Page 22 of All's Well that Friends Well

This time my heels are silent as I make my way down the hall, my strides long and steady despite my nerves. Even so, I’m feeling better than I did when I arrived; I like everyone I’ve seen so far, and that goes a long way in my book.

I arrive at the supply closet with no problems; the door is thrown open, revealing an unfinished room with pipes and tubes overhead as well as a variety of supplies. Giggles and friendly murmurs are coming from within, so I knock on the doorframe and step inside, looking around hopefully.

There are three people here, one woman and two men, and they all look up at me when I enter, their voices and laughter ceasing. None of them are wearing pink tweed, or even regular tweed for that matter; the woman is in overalls, and the two guys are in jeans.

That’s okay,I remind myself. I knew I would probably be the only one. I don’t have time to take in the rest of their appearances, though, because my gaze locks on the guy approaching me with a smile on his face.

It’s not a friendly smile, because he’s not a friendly man. He’s Quincey Brewer.Quincey Brewer. Here, walking toward me this very second—an old high school classmate of mine, and someone I once rejected.

Multiple times, one of them in public.

But he asked in public! So I sort of didn’t have any choice, you know?

I take a deep breath and then chide myself, because my thoughts are not very nice.Cut it out. He’s not a weird high school kid anymore, I think.You wouldn’t want people to judge you now based on who you were then, so don’t judge him that way, either.

Yes; that’s right. We’re basically meeting for the first time here, so old grievances have no place. I paste a bright smile on my face and hold out my hand.

“Quincey,” I say, injecting warmth into my voice. I might have to force it until the smile comes naturally. “It’s good to see you again.”

This is a lie, but like I said—I will fake it until I make it.

And to his credit, Quincey smiles and shakes my hand too.

Except his skin is damp and warm; his smile is too keen. His mousy brown hair has thinned, but there’s a look in his eye that reminds me of his high school self, uncomfortable and faintly unpleasant.

“Juliet Marigold,” he says. “Great to see you too. You’re my new employee?”

His new employee. I glance at the tag on his chest, where sure enough, the wordSupervisoris written.

He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Looks like we’ll be working together, huh?”

“Looks like it,” I say. He’s still shaking my hand, and when I tug on it, he lets go only reluctantly. I put that hand discreetly behind my back so I can wipe the dampness off.

“But you know,” he says, and now his eyes are roving over my pink tweed. “I don’t think you’re appropriately dressed for this job. And”—hebreaks off, a knowing glint in his eyes—“weren’t you doing something with ballet? So what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

I am not interested in how he knows I was teaching ballet. Still, I don’t shrink. The Quincey in high school—the guy I turned down not once, not twice, butthreetimes—would probably be enjoying this moment of humiliation. I hope he’s changed.

“I needed a job,” I say honestly, because no matter how embarrassed I am, Ishouldn’tbe. My brain knows that keeping a place clean is incredibly important.

My emotions are just taking some time to catch up.

“Well,” Quincey says, his eyes dropping to my tweed again, “good luck. I’m looking forward to being your supervisor.”

My heart sinks as I realize that the curl of his lips is undeniably smug, his eyes glinting with mean satisfaction.

I guess maybe he hasn’t changed. Not as much as I’d hoped, anyway.

“Thank you,” I say with a nod.

He nods to a mop propped against the wall, emerging from a large bucket. “Put your stuff in a cubby,” he says, nodding to a small row of cubbies on the opposite wall, “and then grab the mop and some rags. The bathroom floors are waiting for you.”

LUCA

Rodney is alreadyin my office when I get to work on Monday morning, and he looks to be in suspiciously good spirits.

“Hello,” I say slowly, closing the door behind me, the blinds rattling against the glass.

“Morning,” Rod responds. He’s seated in the seat across from mine at the desk, his hands clasped over his paunch, and I shake my head.

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