Page 48 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

“But?” I say after a brief silence, because the hesitance is growing, and he’s shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Disappointment wars with hope as I wait for his answer.

He sighs, pulling his glasses off. “But there’s something I need to do first,” he says as he rubs one hand down his face. “If I’m going to take you on a date, or hold your hand, or kiss you again…there’s something I need to do first.”

Ah. Some sort of closure with Maura’s family, I think, although I’m not going to ask. Not right now. So I nod. “ Then do it.” I pause and then add, “And if you need ideas on where to take me?—”

But his snort cuts me off, and his twitching lips return. “I already know exactly where I’m taking you, Miss Marigold.”

I couldn’t stop my smile if I tried. “Been thinking about it?”

The color creeping up his neck is answer enough. He clears his throat, straightening up, and puts his glasses back on; when he speaks, his voice is businesslike once more.

“Your end of the bargain, please,” he says, looking expectantly at me. “The list.”

I hop off the desk and grab my phone from my pink bag, pulling the list up. “Here,” I say, passing the phone to him. I try to keep my hand steady despite the sudden nervous, jittery energy running through me.

But it’s hitting me right now, how much of myself I’ve shown this man—how much of myself I continue to show him. He was right; I make myself vulnerable.

What will he think of this list?

At first it’s hard to tell. I watch him as I settle myself back on the edge of his desk, the same place I sat when we kissed. His expression is blank, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses as he reads out loud.

“Proximity,” he says under his breath, his gaze darting only briefly to mine before looking back at the phone again. “You’ve nailed that one down, I think. Let’s see…”

His eyebrows jumping is the first sign of surprise I see. “Friendship?” he says, tilting his face up toward mine.

I shrug as heat rushes into my cheeks. It’s ridiculous to be embarrassed now, about this, when I’ve said and done so many other embarrassing things. The feeling persists all the same, so I just shrug. “We’re friends, aren’t we? ”

His features shift with skepticism. “Are we?” he says, raising an eyebrow at me.

“You’ve been shamelessly chasing after me, Juliet.

” It’s not an accusation; if anything, he sounds amused.

“You’ve kissed me and dressed in my shirt.

Is that how you treat all your friends? Because if it is, I’d like to know now, before this goes any further?—”

“It’s not,” I say, cutting him off, and I can’t quite stop my little smile.

I can feel the exact color of my face right now, pinkish-red, but I swallow my blush.

“It’s not how I treat all my friends. Maybe we could say we’re friends…

” I tilt my head as I look down at him, searching for the right words.

“We’re friends, but we’re not only friends. Better?”

His eyes narrow on me. “I suppose,” he murmurs, so low I almost don’t hear it, and the words send shivers up and down my spine. It’s a giddy, intoxicating sensation, one I want to dive into and swim in until I grow gills and learn how to breathe underwater.

“Be careful, Mr. Slater,” I breathe, allowing myself to lean in further. “We’re getting dangerously close to flirtation.”

Luca hums as his dark gaze skates over me. “And you’re dangerously good at it, Miss Marigold.”

“I could get better.”

His lips hook into a rare grin, laughter in his eyes. “I have no doubt.”

The curve of his mouth makes me smile too, and I nod at the phone he’s still holding. “Flirtation is on my list, you know. Proximity, flirtation, friendship, attractiveness”—Luca snorts—“and there’s one about making myself useful. Prove myself an asset.”

To my surprise, though, Luca doesn’t look at my phone. He just hands it to me, shaking his head. “I don’t think you would have needed all that to begin with.”

I shrug, letting my legs swing. “I wasn’t sure what kind of woman you liked, and aside from being pretty, I didn’t have a lot to offer?—”

But I’m startled into silence when Luca leans forward, surging closer and stopping my words with one finger on my lips. My eyes widen, my brows lifting in surprise as his face approaches mine.

“I probably shouldn’t be touching you like this,” he says, his voice low now. “Considering…”

“Considering?” I say when he doesn’t go on. It’s a strange sensation, my lips moving against his finger, and he must think so too, because his gaze drops to my mouth.

A second later, though, his eyes narrow and come back to mine. “Considering,” he says again, his voice even, and he doesn’t elaborate. “But I’m worried that if I let go, you’re going to continue saying absurd things.”

I blink at him. “What?”

And my heart shouldn’t be pounding the way it is.

I’ve kissed this man. I’ve breathed his breath.

All he’s doing right now is looking at me.

But as his finger drops and he takes me by the shoulders, my pulse thuds in my veins as hard as it ever has—a swoosh-swoosh-swoosh sound in my ears, louder and louder as he stands up and then tugs me off the desk and to my feet.

Because I’m completely dumbfounded, I let him guide me as he pleases, the gentle pressure of his hands leading me to stand right in front of the small mirror hanging in the corner of the room.

