut it out.” I push the words past my lips. But I can feel the heat creeping up my neck, and my ears are starting to burn.

This woman is going to be in my office every day starting on Monday. She’s going to be following me around, helping me with everything, her scent all over the place and her hair gleaming in the corner of my vision.

She’s going to be smiling at me. Hitting me with her infectious, persistent cheerfulness. Edging into my space, asking me questions I don’t want to answer, breaking down my defenses with that innocent look in her eyes.

Her beauty is something I can resist. And her spark? Her sweetness? This incredible, inexplicable pull she has on me?

I’m going to have to resist those too.