She sneers as though my very existence is distasteful and whatever I could say is most certainly going to be a lie.
“Well, that’s not exactly—”
Luna cuts me off before I can even start. “I don’t need you to protect me, Sam, even if you’re on a pretty good roll—and absolutely accurate.”
I can feel that the horrible summarization Samantha gave is likely word-for-word how Luna described it. She said she was disappointed in me. Honestly, at the time, the words had next to no impact on me.
I might be seen as successful, and my mom might give out praise for merely breathing. But in my family, it’s well known that I run a far and trailing second behind my brother Cameron, especially in my dad’s eyes, so I’m quite accustomed to ignoring disapproving comments. I should’ve given her words more consideration, not because of what she said but because of what it took for her to say them.
I swallow my pride and say the one thing I never admit. “I’m sorry. I did have fun with the tutoring and the tour, despite initially thinking art would be boring. I think that’s because of the teacher.” I smile, hoping to salvage things with Luna. I have zero hopes that she’s going to help with my fake-wife situation with Elena at this point, but I would like to leave things friendly so that this whole mess doesn’t affect her and Zack’s relationship. And so that his birthday party next year isn’t a completely painful clusterfuck.
“Keep it coming,” Samantha tells me, waving her hand. “More groveling, Prince Charming. I’m sure you’ve got it in you—somewhere in that tall . . . muscular . . . Greek god body of yours.” Samantha’s eyes are tracing every inch of me with appreciation bordering on ogling. I don’t think I could feel more exposed if I were a Thunder Down Under stripper on-stage in a G-string.
Luna laughs lightly, covering her mouth, but Samantha seems to have given her a boost. “Yeah, whatcha got?”
I glance between the two women, so different but asking for the same thing. With a resolved sigh, I go all in with full theatrics, dropping to the floor—on both knees so that there’s no mistaking what I’m doing this time and clasping my hands in a pleading move.
“Luna,” I say seriously, my eyes locked on hers. Slowly, as though she’s a wounded bird that might fly away if startled, I place my hands on her bare knees. When she allows it with a tiny smile, I begin . . .
“I’m soooo sorry,” I wail dramatically, flinging my head into her lap, my cheek pressed to her thigh. Though I’m close to a danger zone of contact, I look up at her from the submissive position with puppy dog eyes. “I never meant to hurt you. Please forgive me. I will never look at the scattered chaos of a Pollack again without thinking of you and our broken engagement,” I howl as I shake her in my grip.
“Shh!” she hisses, but she’s laughing as she swats at me. “My neighbors are going to call the cops if you keep that up!”
But then, we both laugh, and it feels like things might be okay. I sit back on the floor, my legs stretched out in front of me as I lean on the cabinets opposite Luna. “Also, someone very wise told me that one sure-fire way to get out of the doghouse was an ice cream sundae, so there’s a couple in there.” I point at the bag I dropped on the counter.
Samantha grabs it first. “If you think for one second that you’re getting one of these, you are sorely mistaken.”
Before I can argue or agree, Samantha already has both sundaes open and is licking the whipped cream off the top of one. Luna snatches a spoon from the dishes drying by the sink and digs into the other one.
“I wouldn’t think of depriving y’all of a sundae.” I wait a couple of bites and then ask, “Is it working?”
Luna flashes a look to Samantha, who lifts a shoulder. “You said he’s a good kisser.”
“Sa-man-tha!” Luna shouts, and that must be all the neighbors can handle because there’s a loud clunk against the wall.
“Sorry!” Luna yells over a hunched shoulder. But she laughs like she’s not that worried. “I’m always quiet, and the one time . . .”
“Did you say that?” I ask, curious beyond belief.
“What?”
“That I’m a good kisser.”
“Maybe.” She eats a bite of ice cream slowly, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks it from the spoon and her eyes fall as though she can’t admit that while looking directly at me. It’s sexier than it should be and my cock notices how much shapely leg her shorts reveal and that she’s definitely not wearing a bra beneath her T-shirt. “Did you really enjoy the tour?” The question is weighted with meaning.
“I absolutely did.” There’s also a lot rolled into my simple statement. Warning sirens go off in my head, reminding me about who Luna is and who I am, so I back away from whatever’s happening between us strategically. “But I still think Picasso was drunk as hell.”
“He was a drinker, actually, but I wanted you to think beyond the obvious,” Luna tells me with a sly smirk. “That’s why I’m a good teacher.”
“You are,” I agree.
Despite my efforts, something electric and hot passes between us when our gazes lock. It feels important that Luna looks better than when I first got here. There’s brightness in her cheeks, life in her eyes, and she’s smiling now.
“Aww, aren’t you two adorable,” Samantha sing-songs.
“No,” Luna says, shaking her head, “it’s not like that.”
“Yeah, not like that,” I agree too quickly.
“Mm-hmm.” Samantha doesn’t sound convinced. “So, what happened with the old lady?”
Shit. I don’t want to say that things have gotten so much worse, especially when Luna isn’t mad at me. Because once she finds out what I’ve done, she’s going to hit the roof. And Samantha is currently blocking my escape out the front door. She also sees me checking for an emergency exit and tilts her head, glaring at me as she holds up those karate hands again. “Like a Band-Aid, just rip it off, man.”
“It went great, but also . . . horribly?” That’s the best way I can describe it. Luna copies Samantha’s previous waving hand gesture, silently telling me ‘more’。 Gritting my teeth, I confess, “I talked to her and things were going well. She’s not as formal as I expected, but then . . . I told her about how much my wife loves art—”
“You actually told her that?” Luna gasps. “After everything I said at the museum?”
I shrug grudgingly. “It was the plan.”
“Plans change!” Luna answers.
“I know.” I look at the ceiling, hoping for divine intervention to explain to me how in the hell things got so out of hand.
“And then what?” Luna demands quietly.
“She invited us to dinner, said she’d love to show her husband’s collection to an art lover.”
Samantha laughs bitterly. “You mean your wife, the art lover?”
Luna is shaking her head with wide, horrified eyes. “I’m not doing that. There’s no way.”
“I know. I’ll tell Elena that you’re not feeling well or something,” I promise.