“Look yourself in the eye,” he says from behind me. His voice is still low, and from this angle in our reflections, it looks like he could be kissing my neck, or maybe whispering sweet nothings in my ear.

He is whispering in my ear, but his words aren’t sweet, and they aren’t nothings.

“Look yourself in the eye,” he repeats, more firmly now, the heat of his breath tickling my ear.

I swallow past my heart in my throat and look myself in the eye, my reflection rosy-cheeked.

“Good,” he hums, and ohmygoodness I can feel the buzz of his lips against my skin?—

But my attention is diverted when one hand leaves my upper arm and reaches for my hair, pulling it back from over my shoulders and letting it fall down my back instead. Then he speaks again, his voice barely above a whisper this time.

“Now repeat after me: I deserve good things. ”

I stare at our reflections, silent, utterly shocked.

“Say it,” he says. “ I deserve good things. ”

“I—” I break off, swallowing. “I deserve good things.” The words are small, tremulous, but I get them out.

Luca hums once again, his breath trailing from my ear to my neck, and when he speaks again, the brush of his lips over my pulse sends shivers down my spine.

“Now say this one: I have a multitude of things to offer. ” He pauses, and when I don’t speak, he says, “Say it. Come on.”

I take a deep breath, the air shuddering in my lungs and then out. “I have a multitude of things to offer?—”

“And my beauty is the least interesting thing about me,” he cuts in. These words he places at the curve of my neck, a faint murmur of lips I feel as much as I hear.

I try to swallow the knot in my throat, but it won’t leave. Everything below my shoulders has gone numb, every bit of sensation focused on the places he’s touching me, the tangle of emotions he’s pulling forward.

“Don’t look,” I whisper as my eyes sting.

He raises one brow at me in the mirror, and I squeeze my eyes shut.

“I’m about to cry, and you hate that.”

“I can handle it,” he breathes into my ear. “You didn’t repeat the last one. My beauty is the least interesting thing about me. ”

I’m biting the inside of my cheek now, my eyes still shut tight as I try not to let the tears fall—but how am I supposed to keep it together when Luca is saying these things?

“Come on, sweetheart,” he says. “Say it. We’re going to stand here until you do.”

“Could we stand here anyway?” I find myself saying, the words whispered and broken.

But I’ve never felt in my life the way I feel right now, at this very moment; I’ve never experienced this overwhelming surge of so many emotions all rolled into one.

My tears are sad but somehow joyful, my heart broken but only because it’s being mended, and this man—this man ?—

“Jules,” Luca says in that rough voice. My lids fly open to find his gaze in our reflection, just as he speaks again. “Say it.”

I don’t let go of his eyes. I’m not sure I can. “My beauty—” I begin, but I break off. It feels absurd to be saying these words, and yet it’s so difficult too. So I take a deep breath as several tears trickled down my cheeks and then try again. “My beauty is the least interesting thing about me.”

The words fall into the silence and grow where I’ve planted them—they swell and rise until I can feel them on my skin like the shivers from Luca’s breath on my neck.

They sink in and settle somewhere past muscle, past bone—they run with the blood in my veins, pulsing with every beat of my still-racing heart.

They burrow deep into my soul—where, I know, they’re waiting for the chance to blossom.

“Did you know,” Luca murmurs, his lips brushing my neck, “that you always smell like strawberry shortcake?”

I blink, surprised. “It’s my body wash and shampoo and lotion. They’re strawberry donut scented.”

“Was that on the list?” he says, inhaling deeply. “Smelling good?” Slowly, he raises his head and takes one careful step backward. It’s only then that I realize exactly how close he was standing, his heat at my back that’s now replaced with cold absence.

“I would say smelling good falls under the attraction umbrella,” I say. I wipe my cheeks and blink away the remaining tears still in my eyes. Then I turn to face him. “And is this you trying?” I say, lifting one brow. “Working for what you want?”

Luca straightens his jacket, his expression unbothered—although there is a hint of color creeping up his neck. He’s not as unaffected as he seems.

“Yes,” he says matter-of-factly. “But I do have to admit, we’re walking a bit of a gray line, so I can’t openly pursue you while we’re on the clock.”

“Boo.”

His eyes drop to my mouth as humor flashes in his gaze. “I told you to stop pouting,” he says, “or I’ll bite that lower lip.”

I straighten up, nodding eagerly. “Yes! You should do that?— ”

“ Juliet, ” he says, but the warning in his voice is halfhearted at best. He returns to his desk and says, “That’s enough. Get to work, Miss Marigold. Although”—he pauses, glancing over at me with the faintest smirk—“you may want to wait a moment. Your cheeks look a little red.”