“Right here, Aunt Elena.” Her voice is warm honey, but when she sees Luna and me, it turns to steel. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

  She’s lying, but I’ll win her over. I always do. I offer my hand. “Nice to meet you, Claire. I’m Carter Harrington and this is my wife, Luna. My niece, Grace, is around here somewhere . . .” I trail off teasingly, looking around as though I don’t see Grace, who’s standing beside me. “Here?” I lift one arm, glancing to my right, then the other, glancing to my left and spinning in a circle as I look behind me.

  “She’s right there,” Jacob calls out, pointing as he comes out of the bathroom in the fresh clothes.

  Grace joins in with a laugh. “I’m right here, Uncle CJ!”

  “Oh, there she is!” I boop her nose and then glance up to the women. Luna and Elena are amused, smiling warmly, but Claire is staring dead-eyed. If her eyebrows moved, I think she’d have one up by her hairline and one scrunched down toward her nose. As it is, they’re completely frozen in perfect arches. Hard sell, I guess, but I’ll persevere as always.

  Either that or the Botox has done its job a bit too well.

  “Not that I ain’t pleased as punch to see you, but I thought you were doing that big showing this weekend?” Elena asks, looking worried.

  “I was,” Claire answers reassuringly, “but when I called to chat, Stanley said you were entertaining visitors.” Still talking to Elena but looking at me, she warns, “I wanted to check in on you.”

  I understand her cold shoulder reception now. She thinks I’m one of the gold-digging weasels who prey on widows and widowers during a time of vulnerability. Protecting her aunt is her responsibility and honor. “That’s very kind of you.”

  “She’s good like that,” Elena agrees. “I’m fine, Claire. But you look like you need some lunch. Come on, Nelda’s probably got a spread all ready.”

  She doesn’t wait for Claire’s agreement. She marches off toward the kitchen with Jacob’s hand in hers on one side and Grace’s on the other. “I bet she made us a treat. She’s good like that. Nelda knows this old girl likes a sweet tea and a cookie every afternoon. You two probably eat healthy stuff like carrots and don’t like cookies at all, right?”

  Jacob and Grace shout nearly in unison, “Yes, I do!” Jacob then commences bouncing like a kangaroo and yelling, “Cook-ie! Cook-ie!” Each syllable is a hop with an ever-increasing volume. “Cook-ie! Cook-ie! Cook-ie!”

  Rather than be annoyed by it, Elena hops with him, though her hops are less sure-footed. Grace gets into it too, hopping along. Thankfully, she doesn’t add to the cacophony Jacob is creating all on his own. Cameron would love it if I brought Grace back with that new habit.

  In the kitchen, Elena leads Jacob and Grace to hop up into chairs at the counter as she points to the table for us. I hold out Luna’s chair for her and then wait for Claire and Elena to sit before sitting myself. In the melee, Peanut Butter scoots under the kids’ feet and lies down, knowing where he’s most likely to be fed, intentionally or accidentally.

  Elena was right. Nelda has laid out quite a well-appointed charcuterie board. And yes, there are cookies. Following Elena’s lead, I make a plate of small bites for Grace. When both kids have been served, I make another plate for myself.

  “Mr. Harrington, what’s your business here?” Claire asks coldly.

  “Claire!” Elena scolds.

  I hold out a staying hand to Elena. “It’s okay.” After nodding respectfully to Claire, I add, “I came to meet with your aunt on business matters and stayed for the sweatpants and cookies.”

  I grin impishly, hoping to garner at least the tilt of a smile, but Claire’s lips stay perfectly flat. If anything, they press together. “Cute. I’m sure that works for you quite often,” she says snidely. “However, I’m disturbed that you think charming wit will prove effective in allaying my concerns, rather than simply being transparent.”

  “Me-oww,” Luna mutters under her breath, so quiet that only I can hear her.

  Elena is more upfront. “Claire, don’t be such a Rude Rhonda. Carter’s been a perfect gentleman, not some high-pressure used car salesman.”

  “That’s not what I hear.” She looks me up and down with a frown of disgust.

  Luna lets out a squeak at the obvious entendre, her chin dropping and her cheeks flushing instantly. I place my hand on her thigh without thinking, needing to make sure she’s okay. She looks at me desperately, a plea in their brown depths.

