Page 38 of All's Well that Friends Well

Which, you know, of course it is. This is his office, after all. The anxiety in my chest loosens as my shoulders slump in relief, and Luca steps inside, closing the door behind him.

Something like giddy excitement flares to life, washing away the last bit of my nervousness. “We really have to stop meeting like this,” I say lightly, holding up the sticky note he left me.

Luca’s eyes narrow on me as he lets his briefcase drop carelessly by the door. “Stop messing with my stuff,” he says, only it’s more of a growl. His approach is slow, prowling, and for a second I feel like one of those antelopes you see on the Discovery Channel documentaries.

Like Luca is a lion, about to pounce and rip me to shreds.

“If you recall,” I say, my voice as casual as I can make it, “it’s my job to?—”

“To use my stationery?” he cuts me off, one brow rising.

“To clean your office,” I say. “But also, as yourfriend”—he rolls his eyes at this, but I keep going—“it’s my job to do all the things friends do.”

His voice is soft and low as he says, “Like…pry into my business?”

“Keep in touch,” I correct him.

“Use my things without asking?” He takes another step closer, and I shake my head quickly.

“Make sure you’re doing well,” I say.

He’s reached the other side of the desk now, and he places both hands on top, leaning across. “Use up all my Post-Its?—”

“Just a few of them,” I cut him off loudly as my heart begins to thud in my chest. “Also, I think making future plans isdefinitelysomething a friend would do.”

He glares at me, his brow pulling lower over his dark eyes, and I swallow under that look. Slowly, as discreetly as possible, I fold his last note and slip it into my pocket. He sees every move, though, his eyes sharp as he follows the motions.

When his gaze darts back to meet mine, he speaks again. “There are no future plans, Miss Marigold,” he says.

And I find my mouth opening of its own accord. “Do you have a girlfriend?” The question pops out timid, uncertain, but hopeful too.

His answer is in his expression—his brows jump in surprise before furrowing with confusion, his lips turning down into a little frown. “What?” he says. “No. Why?—”

“I’m trying to get you to fall in love with me,” I say with happy relief—until my words catch up with my ears.

Oh, dear.

I should not have said that.

It’s one thing to tell him I like him; telling him I’m trying to get him to love me is on a different, more embarrassing level.

I clear my throat and go on, though. What else can I do? Moving past it will be best, I think. “But I would feel bad wooing you if you’re already with someone—are you okay?”

Because he’s devolved into a coughing fit, hands off the desk now, straightened up as he thumps his chest. He turns his back to me, still hacking up a lung.

I round the desk quickly, reaching up and patting his back in concern. But he jerks away from my touch, and I let my hand fall limply back to my side.

It takes another couple seconds for him to stop coughing; then he straightens up and whirls on me, his face significantly redder than before.

“You can’t—” he blurts out, looking less composed now. “You can’t justsaythings like that.”

I shrug, a light twitch of my shoulders as a faint twinge of regret plucks at my insides. I’ve clearly made him uncomfortable. “Sorry,” I say. Then I clear my throat again. “I’ll keep it to myself.” I look more closely at him, at his eyes behind his glasses, and?—

“Are you crying?” I say, leaning closer.

He rears back. “Of course I am,” he snaps as he turns away. He wipes his eyes impatiently. “Not emotional tears.”

“Oh,” I say, disappointed. “It would have been nice for someone else to cry instead of me.” I pause and then hurry on. “Not that Iwantyou to cry, because of course I don’t. I just—I’m always the one who cries.”

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