Page 67 of All's Well that Friends Well

I push all these thoughts away and do my best to focus on my work, just to give my poor mind a break. Then, before I clock out for the day, when my back is aching and my arms are sore, I swing by Luca’s office. There’s no real reason, I guess; I just want to see him.

It felt different yesterday, just briefly—the space between us when he touched my hand by the door. It came alive in a way it only has a few times. And that feeling is still buzzing inside of me.

So I knock three times and wait for the mumbledCome in, after which I waltz inside on feet aching from a pair of heels I haven’t lined with insoles yet.

“Hello,” I say in a singsong voice. “Are you excited to work together next week? It’s going to be great.”

He’s hunched over his desk, his brow furrowed, hisglasses pushed low on his nose as he stares at the papers in front of him.

“Sure,” he says distractedly. “Maybe you can help me write a strongly worded email to our Minter location, telling them to please include all seasonal inventory regardless of which quarter they’re reporting in.”

“I could definitely do that,” I say, and it’s true. “I bet I’d be a pro at putting harsh words through a corporate filter.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he says, the words musing now. Then he sighs and leans back in his chair, letting his head tilt back. “Do you need something, Miss Marigold?”

“Yes,” I say. “I need to see your shining face.”

“Pass,” he says flatly. He stands up and rounds the desk, skirting neatly past me and heading to the door. At first I think he’s going to kick me out, but all he does is adjust the blinds so they’re slightly more closed. “You come in here too often. People are going to get the wrong idea.”

“Whatever those wrong ideas are, I’m all on board.”

He shoots me a disapproving look over his shoulder and then turns his attention back to what little of the work floor he can see through the blinds. “Are Josh and Marianne really dating?”

I shrug, settling myself on the couch. “Dating, hooking up, whatever—they’re definitely doing something, though.”

He grunts, a skeptical sound, his eyes still fixed on the work floor. “Are you sure? How do you know?”

“I could be wrong, I guess, but I don’t think so,” I say. I wiggle my feet a bit, trying to ease some of the pain in my heels. “You can tell by the knowing glances, lingering touches, that kind of thing. Their body language, basically.”

He turns around and raises a brow at me, a request to explain further.

I sigh. “People who are physically familiar with each other have a hard time hiding it,” I say. “They’re used to touching, and it carries over into everything they do. Even sitting next to each other they’ll be leaning toward each other. Just watch them sometime when they’re together. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Hmm,” he says, letting the blinds snap back into place. He closes them completely and turns away from the window. “That’s…not great. She’s his direct superior.” Then he returns to his desk, where he sits in his fancy office chair and starts riffling through papers and folders.

“So a superior and subordinate shouldn’t date,” I say thoughtfully. “Does that mean you and I couldn’t date?”

“We probably could, as long as you’re still janitorial,” he says, his voice absent as he continues to shuffle through the things on his desk. “Josh reports directly to Marianne. But your janitorial work and my work have no overlap. I suppose up the chain you report to me, but our jobs are completely different and unlikely to be impacted by a personal relationship—” He breaks off, probably because he only just now realizes what he’s saying. Then his head snaps up, his eyes narrowing as his gaze finds mine. “Juliet,” he growls. “You and I aren’t going to date.”

“I was just asking,” I say with a shrug, keeping my voice innocent. “No one made you answer.” I hesitate and then add, “So as long as I were a janitor…we could date if we wanted to?”

“We don’t want to,” he says shortly, his eyes dropping back to the papers in front of him.

“What about kissing?” I say. “Could we kiss if we wanted to?”

His hand freezes for the briefest second before he speaks. “We don’t want to do that, either.”

“Are you sure?” I say. I don’t want to push too hard. But a little bitty nudge…

I wait for him to answer, and when he doesn’t, I speak again. “BecauseImight want to.”

His entire body is still now; his hand is frozen where it hovers above his desk, just about to pick up another piece of paper, and I can’t even see the rise and fall of his chest.

I think…

I think he’s holding his breath.

So I stand up and drift toward his desk, my hands clasped demurely behind my back. My steps are slow, measured, because I want to give him time to say no—but he doesn’t. He doesn’t look up at me or glare at me or push me away, even when I come to a stop right next to his chair. In fact, he doesn’t move at all?—

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