  “I’m sorry if we were a bit . . .” I glance to the children and then back to Claire. “Exuberant?” I don’t know what else to call it. Luna and I were obnoxiously loud last night. It started in an attempt to sell the marriage farce, but it turned into out-of-control fun, something I haven’t had in too long. “We were—”

  “Newlyweds,” Luna blurts out.

  “What?” Claire asks, giving Luna her attention for the first time.

  “We’re newlyweds,” Luna repeats. “It’s hard to . . . I mean, difficult to not . . .” She’s stumbling over her words, but her gaze is strong as she gives Claire her full focus. Finally, she gives up, sort of flailing her hands together. “You know?”

  Elena pats Claire’s hand. “Dear, I think what she’s saying is . . . have you seen this fine specimen of a young man? And this beautiful, sweet woman? They’re in love, and that means a little lovin’.” Her eyes go soft, and she stares up toward the light over the table. “I remember when Thomas and I were newlyweds. Why, there wasn’t a flat surface in our house we didn’t christen. Tables, beds, floors . . . walls.” She confides to Luna, “Thomas was strong and I was a wee thing like you back in those days.”

  Luna shifts uncomfortably, and I squeeze her thigh beneath my palm, stilling her with the punishing pressure.

  “Aunt Elena, I don’t think anyone wants to hear about you and Uncle Thomas’ sex life!” Claire mouths the last bit more than speaks it, glancing at the kids.

  “Hmph, well I’m not the one gossiping with Stanley about guests' activities after they’ve retired to their private spaces for the night, now am I?” Elena pops a cube of cheese in her mouth, having gotten the last word. “Besides, it’s how we all got here on this planet, ain’t it?”

  Claire’s eyes narrow, but she does stop talking about sex, at least. Mine and Elena’s.

  “Nutbuster, get your butt down! You’re smashing my balls!” Jacob shouts, pushing at Peanut Butter, who’s stood up and placed his feet on Jacob’s thigh, at an apparently sensitive location, to beg for food.

  “Eh-eh.” I make the disapproving noise Kyle has used for Peanut Butter since he was a puppy, and the dog looks my way instantly. “Down.”

  I point to the floor, and the dog settles back under the kids’ chairs.

  “Jacob! What did you say?” Claire demands in a high-pitched voice, clearly more upset about the words than the dog.

  Jacob looks over his shoulder to his mom, sensing that he’s in trouble. “Uh, she said it first.”

  He points at Grace, throwing her in harm’s way without remorse to deflect trouble from himself. I damn near hear the sound of the bus rolling by as he does.

  “She did?” Claire turns a mom-glare on Grace, but no one gives Grace shit on my watch except me.

  Leaning to the side to interrupt Claire’s visual warpath, I ask calmly, “What’s the issue?”

  “That language!” Claire exclaims. “Obviously.”

  She’s reacting as though Jacob dropped some F-bombs over his crackers and pepperoni slices. Her hand is literally on her chest, grasping for invisible pearls, and her mouth is gaping like someone’s going to throw in a three-pointer with a cheese cube.

  “What’s she talking about?” Grace asks Jacob. “You just said Nutbuster was smashing your balls and told him to get his butt down.” She looks confused as she repeats what Jacob said and finds no issue.

  I sigh. “If I may . . . Nutbuster is what we call Peanut Butter. It’s an affectionate nickname. And he did say butt, not ass. That’s better.”

  Grace holds her hand up and quotes, “Tush . . . Bootie . . . Badonkadonk . . . Butt . . . Ass . . . Culo. In order of badness. I can use up to butt now, ass at thirteen with friends and at sixteen with family, and culo after I’m eighteen and only if I’m being dirty. Never in front of Daddy, Maw-Maw H, or Paw-Paw H.”

  “Grace!” The scold is met with her throwing her arms out like ‘what, you know I’m right’. What the hell is Cameron teaching her? Or more likely, Kyle? Hell, probably Cameron’s multi-lingual nanny too.

  And why is culo worse than ass? Actually, that’s one I probably don’t want to know the answer to.

  “He also called his testicles balls,” Claire corrects, her nose curling as she whispers the words as though they’re both offensive.

