Page 52 of All's Well that Friends Well

Juliet is still in my house.

She sauntered off to take a nap last night—who takes a nap at night?—and she told me towake her, but…I never did. I sat down on the side of my bed with every intention of getting back up.

Clearly, that didn’t happen. I fell asleep instead. Crap.

I slap around blindly for my phone, which is still buzzing. I find it pushed halfway under the neat, not-slept-on pillow, and I don’t even look at the screen before answering.

“Hello,” I say, sounding every bit as groggy as I feel.

“Mr. Slater,” a woman’s voice says, crisp and businesslike. “This is Susan Miller.”

Right—Susan Miller. The woman Rod put in charge of the—of the?—

The breakfast.

I jolt to my feet so quickly the phone almost falls out of my hand, my eyes darting toward the digital clock on the dresser.

Nine-forty-five. The breakfast is supposed to start in fifteen minutes. This is bad. This is bad, bad, bad.

“Susan, yes,” I say, breathless.

“Hello,” she says, and she sounds bemused now. “I’ve been trying to get a hold of you. I knocked on your front door, but no one answered.”

Wow. I was sleeping so deeply I didn’t even hear the door? When’s the last time that happened? When’s the last time I slept in this late, either, for that matter?

“My apologies,” I say. Then, lying through my teeth, I go on, “I just got out of the shower. What can I help you with?”

“Well, I’m in the backyard,” she says. “And the tables I set up yesterday are fine, just need to be dried off, but the ground is a muddy mess. We may have to move this event inside.”

“Inside,” I say stupidly as my mind races.

Inside, where Juliet is still asleep. Where shespent the night.

“Oh, people are starting to arrive,” Susan says, cutting off my train of thought. “Hurry down, please.” And then, without saying goodbye, she hangs up.

I stare at my phone in my hand for two seconds, which is longer than I have time for. My attention briefly catches on a notification from my realtor—a listing he thinks I might like—but I ignore it for now. My thoughts are whirling like a merry-go-round, until finally they all land on one thing: Juliet.

I bolt out of the room, down the hall, and into the bedroom I’ve been using as an office. I knock loudly, wait one second, and then burst in.

“Ju—” I begin, but the rest of her name dies on my lips when I see her.

She’s fast asleep, her golden hair streaming around her, my shirt askew, one arm flung over her head. Her lips are parted ever so slightly as she breathes, her chest rising and falling gently?—

A dream. That’s what she looks like. Good grief.

I storm over to the side of the bed as irrational irritation fills me, because I know—Iknow—that this room is never going to be the same again. Every time I set foot in here, I’m going to think of her asleep in this bed, where she fits so perfectly, so naturally.

My voice is rougher than normal when I speak, and there’s an unnecessary bite there, too. “Juliet. Wake up.”

Nothing.

“Juliet,” I say, more loudly now. I nudge her shoulder, giving her a little shake. “Come on. Get up.”

This does it; she inhales deeply, stretching and archingher back almost obscenely. I turn away, rubbing my temples. I hear her yawn, and then I chance another look.

“Finally,” I say when I see her sitting up, blinking blearily around, her brow puckered with faint confusion. “Come on. Get up. Get?—”

But I break off when I hear a knock on the downstairs door, my heart plummeting even as my pulse jumps.

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