Page 41 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

By the end of the workday, I think I’m finally starting to get used to Juliet’s presence.

She’s been on my couch more or less all day, every now and then flitting off to get a drink or go to the restroom or who knows what else.

I’m even getting used to feeling her eyes on me, although that’s partly because the experience is not new.

It’s not entirely unreciprocated, either. I find myself looking at her when I shouldn’t be, and for no reason at all. Usually she’s writing in her little notebook, but every now and then her eyes are on me too, and instead of looking embarrassed, she just smiles.

Like she’s delighted that I’m giving her even a minuscule bit of attention.

One hour before it’s time to leave, I hang up the phone after finishing a call I’ve been on for the last fifteen minutes.

The man I’ve been talking to is the head of product management in the Denver office, and he’s exhausting to talk to; I’ve slumped down in my chair, my head resting on my fist. But I think we’ve gotten a decent amount sorted.

Our office has received and compiled the reports on what Lucky really wants from a company like ours; we’ve sent those reports to Denver.

I’ve just received Denver’s feedback, including their approval for several candidates we should invite for the first round of interviews when the time comes for me to leave.

Starting now, we can move forward, especially where it comes to our on-the-ground sales and marketing.

I glance over at Juliet where she’s still scribbling in her notebook on the couch.

Her legs are crossed, one foot bobbing, and the tip of her tongue peeks out between her lips as she dedicates all her attention to whatever she’s writing.

I can still smell strawberry shortcake, and I think that might be the permanent state of my office going forward.

I should be more upset by that, but at this very moment, I’m finding it difficult to care. In fact, I’m even hoping the scent will stay, lingering with every movement she makes.

And there are a lot of those movements.

I wonder if she’s ever looked into fidgets.

Even now as she writes, that foot is still bobbing—and, I notice, the toes of her other foot are tapping rhythmically.

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t know the ins and outs of her mind.

But it’s possible she could use some sort of outlet for her extra energy, right? She might just enjoy it.

Would it be offensive to ask?

No, I decide immediately. I open my mouth to speak, but then I close it again. I’m not sure how to start a conversation like this.

“Miss Marigold,” I finally say, my voice hoarse. It feels strange, interrupting the comfortable silence we’ve fallen into.

“Hmm?” she says, not looking up from her writing.

“You like to move, I’ve noticed.” Because I’ve been staring at you like a weirdo, I add in my head.

“I do,” she says. She looks up at me, and there’s a note of apology as she goes on. “And even if I try to stop, it won’t work. I move without thinking about it. It’s ironic, I know, given the control I have to have over my body when I’m dancing.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I just wondered—” I break off and clear my throat. “You’ve tried using fidgets, I assume?”

“I have,” she says. She looks back at her notebook with a little furrow between her brows as she speaks again in an absent voice. “I’ve had a couple, actually. I keep losing them. But they don’t really do anything.”

My gaze trails slowly down to her legs as I nod. “What about feet fidgets? Have you tried those?”

“Is that a thing?” she says. She still has that little frown on her face as she underlines something in her notebook. Then she snaps the journal closed, slides the pen into the binding, and looks back at me. “I’ve never heard of them.”

“Well, you move your legs a lot?—”

But I break off when she gasps, her eyes brightening. “Are you saying you’ve been admiring my legs?” she says, leaning forward. She uncrosses her feet and stands up. “Want to look closer?” she adds as she hurries toward my desk. “Here?—”

“No,” I bark as my pulse flashes in my veins. “I—no. Good grief .”

“Boo.” Her face falls. Then she says, “You should take your glasses off and pinch your nose. That’s what you do when you’re wearing this expression.” She points at my face.

And as a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I was about to do. Now that she’s said it, though, I’m not going to.

“No, I don’t,” I say shortly. “Keep your legs to yourself.”

“They’re nice legs, though, aren’t they?” she says, the words eager, her expression still bright. “One of my best features. From all the dancing, you know.”

“They’re nice legs,” I say on a sigh, because it’s something I’m comfortable admitting. To any woman, no—but to Juliet? She’s so playful, and she handles topics like this with such ease. “But this is not the time or place to discuss such things.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

“So we could discuss it later?” she says as excitement tugs her lips into a full smile. She clasps her hands. “Like maybe this evening? You could take me to dinner?”

