Page 8 of All’s Well that Friends Well (Lucky in Love #2)

LUCA

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious.”

“You really can’t be serious.”

“Say that one more time and I’ll wallop you.”

Rodney’s wide mouth is set in a stubborn, unyielding line, and his brows are furrowed in aggravation. Despite these clear warning signs, I go on.

“Look.” I inhale deeply and exhale through my nose, pulling off my glasses in the hopes that my headache will lessen. Then I lean further back on the couch, and for a second, I see myself as Rod must see me—a grumpy, moody teenager. “I really, really don’t want to work with Juliet Marigold.”

Rodney settles himself more comfortably in the straight-backed chair he now occupies.

“I’m uninterested in your opinion on this matter,” he says.

He pauses and then grunts, “Besides. You’re not going to be cleaning things, are you?

You’ll be storming around, scaring your employees out of their wits.

You’ll barely cross paths.” His gaze strays in the direction of the front door, some of the tension in his expression easing. “I like her.”

And—is that humor I see in his eyes?

“Why?” I say, my voice incredulous. “She’s—she’s?—”

Something. She’s something.

“She reminds me of Dora when we first met,” Rod says, and the faint sparkle of humor I saw turns into downright fondness—as fond as Rodney gets, anyway.

His voice is still gruff, but his expression is less severe, and the faraway look in his eyes tells me he’s remembering his late wife.

“She’s kindhearted. Not to mention”—his brows furrow again as turns back to me—“she’s clearly not afraid of you, which is a real plus in my book.

You could do with a woman who’ll put you in your place. And she is beautiful.”

My chest tightens as I realize where this conversation is going, and I’m shaking my head before his last sentence is even all the way out of his mouth. I stand up like the couch has electrocuted me, suddenly desperate to get away, but?—

“You’ve never been the same,” Rodney says—loudly, because he can clearly tell I’m trying to run. His voice is firm but not unkind as he goes on, “Don’t you think it’s time to let go of Maura?”

And it’s strange, the hold that name still has over me. Because it’s only a name, isn’t it? A string of letters, a jumble of sounds. But the feelings it evokes are anything but simple.

Guilt, raw and red. Regret. And exhaustion—so much exhaustion. Because Maura’s memory is a burden I’ve carried for years, and my muscles ache with the longing for rest.

No. I don’t need a woman like Juliet Marigold, sweet and whole and smelling of strawberry shortcake. I don’t need anyone. The only woman in my heart died a long time ago, and I’m perpetually torn between wishing she would leave and feeling guilty that I want her to.

I have no room for anyone else. Not now, and maybe not ever. I wouldn’t deserve it anyway. I’ve lost the right to love like that.

“Well,” I say, and I think I might look like an animal trapped in a corner. I’m already inching backward toward the kitchen. “Do you need another glass of water?”

Rodney’s eyes narrow on me, and he’s silent for a second, probably trying to decide whether to keep pushing or not. I haven’t answered his question in the slightest. But finally he just gives a little jerk of his head.

“No,” he says. “I’ve got to go. Just wanted to stop by and tell you about the breakfast picnic— and tell you to get your act together.”

Ah. Yes. That.

“So…I don’t need to do anything?” I say. “For the breakfast?”

“Not a thing,” Rod grunts, looking peeved. “Because you won’t do it if I ask. But you will be present and you will be cordial.”

That’s something, at least. “And the assistant?” I stop in my tracks on my way to the kitchen and head back to Rodney again, because he’s now trying to stand up.

And as stubborn as he is, as insistent that he doesn’t need help…

he does. He said he didn’t stumble on his way up the front steps, but Juliet doesn’t strike me as the type who would lie about that.

Rodney would absolutely lie about it. He’s getting older, more feeble, and it’s hard to watch. Even more difficult to see is the way he allows me to hook one arm beneath his to help him up; he doesn’t even fight it this time.

“An assistant,” I prompt him once he’s upright again. “Tell me more, please, so I can be prepared for whatever level of torture I’m being subjected to.” I’m more concerned about that than I am about a breakfast picnic—which, yes, will be awful, but at least I’m not in charge.

“Stop complaining,” Rod growls as he begins his slow shuffle toward the door. “Or I really will hire that girl.”

“Is she qualified to be an assistant?” I say.

I don’t know whether I was surprised or not to hear that Juliet didn’t graduate from college.

Although I’ve gone out of my way to keep our interactions at a minimum, she’s clearly bright—well-spoken, quick on the uptake.

