Page 45 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

I think Rodney somehow told Juliet it was my birthday, which was a real jerk move. He knows I don’t like attention; he knows I’m not a birthday guy.

And yet…I think it might have been worth it just to see that look on Juliet’s face. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone so horrified at how I celebrate—or don’t celebrate—my birthday.

It’s none of her business, so I’m not sure why I feel so strange right now. Even as I pull into my driveway, there’s still something lingering behind my sternum, settled in my lungs and flavoring every breath I take. It’s not a heavy feeling, per se, but it’s not light, either.

Part of it is the tiredness I’m so familiar with, not only in my body but in my soul. But the other part of it…

I think it’s longing. It’s a bone-deep longing for something I haven’t had in years, a yearning I never realized was there .

The desire for someone in my life who would be horrified if I didn’t celebrate my birthday. For someone who would demand to throw me a party—who was so upset she hadn’t known that actual tears sprang to her eyes.

Of course, part of Juliet’s charm is that tears spring to her eyes no matter what?—

Wait. My car stutters abruptly to a stop as that thought crosses through my mind.

Part of her charm? I think, incredulous. That’s not charming. Crying isn’t charming.

Except…when I remember the sight of her fighting her tears, all I can do is smile.

“You’re being stupid,” I tell myself gruffly as I kill the engine and get out of the car, slamming the door behind me a little too loudly. “That’s the kind of thing that’s cute in the beginning and later on becomes irritating.”

But my mind trips over this thought, too.

In the beginning of what? Later on when?

I’m losing my mind. It’s finally happening; I’m caving to the stress, the pressure, the daily grind. I need to reset. Goodness knows I’m exhausted.

I could take a nap, even though I don’t normally indulge.

A birthday gift to myself, given frantically by a man on the edge and teetering more with every second.

The abyss down below, I fear, is pink and soft and strawberry sweet—and I’m going to fall.

I’m going to fall, and what’s worse, I think I might want to.

Because I want the things Juliet is offering. I want the future I could have with her. I want the lightness I feel when she’s around, the laughter that keeps trying to escape from my chest.

What I don’t want is to see her walking around with another guy, hugging him, even if he is dating her sister. She said she wanted me to think about how it felt, watching her with someone else, but…I don’t have to think about it.

I didn’t like it. It made my stomach sour, my temper flare. I disliked it almost as much as I hated watching Quincey Brewer try to humiliate her in the kitchen of this house—the kitchen where she grew up, a place that should have fond memories.

Well, I think absently as my fists curl, no. I think I loathed Quincey more than I disliked the blond, grinning man—Felix. Because at least Juliet looked happy while she was around Felix.

When Quincey was putting her down, she just looked broken.

I don’t even realize what I’m doing or where I’m going until I get there. My briefcase is still clutched tightly in one fisted hand, and my footsteps have been more aggressive than normal—but they’ve taken me to my office.

To Juliet’s old room.

“You’re being weird,” I mutter to myself even as I drop my bag against the wall. “This is creepy. Sleeping in her old bed is creepy. Possibly even invasive.”

But my eyelids grow heavier with every step I take, and I almost fall down toeing out of my shoes.

“It’s really weird,” I mumble as I dig my phone out of my pocket. With my other hand I pull off my glasses and toss them onto the little bookshelf against the wall. “At least ask first.”

And I’m clearly not thinking straight, because if I were fully awake and rested and alert, I would never call Juliet about this. But I find myself looking at the screen through bleary eyes until I’ve pulled up her contact .

She answers on the second ring, right as I’m flopping face-first onto the bed. The comforter poofs up around me, and the lingering scent of strawberry shortcake cushions my fall.

“Hi,” Juliet’s bright voice says into my ear.

“Can I nap in your bed?” I say, and I’m not sure my words are even intelligible, garbled by the blankets pressed to my face. “Is it weird?”

There’s a minuscule pause before her answer comes. “No,” she says softly. “It’s not weird. Untuck the comforter if you need to pull it up around you more; you’re taller than I am.”

“Mm-hmm,” I say—all I’m capable of.

“Rest well,” she says, her voice still gentle and warm.

I hang up, and it’s not one minute before I fall asleep with the phone still inches from my face.