“There will be no discussion of legs, now or later,” I say firmly, pointing to the couch. “I just thought you could consider looking into foot fidgets or leg fidgets or something similar. That’s all. Now go sit.”

I’m unwilling to promise I’ll never take her to dinner, I realize.

She slumps with disappointment, but she listens to me and drifts back to the couch, settling with the grace I’ve come to expect from her.

We work in silence for a while—by which I mean I work as she looks around with interest, every now and then standing to inspect random things in the room. When it finally becomes too difficult to concentrate, I tell her she can head home for the day, but she refuses.

“No,” she says. “I don’t want to leave until you do. Look, I’ll be good”—she hurries back over to the couch—“and I’ll be completely silent.” She mimes the zipping of her lips.

It’s not the noise that’s distracting, though. It’s seeing her in my periphery, noticing her perusal, wondering what she thinks about what she’s looking at.

“Or,” I say, holding up my mostly empty mug, “you could go refill this. Assistant, ” I add when she opens her mouth to protest. At least this way I’ll get a moment to myself.

She narrows her eyes at me but stands up and holds out her hand for the mug. A little frown tugs at her lips when she looks inside. “Do you just drink tea throughout the day? A mug of tea?”

I shrug, already turning back to the papers on my desk. I pick up the phone to call one of the desks out on the floor with a question about the report I’m looking at. “Two mugs, maybe three.”

“Mmm.” And even though I’m no longer looking at her, I can picture her expression—eyes still narrowed, brows still furrowed, but her lips twisted thoughtfully rather than in a frown. “Peppermint? Chamomile?”

“Chamomile,” I say, and then I lift my finger to my lips as the phone begins ringing on the other end.

She nods and heads to the door, moving more silently than I’ve ever seen her move—the same way she was moving, in fact, when she was sneaking out of her parents’ backyard after breaking in to find her book.

Every step controlled, concise. She slips out of the room so magically that even the blinds don’t rattle, and I’m once again left wondering how she manages to move that way .

It’s Prue I’m calling, the woman Juliet mentioned at the picnic when she dragged me into that pantry. I try to remember what she said about the woman, but I come up blank. So I ask Prue to clarify a spot on the report she submitted, and then I thank her before hanging up.

Juliet returns just as I’ve finished the call, easing into the office and setting the steaming mug on my desk.

“Here you go,” she says, a little breathless. “One cup of chamomile tea.” Then she looks up at me. “I’ve been assembling a list today that we can go over tomorrow.”

I pick up the mug and almost burn my tongue when I take a sip. Juliet hands me a paper towel seemingly out of nowhere as I splutter, her brow twisted as though she pities me for my inability to drink normally.

“Explain further,” I manage to get out, setting the mug back on my desk with a little clink.

“You asked me to observe you today,” she says matter-of-factly. “I’ve been observing. You rarely say hello to people, did you realize? So I do see some places for improvement.”

I just bet she does.

“I also see some places I could be of help as your assistant—your regular assistant, not just your PR guru,” she goes on, completely ignoring the fact that I’ve choked on tea and probably now have chamomile in my lungs.

“Although am I really doing PR work if it’s not public relations?

It’s more intracompany relations, isn’t it? ”

“Call it what you want,” I mutter, clearing my throat a few times. Then I gesture to the door. “Go home for the day, Miss Marigold. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Because no matter how well I’m acclimatizing to her presence, there’s a civil war being fought in my mind and my body and my heart. I’m very tired—and yet being around her right now is like being attached to a live wire.

She seems able to tell that I’m struggling, because this time she doesn’t protest. She just looks at me with concern and then nods, picking up her notebook and tucking it into her pink bag.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” she says.

“Tomorrow,” I say, trying to keep my exhaustion from my voice. “And no need to come early. Just clock in at the normal time.”

She nods again as that furrow in her brow grows more prominent. Then, with a wave, she leaves.

When I pull into the parking lot the next morning, I’m not the only one arriving. Josh, the guy who may or may not be dating Marianne, has just gotten out of his car, so I give him a nod.

Juliet said I don’t say hello to people. I can’t remember if she’s correct or not—which means she probably is.