There are different kinds of intelligences, and a standard four-year university caters to just one of them.

What’s her background, I wonder? What was she doing before she became unemployed?

Rodney’s response pulls me out of my completely inappropriate and unnecessary curiosity.

“She could be qualified if I said she was qualified,” he says, and he might not be wrong.

“But,” he goes on, his voice grudging, “I don’t know her at all.

I wouldn’t be comfortable putting her next to you yet.

” He jabs one finger at me from over his shoulder.

“Give it some time. Let’s see how she does first.”

I blink at the back of his silvery head. “I—no.” I swallow and then go on, “Look. I’ll deal with her doing janitorial. You’re right; I won’t see her much. But I can’t have her next to me all the time. I just—can’t.”

We reach the front door, and Rodney turns to look at me, one hand on the handle. “I don’t see why not,” he says. “She’s personable and persistent. She doesn’t cower. You need someone like that.”

“She likes me,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “She likes me, Rod. Do you know how uncomfortable that would be?”

“That’s the last thing you should be worried about,” Rodney says. He opens the door. “All she needs to do is spend one day in your presence. That will kill any romantic feelings.”

I glower at him, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. He just barks for me to help him out. By the time we reach his car, I’m fuming, and he’s got a rare grin on his face.

I’m still glaring when his car turns at the end of the street and out of my sight. So I take my glare inside and back to the living room, where I settle onto the couch and shoot daggers out of my eyes at the wall until the emotions inside me calm down a bit.

It was a presumptuous accusation I made earlier, that Juliet liked me. I don’t know why the words slipped out of my mouth, and I’m even less sure about why she answered so honestly.

Isn’t that something people keep to themselves? Unrequited loves, crushes, so on? She knows I’m not interested, but she looks at me with those big doe eyes anyway. She gives those smiles away for free.

I groan. What am I supposed to do if she talks to me at work the same way she talked to me earlier? She wouldn’t, would she? Rodney was right; we won’t cross paths much, if at all. But when we do—she knows how to be professional, doesn’t she?

I pull my phone out, and two seconds later, I have my inbox in front of me. I guess I’ll be emailing her after all .

“Miss Marigold,” I mutter under my breath.

I’m slower typing on the phone than I am on the computer, but at this precise moment I’m too lazy to go upstairs.

So I continue, “In preparation for our upcoming work together, I’d like to remind you that in the workplace you’ll need to remain professional.

Conversations of the kind we had earlier today would neither be appropriate nor appreciated; the same goes for flirtations.

” I pause, trying to think if I need to include anything else.

One more idea pops into my head, so I nod and then add it to the email.

“Kindly also refrain from mentioning any outside connections we have, in order to avoid the appearance of a relationship. Regards, Mr. Slater.”

There. I sound like a pompous jerk—Rodney would not be pleased, especially after the talk we just had—but considering Juliet’s feelings for me, that might not be a bad thing. I hit Send with relief and then let my head drop back against the couch cushion.

But it’s not ten minutes before my inbox pings, and I startle out of the half sleep I was in. I look groggily at my phone and find, to my surprise, that Juliet has already replied. My brows furrow, because that was faster than I expected. I open the email.

“Dear Mr. Slater,” I read, “Thank you for reaching out with your concerns. I am slightly uncomfortable with a workplace superior contacting me via my personal email— what? ” I break off as heat rises up my neck.

“Her personal email? It’s the only email I had!

” My jaw clenches, but I keep reading. “So in the future,” her message goes on, “could you instead please use the below-listed address? I would also appreciate if you could refrain from unprofessional topics of conversation with me, your lowly subordinate, like those you brought up earlier—I was accused of harboring romantic feelings for you, for example, which was deeply distressing.”

It’s not just my neck that’s hot now; I can feel my ears burning too, with irritation and humiliation and the absurd, absolutely wild impulse to smile. I suppress the urge and keep reading.

“I hope we’ll be able to work well together,” she writes in closing.

“Should you ever venture to the supply closet, please let me know ahead of time so that I can find a mop bucket for you to sit on. I may need a bit to locate one sturdy enough to withstand the weight of your self-importance. Cordially, Miss Marigold.”

And then, just below her closing, is the email address she’s given me to use from now on: [email protected].

I can’t help it; I let out a bark of laughter. It’s a bizarre feeling, a sound rusty from disuse. And though I’ll never tell her…

I think Juliet has won this round.