Page 35 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

Juliet Marigold’s arms are twined around my neck.

Her lips are cherry red from my kisses—and now those same lips are offering me her deepest secrets, offering them with ease and without guile.

I’m floating on a cloud of strawberry and vanilla, and I’m not certain I’m not dreaming.

I’m not certain I won’t wake up, alarm clock blaring, and be haunted by these moments for weeks or even months to come.

A loud, primal part of me wants to kiss her again, devour her, drown in her sweetness. I keep that part firmly leashed, under control, but I could snap at any moment.

So I need to keep breathing. Keep it together. Reject the affection she offers so freely—at least until I can really think about it.

I do know one thing, though, even without further thought: I want her secrets. Even knowing what she might ask in return…I want them .

Because every single time I think I know what this woman is going to do or say, I end up being wrong. And every time I make assumptions about her, they’re incorrect. Everything I see of her makes me wonder what else is there.

It’s a question I ask myself in two minds.

Because she’s right; I’m looking for excuses not to like her.

She’s a bad idea. She’s young and beautiful and sweet, while I’m…

not. I’m not any of those things. And she deserves better than someone who’s so messy—someone who could drag her down, like I could.

And who’s to say I won’t? What if I let myself explore things with her, only to dim her light, bit by bit, until she was extinguished and I was responsible?

But when she’s looking at me like this, her arms around my neck, offering nothing more than her story, her skeletons…I can’t quite feel bad about accepting.

“I want them,” I tell her. My office is silent, somehow impervious to the sounds from outside my door, and the world seems to have narrowed to just Juliet and me. My voice is broken and hoarse, but I repeat the words anyway. “I want them. Your secrets.”

She hums, and I’m not sure if she’s aware of the way her fingers play absently with the hair at the base of my neck, a light brush of her pink nails that sends pleasant shivers down my spine. “You want to hear my story? My deepest, darkest secrets?”

“Yes.”

She waits, looking at me, and even though she remains silent, I know what she’s expecting.

To my surprise, I find that I’m willing. Just for her, just for now, in this moment—I’m willing.

“And I…” I trail off, searching my heart for any final misgivings.

I find none.

“I’ll give you mine,” I say.

They’re words that can’t be unspoken, and I release them knowing this.

But Juliet is surprised. She blinks at me, her brows twitching. Then she tilts her head. “Will you really?”

“What—were you not going to ask?” I say with skepticism. “I find that hard to believe.”

Her cheeks flush faintly. “I was,” she admits, “but I wasn’t going to push if you said no.”

I sigh, adjusting my hands on either side of her where I’m still leaned over, supporting myself on the desk. “If we’re going to do this,” I say slowly, “we should make ourselves equally vulnerable.” My gaze flits over her face as I move ever so slightly closer. “Don’t you agree?”

Because right here, right now, I’m making a decision. She gives and gives and gives. So going forward, I’m going to give her what I can in return, when I’m able. I don’t know that I can return all her romantic feelings. But I can make our relationship, whatever it is, less one-sided.

I think…I want to do that.

Her eyes jump to my lips as I draw nearer, and I control the impulse to kiss her again with an iron grasp. She nods then, looking back up to me.

“Can we stay like this for one more minute?” she says, barely more than a whisper. “Just one more?”

“One more,” I agree. The words slip out unbidden, because after this conversation, I’m not sure she’ll want to get this close again. For that matter, I might go home tonight with a clear head and realize what an incredible mistake this has been.

So for now, we can stay.

Her grip around my neck tightens, like she realizes the same thing I do. That this might never happen again—and the way things stand, it shouldn’t. I’m her boss. Even worse, she’s about to become my assistant.

So I let her pull me closer as she begins to speak.

“My mind tells me lies,” she says softly.

“That’s my secret.” Her gaze darts up to mine and then away again.

“My mind tells me I’m not good enough. It tells me I have nothing to offer.

It tells me—” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat.

“It tells me if I eat too much, I’ll fail.

That what I see in the mirror is unacceptable. ”

My heart sinks heavily when I realize what she means, the words she’s not saying, but I let her go on.

“I’ve always been beautiful. I’ve always been graceful. I excelled at ballet naturally. And as I excelled at ballet, I performed very poorly in school, even though I tried. I really did try.”

I only nod to show I’m listening, because I’m afraid if I say anything at all, this spell will be broken.

She exhales, a little puff of breath I feel against my lips.

“It was easy to slip into. Putting off meals, dieting in the extreme. Sometimes I didn’t even realize I was doing it.

But I ended up getting sick.” It’s only now that her eyes come back to mine.

“So I dropped out of college to get better.” With a little shrug, she finishes, “And here I am. Mostly doing well. Lost my job as a ballet teacher because our studio closed, became a janitor instead. Trying to make the best of it.” Her voice is light, matter-of-fact.

And though there’s pain there, there’s acceptance, too .

Still, though. “You’re allowed to be upset,” I say. I don’t mean for my words to be so—so growled, but that’s how they come out, and she blinks at me.

“Are you—” she says, looking bemused. “Are you getting mad at me right now?”

“No.” I unhook her arms from behind my neck and step back, running my hand down my face.

My back protests at the sudden change of position, stiff from leaning forward for so long.

“It’s not that. It’s just—you don’t have to be positive about everything.

You’re allowed to acknowledge when something sucks. ”

Her expression clears. “I know,” she says simply.

Her hands have settled back in her lap, and for a moment, I think I’m seeing the version of herself she tries to hide.

Tired—that’s the word I would use. She just looks tired.

Tired of trying when she feels like there’s no payoff, tired of being tired, tired of waiting for things that don’t happen.

