Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)(14)

“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.

“Another lie?”

Luna’s accusation makes the dark pit in the base of my stomach grow bigger and deeper, and it hurts more than the routine comments my family make. I don’t know why that’s so, but the pain in her eyes is so different. It makes me want to soothe it in any way that I can.

“You’re right. I’ll tell Mrs. Cartwright that I’m not married,” I vow stiffly, knowing I’ll do no such thing. But Luna will never know one way or another, because after this, we’ll go back to seeing each other occasionally with Zack as a middle man.

The idea is oddly discomforting.

Luna smiles, but then concern mars her brow. “Wait . . . Cartwright? Not as in, Thomas Cartwright?”

“Well, as in Elena Cartwright, but yeah, her husband was Thomas Cartwright. He was the art collector and his wife is managing their portfolio.”

Luna hops from the counter and crouches down in front of me, her eyes completely wild as she plants her hands on my shoulders. “The Thomas Cartwright?” When I don’t answer, she starts mindlessly shaking me and rambling rapid-fire, “Holy shit, you should’ve led with that, man. We could’ve avoided all this mess! Isn’t the first rule of business to know what the other person values?” She pauses but doesn’t seem to want an answer, so I stay quiet, having learned my lesson about the trouble my mouth can get me into. “Let me clue you in . . . I value Thomas Cartwright’s private art collection that’s rarely been seen in decades but is reported to have pieces from all the masters. Just hanging on the walls of his house, like they’re no big deal.”

She stands, pacing in the small space as she waves her hands around. I think she’s picturing the supposed art and not trying to slap me, or at least I hope that’s the case.

“Oh, yeah, that? It’s a Degas.” Hand flap. “Have you seen my Warhol? Right over here next to the Pollock!” Double hand flap. “I’ve considered bidding on a Kara Walker, but I want to find the one that inspires me.”

That last one had a hand flip but it was more of ‘fancy braggart at a cocktail party’ type, especially given the forced tone. I’ve known more than a few of those folks. Carefully, I question, “Does that mean you’ll come with me? As my wife?”

I feel like it’s the most dangerous question I’ve ever asked, and I’m still stupidly sitting in the floor with Luna and Samantha between me and the door. There’s a distinct possibility that I might be nothing more than a chalk outline on the kitchen floor by morning.

Nah, both of them are smart enough to hide your body so they don’t get caught.

The unhelpful thought doesn’t give me any peace as I wait for one or both women to attack me for daring to ask the question. I fight the urge to cover myself and at least protect my most sensitive of parts.