Page 4 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

Juliet Marigold has been sneaking around in my house.

She was in my office, as a matter of fact.

She’s gone now, but only just, because her scent lingers—strawberries and cream or maybe strawberry pound cake.

I smelled it the first time we met, when she threw herself at me, flinging her arms around my neck and sobbing that she’d thought I was dead, and I haven’t forgotten that aroma since. It always makes me hungry.

I was climbing up the stairs a few minutes ago when I heard the lurch of a window opening; I froze and waited, listening to a set of quick, light steps.

My first instinct was to barge in, of course, but the footsteps sounded like those of a child or a small woman.

So I darted into the bathroom, waiting to see what my intruder was doing.

It was only when I heard the window open and close again that I came out and smelled that strawberry smell .

So should I send a strongly worded email about this clear invasion, or should I confront Juliet in person?

An email might invite further communication, but an in-person discussion would necessitate face-to-face interaction.

I sort through the options and find a quick solution, a middle ground I’m happy with.

I hurry out of my office and to the room she came from; then I cross to the window, open it, and stick my head out, just in time to see a flash of pink and a blonde head of hair hurrying toward the side of the house.

“Miss Marigold,” I call loudly.

Juliet Marigold freezes in her tracks, going perfectly still like an animal scenting a predator.

How does she stay so motionless? Even her hair obeys, seemingly untouched by the light breeze that signals the emergence of spring.

“Miss Marigold,” I say again, louder this time, because she hasn’t answered.

Finally she turns to face me, a book clutched in her arms. I’m confused but not surprised by the outfit she’s chosen for her trespassing excursion—a lacy pink shirt and white jeans.

She looks like she’s going to lunch, not breaking into a house.

Her big doe eyes lock on me, and she has the audacity to smile rather than look guilty or ashamed. Although—are her cheeks overly pink? Or is that their natural color?

“Hi,” she says, giving me a little wave of her fingers. “Sorry to intrude. I needed to grab something from my old room?—”

“You could have knocked on the front door,” I cut her off.

She shrugs, a careless lift of her slim shoulders. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“I just got back, but you could have waited,” I say through gritted teeth.

“It was important,” she says. She clears her throat, her expression unsure for the first time. “Also I didn’t really remember what the book was called?” she goes on. “So even if you had gone to look for it yourself, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what to grab.”

My gaze drops to the book in her arms, but she stows it behind her back before I can see what it is.

“I like what you’ve done with my room,” she says brightly, I think intentionally drawing my attention away from the book she’s holding.

I bite back my surge of irrational annoyance, swallow down the embarrassing vulnerability trying to heat my cheeks. “Right now it’s not your room , Miss Marigold. It’s mine. If I find you’ve entered again without permission, I’ll press charges.”

“Boo,” she says with a little frown and a pucker over her brow. “You’re no fun.”

I slam the window shut without answering.

She’s right; I’m not fun. I’m stressed and irritable and so tired of Marigold women showing up where they shouldn’t—Juliet in particular. The others seem to have normal-enough boundaries.

Still, it stings my pride a bit that she now knows I’ve set up my office in her old bedroom.

It’s nothing weird or gross. I just needed a place to work, and she had a desk, and…

well. My job is stressful. Being in charge of people and businesses is not something I enjoy.

I have limited patience and even less for incompetence.

Juliet’s old room—I think of the whites and pinks and soft, flowy fabrics—it felt restful. That’s all. It was so ft and soothing.

There’s nothing wrong with that. The only problem I ever run into is that the bed looks so inviting I oftentimes have to fight the urge to close my eyes and sleep for a bit.

I’m years behind on sleep, and at this point, I’ve lost all hope of catching up. I don’t rest well at night anyway. I toss and turn and eventually find the phantoms of my past next to me in bed, so then I get up and go for a run or do some more work.

It’s not a healthy cycle, but then again, I never claimed it was.

I exhale roughly, still staring blankly out the window at where Juliet Marigold has disappeared from sight.

What book did she take?

I spin on my heel and head into my office, breathing deeply of that strawberry shortcake scent. Then I let my gaze scan the room, looking for books—and, I realize, there are hardly any. Barbie Marigold isn’t a reader, apparently.