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

And it hits me, with the force of a lightning bolt to the heart: Juliet Marigold needs to rest just as badly as I do. It doesn’t matter that she’s energetic and smiling and bubbly every time I see her. Beneath all that, she’s stepping on demons to push those facets of herself to the surface.

She needs water and sunlight, too.

Something uncomfortably powerful rises in me, an admiration I can’t push away no matter how hard I try, as I look at the woman still sitting on the edge of my desk.

She’s swinging her legs a bit, dressed in pink, golden hair other people pay a fortune to get.

Her expression is neutral, her blue eyes darting around the room—avoiding mine, I think.

And I know before she came to this room, she was wiping down counters in the break room and scrubbing toilets and mopping floors.

She probably did it without complaining, and she probably said hello to anyone who walked past, too.

Regardless of how she did in school, Juliet is smart.

She’s not petty, and she thinks deeply. So she knows that her job is important, glamorous or not.

But I find myself wanting to pull her out of there early anyway, even if only by a few days.

Bring her to my side and let her sit on my couch instead of hunching over in a way that probably makes her body ache.

It’s a stupid thought. She’s mine starting Monday. But the idea holds appeal all the same.

“Well?” she says after a moment of silence in which my thoughts race and my emotions do strange things. She tilts her head and gives me a little smile, her eyes bright once again. “I’m waiting, Mr. Slater.”

The breath that whooshes out of me is rough, unsteady. Because I don’t know if I can handle being called Mr. Slater by someone who’s kissed me the way she has.

But that’s how it’s going to have to be, isn’t it? We’re going to have to act normal. Like this never happened.

So I nod, and I’m about to speak when she holds up one hand.

“You accept that you’re offering this up freely? And you won’t resent me or act like I’ve forced you to say anything later?”

I nod again.

“Good,” she says, sounding satisfied. She’s still sitting on my desk, and I settle myself in my chair. Then I look up at her.

“Tell me exactly what you want,” I say. I pry the words from my lips with difficulty, although not as much difficulty as I expected.

“I want to know what happened,” she answers, her voice softening. “With your—” She breaks off expectantly.

“Fiancée,” I say. I hesitate and then add, “Maura. Her name was Maura.”

“Maura,” she repeats. “Tell me what happened that made you so…” She trails off, gesturing at me.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say. Except I know exactly what she means, and she’s not wrong.

She knows it too. Her lips curl a little, a tiny, sad smile, and I sigh. Then I settle back in my chair.

“Maura and I…” I begin, trying to figure out how to phrase things.

“We weren’t good for each other,” I finally settle on.

“I was struggling after the death of my parents. She was struggling with some emerging mental illnesses. And we just…” I shrug, jerking my shoulders.

“We weren’t good for each other. So I broke things off.

Called off the wedding. And right after I did… she died.”

She died. And it’s only when I see Juliet’s concerned gaze flitting over me that I realize how my posture has changed. My shoulders have curled in on themselves; I’ve slouched down in my chair, my head hanging. I force myself to straighten up and meet Juliet’s eyes.

I couldn’t tell you why, but when I see only concern and sadness rather than pity on her face, I have to fight an exhale of relief.

“And was it—did she?—”

“I don’t know.” The words are sharp, curt. “I don’t know if she—if it was—” My shoulders curl in without permission once more. “It was a crash. But I don’t know if she chose—” I break off, shaking my head, because I’ve learned over the years that I can’t dwell on the details of this idea too much.

“Mmm.” It’s a soft hum, full of understanding .

“Anyway, her parents are the Delaneys. I go eat with them once a month.”

Her eyes widen with a flicker of surprise. “Not a girlfriend, then,” she says as a smile spreads over her lips, still red from our kisses. “With cute chunky glasses and an insane IQ?”

I shoot her a questioning look, and she shrugs.

“That’s the kind of girl I thought you’d go for.”

“I don’t seem to have one specific type,” I find myself saying, the words musing as I look at her. “But no. Still no girlfriend, with chunky glasses or otherwise.”

“Good,” Juliet says, more playful now. I think she might be changing the subject on purpose. “Because we just kissed, if you remember?—”

“I remember,” I say dryly.

“Which would be rude to do if you had a girlfriend.”

“It would be rude,” I agree with a nod. I can feel the tension leaving my body, my breath coming easier.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, and then Juliet says, “You know what my mind tells me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer, going on instead.

“It tells me to hide.” Her eyes pull away from mine as she swallows.

“It tells me to be ashamed. But I think talking about things can be good. And I think your mind might tell you some of the same lies mine tells me.”

Her gaze is back on mine now, and she once again tilts her head in the little way she does—with interest, curiosity, insight. “But those are lies. That you need to hide, that you’re unredeemable, that you’re a bad person—those are lies.”

The words aren’t just words; they’re heavy blows, pummeling me one after another until I’m in physical pain.

I breathe deeply, trying to wash the hurt away, trying to control the swelling emotions inside of me—emotions I can’t identify for how melded they are, how raw, how new—or, maybe, ancient and dormant but coming to life once more.

“Well,” Juliet says into the sudden silence that’s fallen. “I should head home.” She hops off my desk and lands on light feet, giving me a little pat on the knee as she scoots past. She makes her way to the door, and she’s almost opened it when she looks over her shoulder at me.

“Dream about me tonight, please,” she says, her eyes sparkling now.

“No promises,” I mutter.

She laughs at the response and then leaves. But my words echo through my head long after she’s gone—even after her strawberry shortcake scent has faded.

Because I know I’m a liar. This woman who’s about to become my assistant, the one Rod wants to help clean up my image, the one I absolutely cannot fall for?—

I’ll dream about her tonight.