  “That’s what they are, Mom. Nobody says tess-a-culls. Even Dad calls ’em balls,” Jacob adds. “Or his nuts.”

  Shrugging, I offer, “He’s not wrong. I’ve got four brothers and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve said ‘testicles’, but balls, nuts, moose knuckle, and cojones are all common.” I’m taking a risk—a huge one—at offending Claire, but I’m depending on Elena losing the battle she’s fighting with the laugh that’s trying to escape.

  “Ooh, moose knuckle! I like that one!” Jacob tells us, and Peanut Butter barks in agreement.

  That’s all Elena can take. She bangs the table with a palm as a loud belly laugh escapes, her eyes squinch shut, and her mouth drops wide open. “Oh, my word! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. You asked for it, Claire, and Carter delivered with bells on. Or balls, in this case.”

  I chance a smile and then laugh along. Luna places her hand over mine in a move of solidarity, and it suddenly feels less punishing to have my hand squeezing her thigh and more sexy, especially as my pinkie moves an inch higher of its own volition.

  Though there’s laughter around the table, I still hear the tiny hitch in Luna’s breath and it makes my heart stutter.

  But as the laughter fades, Claire straightens her back, visibly resetting herself. “If we could stick to the topic at hand . . . Carter, we won’t be needing your services.”

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  LUNA

  Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep.

  “And break for fifteen.” I stand from where I’ve sprawled on the floor for the last forty-five-minute work sprint and stretch my arms overhead.

  “Let me finish this chapter. I’m on a roll,” Samantha argues with her nose buried in her notes.

  That’s not what we agreed upon, and we’re sticking the plan. Past history has proven we do best with forty-five/fifteen-minute cycles. It’s how we can work successfully for the whole evening, which is what we both need to do tonight. Me, on Alphena. Sam, on coursework for the test she has next week.

  This interruption is key to her studying, even if she doesn’t think so. She’s spread out on the couch—laptop, papers, highlighters everywhere—so I plop right down in the middle of the tornado.

  “Hey!”

  “Break. Time.” My declaration is met with an exasperated sigh. “You know you need it. Don’t ignore your body’s signals.” It’s a direct quote from her, one she’s told me numerous times, but that doesn’t mean she likes me throwing it back at her.

  She glares at me for a long moment where I think I’ve won, then she leans back against the arm of the couch and a slow smile steals her lips.

  Uh-oh. When she looks at me like that, I’m in trouble.

  Deflect! Save yourself!

  “Hungry? Thirsty? I’ve got Raisinets, popcorn, wine, La Croix . . .”

  Samantha wrinkles her nose. “I hate that shit and you know it. La Croix is water that they wave fruit over and pump full of more air than a puffer fish’s ass. And raisins are not candy, no matter how much chocolate you cover them in.” I have a split second of thinking I’ve gotten away with the deflection before she shatters the illusion. “Body signals, that’s the topic at hand.”

  “Nope, I happen to love Raisinets.” I make a run for the kitchen, but with the size of my apartment, I’m not exactly far away and Samantha keeps talking.

  “You owe me a story. How was dinner with your husband?”

  I shove a large handful of candy in my mouth and gesture that I can’t talk right now. I should use the time to think of how to explain the craziness of the dinner with Carter, but instead, what pops out as soon as I can talk is . . .

  “We had fake-sex.”

  And also, a stray Raisinet that was somehow going ninja on my tongue. I cover my mouth with a hand, chewing and swallowing as quickly as I can without choking.

  Samantha sprints across the room to my side. “You had sex with Carter Harrington? Seriously?”

  She picks up a candy and beans me in the forehead with it. Luckily, I catch it on the drop and hold it in my hand with the others. “Fake sex,” I repeat, “Not peen in vag. That’s your specialty.”

  “Details, Luna,” she says, not offended at all by my comment. “Are we talking dry humping, fingering, or what?”

  “Samantha!” She tilts her head in a threat to continue listing sexual acts until I start explaining or die of embarrassment. Given the heat of my cheeks, death by mortification is entirely possible, so I spill my guts. “We had dinner and it was fine. Except we had to take Grace and Peanut Butter. But still, fine. And the tour was amazing. Thomas’s collection was all I hoped and more. Surprisingly, I think my favorite was one of his personal works. It was beautiful in a different way than I expected. The technique was flawless, but it was the emotion in every stroke that showed how much he loved Elena, his wife.”