It’s a rude thing to call her, even if only in my head.

It’s just…she looks like Barbie. Long blonde hair, striking blue eyes, a smile that sparkles with laughter.

Even when she was sobbing into my neck all those months ago after I woke up in her parents’ kitchen, she was beautiful.

And when a woman looks good all the time, it makes me wonder if there are other parts of her that are less beautiful, like her personality, or her moral compass.

Maybe that’s sexist—I don’t know, is it?

—but it’s my knee-jerk reaction. I know I’m not the only one who’s been fooled by a pretty face.

Even worse, this pretty face is young. I’m not sure quite how old she is, exactly, but I’d guess early or midtwenties. She keeps showing up with bright smiles and desserts, and I wish she would just— stop.

I wish she would leave me alone? —

A loud knock sounds at the door.

And I swear, I’m so irritated, so tired, that my stomps down the stairs can probably be heard by the neighbors. I stomp my way to the front door, too, and open it so forcefully that it ricochets off the door stop.

“Listen up,” I growl. “This has to stop. I don’t want to—to—” But I falter into silence when I recognize the person on my front porch.

It’s not Juliet Marigold. In fact, it’s not a Marigold at all.

It’s Rodney Ring, gray hair and everything—still imposing despite his curved, aging back and stooped shoulders.

His dress shirt and slacks are immaculately clean and pressed, and he smells faintly of aftershave, but his wiry brows are pulled low into a scowling frown as he eyes me.

“Get that look off your face when you’re talking to me,” he barks, stepping inside without invitation. He nudges past me. “And don’t let me see it again.”

My mouth snaps shut while I smooth the irritation from my features, which invites a dry bark of laughter.

“Glad you still have the sense to listen,” he calls over his shoulder as he shuffles down the hall and around the corner, into the kitchen.

I remove my glasses and pinch the bridge of my nose as a headache begins to bloom.

I love Rodney. In fact, he’s one of the few people I can say with certainty that I do love.

He’s my business partner, but more than that, he’s like a father to me, or maybe like a grandfather—and despite his gruff demeanor, I know he would take a bullet for me without hesitation.

But if he’s here visiting me personally and without warning, it means I’m in trouble. Big trouble.

I begin combing through the last few months in my mind, trying to figure out if I’ve done anything objectively wrong at work.

I’ve fired a few inefficient employees, but Rodney would do the same.

I’ve handed out some stern words, a few warnings, even put a couple people on probation—but once again, that’s why Rod brought me to the Lucky branch in the first place: to whip things into shape.

Am I a little harsh? Maybe. But I get the job done, and in a work environment like the Lucky office where everyone is buddy-buddy, I keep a firm distance from any would-be friends, too.

I follow Rodney to the kitchen and find him lowering himself into one of the wooden chairs at the table; I go to help him so he doesn’t fall, but he elbows me away.

“I’ll take a glass of water,” he says instead. It’s not a question. I retrieve it for him immediately, because his hypertension has caused dehydration in the past, and I need him to stay healthy for as long as possible.

It’s partly an altruistic desire, but part of it is selfish, too. I don’t want to live in a world where I don’t have Rod. I don’t want to work at a company like Explore when I don’t have him, either.

Explore is his brainchild, his baby, and it started when I was just a kid.

Rodney and my dad were best friends, but he kept in touch long after my parents passed, eventually taking me on after I graduated college.

Although we’re not a pair to talk about our feelings, I know we both appreciate having someone we trust by our sides, especially in a company that has expanded as much as Explore has.

What started as a small startup in Denver has now made its way to tons of Colorado towns, even those as small as Lucky.

Rod chose Lucky as an office location for his outdoor equipment company because the real estate was cheaper than cheap.

While there is a storefront on the bottom floor that actually rents and sells larger equipment—bikes, kayaks, and canoes mostly—the second floor is an administrative space working to coordinate operations with some of the smaller towns in the area.

We’ve worked with the local government to bring electric scooters to town as well, which ultimately benefits the tourism we see.

The more Explore has grown, though, the more it’s become subject to internal politics and influences. It’s on its way to a more official culture, more businesslike, and I don’t love the change.