Page 56 of All's Well that Friends Well

What happened last night and this morning weredefinitelynot appropriate. But it’s not so cut and dry, either.

I take one more deep breath and open the front door, stepping right back inside like I’ve just arrived. Then I pass the stairs and round the corner into the kitchen, where I wave at everyone and smile.

My name is Juliet, and I have just arrived. I slept in my own bed last night. I did not catch several very shirtless glimpses of Luca Slater.These are the mental telegraphs I send to the people in this overcrowded kitchen.

Susan Miller is here, I see, standing by the sink with perfect posture, alert and satisfied with the turnout. Next to her are Luca and Rod, who are talking together in low voices. Luca’s brows are pulled down over his eyes, so far he could almost wear a monocle instead of his glasses, and then the old man nudges him.

Luca closes his eyes like he’s bracing himself; then he straightens up, clears his throat, and speaks.

“Everyone,” he says in a halting, gruff voice.

And I see it on his face: he is in Hell. This is his worst nightmare. He is dying a slow, painful death, surrounded by his subordinates who are hovering awkwardly, looking for direction, trying to figure out what’s going on and what they’re supposed to do.

“Right,” he says gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s too wet outside to eat there. So we’ll just—” He gesturesto the kitchen table and then goes on, “We’ll line up our food here.”

The food is already lined up there, which he obviously realizes, because I catch the faintest hint of him rolling his eyes at himself.

“And we can all just—eat,” he goes on, every word dropping from his lips like it’s being forced out.

There’s a deafening silence for a second, one that reverberates around the kitchen as employees look at each other. There are some twenty of them, really too many for the space, but this is what we have to work with.

When the moment grows too painful, I paste a big smile on my face and waltz into the room. Number three on my list of how to win over Luca is to make myself useful, after all—to prove myself an asset. This is a good time for that, right?

“Oh, thank goodness,” I say brightly. “I was so worried it was going to be cancelled after the rain. I’ve been looking forward to this, haven’t you?” I aim the question not at one person but at the group, making eye contact with a few random people. They nod, and some of the tension drains. The atmosphere grows more comfortable still when I hurry over to the stack of paper plates and begin piling food on my plate.

It’s this, finally, that breaks the ice. Chatter breaks out, a few small laughs, and then a line begins to form behind me. I glance over my shoulder to sneak a peek at Luca, only to find him watching me, Rod still by his side. I shoot them a brief smile and then turn back to my plate.

I don’t know why I’m putting all this stuff on—I don’t even like quiche Lorraine. There’s some kind of French toast bake that looks delicious, though, and a few loaves of breakfastbreads, so I keep going anyway, thinking mournfully of my poor peach bars that didn’t make it out of the storm.

My heart sinks at this thought. I probably shouldn’t have told Luca I only brought those over as an excuse to see him. And I definitely shouldn’t have admitted this morning that I just wanted a chance to wear his shirt.

I’m not a slow-going woman. When it comes to my heart, I’m all in, or I’m all out. But I know not everyone is the same. I know some people require finagling, a gentle touch, a subtle approach. Luca is clearly one of those people, and he just as clearly has no idea what to do with me. Half the things I say off the top of my head leave him gaping, slack-jawed.

Why can’t I stop saying impulsive things?

Let it go, I tell myself. Then I look at Luca, because my eyes always find him when he’s in the room. Rod is no longer by his side, and Luca stands there stiffly, keeping his distance, his eyes shuttered.

I sigh. That is a man who has no idea what he’s doing. So I weave around a few people until I reach him, glancing around to make sure no one is watching. I set my plate on the counter next to him; then I grab his hand and tug him around the corner and into the pantry.

“What are you doing out there?” I say as the smell of spices fills my nostrils. Even though Luca is staring down at me with furrowed brows, I go on, “You need to be hosting.”

He bristles at this. “Iamhosting?—”

“No, you’re not.” My words are kind, but I keep them firm, too. “You’re just standing around. Interact with people. The job of a host is to keep things moving. Don’t let there be any awkward silences, either.”

“I prefer silence,” he grunts, his glasses flashing ashe looks away from me.

“I know,” I say, exasperated now, “but your guests don’t, and you need to make a good impression.” I narrow my eyes up at him. “Do you even know these peoples’ names?”

“I—some of them,” he says.

I hum skeptically. “The woman in the red shirt. What’s her name?”

Silence.

“Prue. Her name is Prue,” I tell him. “She has a brother in the military and her mom was a single mom.” Then, tilting my head, I try again. “What about the guy in green? The one with the scruffy hair?”

In the faint light, I see the shadow of Luca’s twitching jaw. “Something with aD,” he says.

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