  Samantha holds up a finger, halting me. “Who are Grace and Peanut Butter?”

  “Carter’s niece and his brother’s dog. There was a family mix-up and he ended up emergency babysitting, so we had to take them with us to dinner.”

  “To a business dinner? Oh-kay, you know that’s weird, right?” When I nod, she rolls her eyes. “But then y’all did dinner, a tour . . . unless there’s something I need to know there, get to the fake sex part. I want to hear all the wet, juicy, sloppy details.”

  “It was late. Elena suggested that we stay over and leave the next day.” I pop a Raisinet into my mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Once we got in the bedroom, Carter made a joke about them expecting us to have sex and that we could fake it. I thought he was nuts, but then he crawled onto the bed with me and started banging the bed against the wall. I kinda had to go along.”

  Another Raisinet, and I chase this one down with a swallow of wine. Samantha waits impatiently, now nibbling popcorn faster than a chipmunk stuffing its cheeks for winter.

  “It was ridiculous. But it was kinda . . . fun?” I tilt my head, thinking back. “I said some stuff that was . . .” Shyly, I smile and meet Samantha’s eyes. “Kinda kinky. Stuff you told me about, and Carter seemed to like it. He said some stuff too.”

  “Did you like what he said?” Samantha asks carefully. She’s not quite in professional mode, but almost.

  Chewing slowly, I confess, “I did. But we didn’t . . . do anything. Or not anything sexy. We didn’t even touch during the fake sex. But we talked after, and he was different than I thought. He puts a lot of pressure on himself . . . and he called me pretty.” I shouldn’t have told her that part, but it blurted out before I could squash it down.

  “Shit. I told you not to fall for his act, Luna, and you went and fell anyway with the slightest compliment from a man who gives them out like a shady masseuse gives out hand jobs.” Samantha shakes her head, frowning in disappointment.

  “It wasn’t like that,” I argue.

  “It wasn’t?” she questions. “Are you sure?”

  I drop my eyes to the rapidly disappearing candies in my hand and then toss the last few back in one go. “I didn’t fall for him. I just maybe-sorta-kinda don’t hate him as much as I did. And there was no hand job involved—for either of us.”

  “Luna, he’s no less of an asshole than he was before. He’s pulling a fake marriage charade for a business deal and he fake fucked you to really sell it. Who cares if he’s slightly human deep beneath all that?”

  Maybe I do.

  The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t say them aloud. Mostly because I’m not sure whether I believe them or not.

  Carter was different than I thought, but he also assumed I’d continue the farce until Elena agreed to the deal, which was not what we discussed. And there’s a definite sense of ‘poor, pitiful prince’ to his worries about impressing his family.

  But there was something surprisingly sexy in the way he looked at me sometimes . . . in his hand squeezing my thigh . . . and in waking up in the cage of his arms with him pressed to my back. Or maybe I’m horny and the mere proximity of a man is sending me into a stupor?

  Beep-beep-beep.

  “Saved by the bell,” I sigh gratefully as I realize the alarm means it’s time to work again. “Forty-five minutes and we’ll reconvene.”

  “Of course,” Samantha huffs. “This isn’t finished.”

  Despite claiming that, she does return to her spot on the couch and drops her eyes to her notes as she grabs a pink highlighter. “Note to self, get Luna a new toy so she doesn’t hop on Carter’s dick and get her heart broken in the process.”

  “Samantha!”

  She shrugs, not embarrassed in the slightest to be talking about letting your fingers do the walking. I eat two more Raisinets before I sit down to work on Alphena some more.

  I’m on page twenty-three now after several sleepless nights of work. Not sleepless because I couldn’t actually go to sleep but because every time I did, Carter was waiting in my dreams. Only the sex wasn’t fake. It was very, very real, and I’d wake up hot and liquid, so burying myself in work was preferable to burying my fingers in myself.

  As I focus on Alphena, I can’t help but ask myself WWAD? What would Alphena do with this whole situation? Would she take the fake marriage in stride and continue helping someone in need or protect herself and walk away before it all blows up in her face? Maybe she’d fuck him for fun, her heart clad behind some Alpha-bitch armor?