Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)(7)

With my hackles already up, that hits harder than it normally would, digging in deep. Pressing my lips into a flat line, I question, “A guy like me? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I didn’t mean—” She stops herself. “Well, maybe I did. But you’re just all . . .” She waves her hands in my direction. “Hot shot, big wig, thirst trap. It’s kinda nice to see that you’re not perfect.” Her head drops a bit, her eyes falling back to her lap where the notecards rest.

“Definitely not perfect,” I reply, using my time to correct her. “Obviously, given that I need art tutoring and can’t think of three painters when put on the spot.”

Self-deprecation isn’t my style, but I’m being truthful. I hope Luna can respect that at least.

She looks up, meeting my eyes, and I can see her thoughts whirling behind hers. I’m not sure how we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, but we have. I resort to my usual charm and say teasingly, “And don’t think I missed you calling me a thirst trap.”

“Of course that’s all he heard,” she whispers to herself. Louder, she asks, “Can we get back to these?” She holds up the flashcards, and I nod, thankful for a truce.

I still feel like there’s some unspoken issue between us, but she’s helping me and that’s all I need. I don’t need Zack’s little sister to like me or for us to become besties. We have nothing in common, she’s ridiculously young, and Zack would kill me anyway.

But an hour later, I’m honestly impressed with Luna. Her knowledge of art is expansive and her passion for it is beyond obvious. She speaks of brushstrokes the way most people talk about their children—fondly, in depth, and emotionally.

On the other hand, I’m struggling. Majorly.

We’ve been through the same set of basic flashcards multiple times, and while I thought I was doing well for a bit, Luna recognized that I’d only memorized the order, not the actual answers. She shuffled them, and suddenly, we were nearly back to square one.

“What’s this one?” she asks, holding up a painting of a group of white-collared men gathered around the deathbed of another man, his arm dissected.

“Renoir,” I say with surety.

Luna pushes her glasses up onto her head, looking at me closely. “Seriously? Renoir and Rembrandt both start with R, but that’s about where the similarities end. A trick I used with the outreach kids is to remember that Rembrandt has a D in his name, so his paintings were darker. Literally, the backgrounds are darker and there’s an ominous nature to them. Renoir sounds a little like air, and his paintings are light as air, showing the activity of a bustling Paris. Does that help?”

I flop back on the couch, a concerning creak sounding out from somewhere under the quilt. I consider that I might end up on my ass in more than one way . . . from Luna’s couch breaking beneath me and with Mrs. Cartwright if I can’t sort this out.

I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms, appreciating the sparkles behind my lids as much, if not more than, all the art flashcards. “This is never going to work. It’s going to be worse than my just admitting I know nothing about art. I wish you could just come with me. You could do the art talk, and I could do the money talk.”

Luna laughs, thinking I’m kidding.

But . . . I sit up suddenly, struck with my brilliance. “That’s it! It’s perfect!”

Still shaking her head at the idea, Luna says, “No way. Nopity, nope, nope. No freakin’ way, count me out. And did I mention . . . no.”

I stand up, the idea taking shape in my mind. “We could say that you’re my assistant and working with me for the portfolio management presentation.”

Luna stands up too, her beloved cards falling to the floor. She’s a good foot shorter than me, but that doesn’t stop her from putting her hands on her hips and squaring up. “Your assistant? Why? Because I’m young? Or because I’m a woman?” She shakes her head, the messy bun on her head flopping around wildly. “I shouldn’t be surprised from you.”

“What?” I have no idea what she’s upset about. I only meant that could be a cover story so she could go with me to Mrs. Cartwright’s for the meeting, but she’s acting angrier than a honey badger.

She’s mumbling under her breath, and I strain to make out what she’s saying. It sounds like, “Assistant? Unbelievable! Just because I have a vajayjay doesn’t mean all I’m good for is taking notes and looking pretty. Not that I’m pretty.”

“You’re very pretty, Luna,” I reply, surer that I heard that part correctly than the rest of it.

She stomps her foot like a pissed off gnome. I definitely do not notice that it makes her shapely thighs and voluptuous breasts wobble as she does it because Zack would cut my dick off for looking at his little sister that way. Still . . .

“You should go now,” she orders flatly.

“Wait. I’m sorry. We were doing well with the cards. Maybe we can flip through them a bit more?” I bend down to pick them up, but the suggestion falls on deaf ears as Luna strides toward the door, giving me her back as answer.

“Tomorrow, then?” I try as she opens the door. I consider that she might actually bodily shove me out and for a moment think that I’d like to see her try. Her fire is intriguing, especially when it pops up unexpectedly, taking her from quiet and bookish to badass and confident in an instant. But I squash that idea down quickly.