Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)(6)

Inside, I’m greeted with a tiny studio filled with a hodge-podge of furniture that reminds me of a post-college dumpster diving collection. Not that I ever did that. My college experience was one of private apartments decorated by the designer my mother hired, and since then, my homes have been the same.

But where my homes have abstract, forgettable art to fill the walls, Luna’s apartment is filled with canvases in a myriad of styles. From here, I can see every wall of the small space, each of them covered floor to ceiling with colorful pops of eye candy. There’s so much to look at that I can’t even absorb it all at once. “Interesting place.”

“Interesting,” Luna says, though I’m not sure whether she’s echoing me or making her own comment on my judgment. She walks past me into the single room. “Have a seat.”

She gestures to the small couch that’s covered in a patchwork quilt and takes the chair for herself, curling up cross-legged in it. Behind her glasses, her gaze is hard and accusatory, but I don’t know why.

“Thank you again for doing this. It’ll really help me out,” I try, hoping to garner some favor.

“Zack told me to name my price, so . . . so it’s five hundred dollars an hour.”

I cough, choking on my own saliva. “Five hundred an hour?” Finding my voice again, I snipe, “I wasn’t expecting you to be a gold digger.”

Her cheeks flush immediately. “I’m not, but I’m also not stupid, and Zack has beaten negotiating tactics into my head since I was a kid. You need me more than I need you,” she explains, but she shifts in her seat, telling me that she’s not as confident as she’s trying to appear. “I could just as easily work tonight. Plus, you can afford it.”

“You’re taking advantage of me because I’m wealthy?” Despite whatever Zack has taught her, Luna has always seemed like more of an intellect than a financial whiz, so I’m surprised she’s going straight for my wallet.

“No. I’m charging an extra handling fee because I have to handle being around you.” As soon as the words leave her lips, she slaps her hands over her mouth. From behind her spread fingers, she tells me, “Sorry, that was rude. I shouldn’t have said it aloud.”

Unperturbed, I laugh at her reaction. “Am I that annoying?”

She shrugs, her eyes dropping to her lap where she’s wringing her fingers.

“Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” Her answer is quick, and a total lie. “Agree to the price and we can get started.”

I stall as long as I can, but she’s got me dead to rights. I want the Cartwright deal, which means I need to learn something useful about art, and Luna’s my only and best option. “Deal.”

A high-pitched squeal erupts from Luna as she kicks her feet wildly, fluttering them in the air. I think it surprises us both, but she composes herself quickly and says, “That’ll help with my publishing costs.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about, but if it makes her willing to help me, it works for me.

Hopping up, she grabs a stack of notecards from the mess of a countertop that seems to serve as a makeshift desk. When she sits back down, I can see that they’re some sort of study guides. That she took the time to make them tells me that while she might not want to do this, she is taking it seriously. It’s a good sign.

“Are those for me?” I ask, pointing at the cards.

She hugs them tightly to her chest as though I’ve suggested taking her kidneys out and leaving her in the bathtub to bleed out alone. “No, these are mine from college. Art 101.”

I hold up both hands to show that I have zero intention of snatching the cards from her grasp.

“Okay, first let’s see where you’re at knowledge-wise. Tell me three painters you know,” she says, sounding like a teacher.

And like a fool, my brain completely blanks. I’m not overly informed about art, but I have the same general education about it that most folks do. “Uhm . . . Michelangelo?”

“And?”

Luna already looks disappointed in me. The frown on her full lips only deepens when I go silent, my eyes rolling back as if I can find additional names in my brain. “I know this. Like, the Mona Lisa. It was made by . . .”

“Painted by, not ‘made’. Machines are made, cakes are baked, paintings are painted,” she corrects, holding up a finger.

“Right, the Mona Lisa was painted by Da Vinci!” I’m ridiculously excited to remember something so basic.

“That’s two, and good job on knowing both the artist and the art. One more?” she prompts with a smile.

“I’m not a toddler,” I snap. “I don’t need pity praise.” I don’t say it, but it sounds like something my mother would do with us kids when we were little. No matter how good or bad we were at something, in our mother’s eyes, we deserved a head pat of congratulations. I’m sure she meant it to be encouraging, and when I was younger, perhaps it was, but somewhere along the way, I realized that doing my best wasn’t much different from barely squeaking by in her eyes. Fastidiously, I adjust my watch and the cuffs of my shirt until they’re perfect, consciously avoiding explaining my reaction to Luna’s simple words.

She studies me with interest. “I wouldn’t have thought a guy like you ever got nervous.”