When I wake up some time later, it’s because my phone is buzzing against my cheek.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep; with the way I feel, it could be hours or days or even years. My body is heavy and still, but as I grab blindly for my phone, my mind begins waking with unusual energy—a light switch turning on rather than slow, dragging steps toward some distant flame.

“Hello,” I say, my voice gruff and croaky. I balance the phone on my cheek and let my eyes flutter closed again.

But they pop open when Juliet’s voice filters in.

“Hi!” she says. When I don’t respond immediately, she speaks again, her voice worried now. “Oh, no. Did I wake you up? Were you still sleeping? Do you want to go back to bed?”

“No—no.” The words are out before I’ve thought about them. I reach for my phone and right myself with a great heave, blinking at the room around me. “Just—give me a second,” I say as my surroundings come more or less into focus.

That’s right—Juliet’s old room. My office. I laid down here after work, but it’s getting dark now. “What time is it?” I ask, lumbering to my feet and reaching for my glasses.

“A little past seven,” Juliet’s bright voice answers.

My brow furrows as I put my glasses back on, throwing the rest of the room into sharp focus. “Really?”

“Yes, really,” she says. “You had a good nap. How was my bed?”

And that’s when I remember the details I’d rather forget: I called her. I called Juliet and asked if I could nap in her bed.

What was I thinking?

“Look,” I say haltingly, my body stilling halfway from the bed to the door. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—” But I don’t even know what I’m trying to say. “I was tired,” I finally settle on. “And your bed was close. Don’t—don’t read into it.”

“Too late. I’ve already read all the way into it,” she says, her voice cheerful, unbothered.

“You know as well as I do that if you didn’t like me, the last place you would want to sleep is my bed.

But we don’t have to discuss that right now,” she says before I can protest. “If you’re getting up, you should come let me in. I’m at your front door.”

I can feel the corners of my lips turn down at this news. “I—are you? ”

“Yep,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because,” she says, the words slow and full of what sounds like forced patience, “it’s your birthday.

And you said I can’t throw you a work party, so I will grudgingly respect your wishes.

That being said,” she goes on, louder now, “I do still need to celebrate with you. So I brought you something. Come let me in.” After a split second of silence, she adds, “Or I can just leave it on your porch.”

I glance down at my clothes, rumpled from sleep, and then I run a hand over my head. My hair is probably sticking up all over the place too.

“You could just climb a tree and scramble through the window,” I say dryly, hurrying out of the office and down the hall to the bathroom. I shouldn’t care how I look, but for some reason, I do.

“I could do exactly that,” Juliet says, ignoring my sarcasm, “but my outfit is not conducive to such excursions, you know? And also I would drop the stuff I’m carrying.”

I don’t answer for a second, because I’m too busy looking at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is sticking up, my eyes bleary and red, and there’s an indentation across my cheek from what looks like a seam in Juliet’s comforter.

“Let yourself in, then,” I find myself saying. “Stay downstairs. I need to shower and change.”

“Ooh,” she says, her voice growing excited. “Can I?—”

“No,” I cut her off, because whatever she was going to ask would have been inappropriate.

And I would have been tempted to say yes.

So I repeat myself. “No, you cannot,” I say firmly. “Let yourself in and wait down there if you want.”

“Boo,” she says in a grumpy little voice .

“Stop pouting. Stop doing that thing with your lower lip,” I tell her, because I can picture it exactly. “I’ll bite it if I see it again.”

“You promise?” she says quickly, the words faintly breathless now.

“Juliet,” I growl as heat creeps up my neck. “Cut it out.”

“You started it.”

“I’m hanging up.” I punch the red button with more force than necessary and then exit the bathroom.

I toss my phone on my own bed and grab fresh clothes before hopping in the shower.

Then, ten minutes later, I’m heading down the stairs, where I round the corner into the hall and find Juliet in the kitchen.

My first thought—the first of many—is that she was correct; her current outfit would not be suitable for climbing trees.

It’s a dress, different from the style she wears to work.

This one is flouncy and white, falling off her shoulders, with a ruffly skirt that shows off a distracting amount of her lean, tanned legs. She’s also wearing?—

“Is that an apron?” I say faintly.

“Yep,” she says, glancing up at me for only a brief second before turning her eyes back to the little bowl in front of her. “One of my mom’s old ones.”

I swallow. “And…high heels? In the kitchen?”