Page 97 of All's Well that Friends Well

“Why?”

“Because,” she says, the words slow and full of what sounds like forced patience, “it’s your birthday. And you said I can’t throw you a work party, so I will grudgingly respect your wishes. That being said,” she goes on, louder now, “I do still need to celebrate with you. So I brought you something. Come let me in.” After a split second of silence, she adds, “Or I can just leave it on your porch.”

I glance down at my clothes, rumpled from sleep, and then I run a hand over my head. My hair is probably sticking up all over the place too.

“You could just climb a tree and scramble through the window,” I say dryly, hurrying out of the office and down the hall to the bathroom. I shouldn’t care how I look, but for some reason, I do.

“I could do exactly that,” Juliet says, ignoring my sarcasm, “but my outfit is not conducive to such excursions, you know? And also I would drop the stuff I’m carrying.”

I don’t answer for a second, because I’m too busy looking at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is sticking up, my eyes bleary and red, and there’s an indentation across my cheek from what looks like a seam in Juliet’s comforter.

“Let yourself in, then,” I find myself saying. “Stay downstairs. I need to shower and change.”

“Ooh,” she says, her voice growing excited. “Can I?—”

“No,” I cut her off, because whatever she was going to ask would have been inappropriate.

And I would have been tempted to say yes.

So I repeat myself. “No, you cannot,” I say firmly. “Let yourself in and wait down there if you want.”

“Boo,” she says in a grumpy little voice.

“Stop pouting. Stop doing that thing with your lower lip,” I tell her, because I can picture it exactly. “I’ll bite it if I see it again.”

“You promise?” she says quickly, the words faintly breathless now.

“Juliet,” I growl as heat creeps up my neck. “Cut it out.”

“You started it.”

“I’m hanging up.” I punch the red button with more force than necessary and then exit the bathroom. I toss my phone on my own bed and grab fresh clothes before hopping in the shower. Then, ten minutes later, I’m heading down the stairs, where I round the corner into the hall and find Juliet in the kitchen.

My first thought—the first of many—is that she was correct; her current outfit would not be suitable for climbing trees. It’s a dress, different from the style she wears to work. This one is flouncy and white, falling off her shoulders, with a ruffly skirt that shows off a distracting amount of her lean, tanned legs. She’s also wearing?—

“Is that an apron?” I say faintly.

“Yep,” she says, glancing up at me for only a brief second before turning her eyes back to the little bowl in front of her. “One of my mom’s old ones.”

I swallow. “And…high heels? In the kitchen?”

“They make me feel like a sexy Betty Crocker,” she says. She begins whisking whatever’s in the bowl with a fork. “I didn’t know how long you would be, so I decided to whip up a little icing to drizzle on top.”

There are too many things trying to take over my brain right now, too many things I want to examine in further detail, and none of them would be wise at the moment. So I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling deeply.

Then I open my eyes again. “Icing for what?” I say once I’ve let out my breath in a slow, even exhale.

“For the peach crumble,” she says. She nods at the table, and I notice for the first time that there is indeed a baking dish there, covered in aluminum foil. “You said you liked it, right?”

Right on cue, my stomach rumbles. “I—yeah. I did. I do.”

The admission shouldn’t make Juliet smile like that, but she beams as though I’ve just confessed my undying devotion to her. “Perfect,” she says happily. “Sit. This will be done in just a second. Oh—and grab a party hat.”

I blink at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“A party hat,” she says again. She jerks her chin at the plastic bag on the counter by the sink. “In there. Put one on. You can put mine on me too,” she adds as a sparkle of something playful enters her eyes, “since my hands are occupied.”

“I have not worn a party hat in probably twenty-five years,” I say, moving to the table, “and I’m not going to wear one now.” Then I sit down.

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