Page 7 of All's Well that Friends Well

So should I send a strongly worded email about this clear invasion, or should I confront Juliet in person?

An email might invite further communication, but an in-person discussion would necessitate face-to-face interaction. I sort through the options and find a quick solution, a middle ground I’m happy with. I hurry out of my office and to the room she came from; then I cross to the window, open it, and stick my head out, just in time to see a flash of pink and a blonde head of hair hurrying toward the side of the house.

“Miss Marigold,” I call loudly.

Juliet Marigold freezes in her tracks, going perfectly still like an animal scenting a predator.

How does she stay so motionless? Even her hair obeys, seemingly untouched by the light breeze that signals the emergence of spring.

“Miss Marigold,” I say again, louder this time, because she hasn’t answered.

Finally she turns to face me, a book clutched in her arms. I’m confused but not surprised by the outfit she’s chosen for her trespassing excursion—a lacy pink shirt and white jeans.

She looks like she’s going to lunch, not breaking into a house.

Her big doe eyes lock on me, and she has the audacity to smile rather than look guilty or ashamed. Although—are her cheeks overly pink? Or is that their natural color?

“Hi,” she says, giving me a little wave of her fingers. “Sorry to intrude. I needed to grab something from my old room?—”

“You could have knocked on the front door,” I cut her off.

She shrugs, a careless lift of her slim shoulders. “I didn’t knowyou were home.”

“I just got back, but you could have waited,” I say through gritted teeth.

“It was important,” she says. She clears her throat, her expression unsure for the first time. “Also I didn’t really remember what the book was called?” she goes on. “So even if you had gone to look for it yourself, I wouldn’t be able to tell you what to grab.”

My gaze drops to the book in her arms, but she stows it behind her back before I can see what it is.

“I like what you’ve done with my room,” she says brightly, I think intentionally drawing my attention away from the book she’s holding.

I bite back my surge of irrational annoyance, swallow down the embarrassing vulnerability trying to heat my cheeks. “Right now it’s notyour room, Miss Marigold. It’s mine. If I find you’ve entered again without permission, I’ll press charges.”

“Boo,” she says with a little frown and a pucker over her brow. “You’re no fun.”

I slam the window shut without answering.

She’s right; I’m not fun. I’m stressed and irritable andso tiredof Marigold women showing up where they shouldn’t—Juliet in particular. The others seem to have normal-enough boundaries.

Still, it stings my pride a bit that she now knows I’ve set up my office in her old bedroom.

It’s nothing weird or gross. I just needed a place to work, and she had a desk, and…well. My job is stressful. Being in charge of people and businesses is not something I enjoy. I have limited patience and even less for incompetence. Juliet’s old room—I think of the whites and pinks and soft, flowy fabrics—it felt restful. That’s all. It was soft and soothing.

There’s nothing wrong with that. The only problem I ever run into is that the bed looks so inviting I oftentimes have to fight the urge to close my eyes and sleep for a bit.

I’m years behind on sleep, and at this point, I’ve lost all hope of catching up. I don’t rest well at night anyway. I toss and turn and eventually find the phantoms of my past next to me in bed, so then I get up and go for a run or do some more work.

It’s not a healthy cycle, but then again, I never claimed it was.

I exhale roughly, still staring blankly out the window at where Juliet Marigold has disappeared from sight.

What book did she take?

I spin on my heel and head into my office, breathing deeply of that strawberry shortcake scent. Then I let my gaze scan the room, looking for books—and, I realize, there are hardly any. Barbie Marigold isn’t a reader, apparently.

It’s a rude thing to call her, even if only in my head. It’s just…shelookslike Barbie. Long blonde hair, striking blue eyes, a smile that sparkles with laughter. Even when she was sobbing into my neck all those months ago after I woke up in her parents’ kitchen, she was beautiful. And when a woman looks good all the time, it makes me wonder if there are other parts of her that are less beautiful, like her personality, or her moral compass. Maybe that’s sexist—I don’t know, is it?—but it’s my knee-jerk reaction. I know I’m not the only one who’s been fooled by a pretty face.

Even worse, this pretty face isyoung.I’m not sure quite how old she is, exactly, but I’d guess early or midtwenties. She keeps showing up with bright smiles and desserts, and I wish she would just—stop.

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