I shake my head in confusion. “I definitely didn’t know that.”

  Elena shakes her head, her eyes going distant. “It was quite the scandal back in the day. Everyone thought either I was a bossy heifer who wouldn’t let Thomas hold his own balls, or that he was a gold-digging thief who was going to steal my money and leave me buried in the woods off highway fifteen. Neither were true. He loved me and didn’t have a family of his own anymore, seeing as his parents has already passed. He was happy to join the Cartwrights and was as proud to bear our name as any born-and-bred Cartwright was. Daddy said he was an adopted son and treated him like family. Never called him an in-law once. Not a single time.” Her smile is wistful as she remembers.

  Her eyes clear, and she pins me in her gaze. “Family’s important to us—to my Daddy, to me and Thomas, and now, to Claire, Mads, and Jacob. They’re the next generation. That’s why I like you and Luna so much. I can see how much you care for one another. And with the way you two got on with that sweet Gracie girl, there’s a big, full family table in your future. A whole line up of your brothers and sister, nieces and nephews, and babies of your own. I think that’s what makes this feel right, you know?”

  Elena puts her hand over her heart, and I swear to all that is holy, if she starts saying the Pledge of Allegiance or singing Amazing Grace, I’m going to bolt from this room and never return because the guilt of what I’m doing is so heavy with Elena speaking in such a heartfelt way about what family means to her. Not that I’m going to be careless with her money, I legitimately will do her estate well, but because of the means I’m going to ‘get the job’.

  And what she sees in mine and Luna’s future is scary as fuck. Still, I picture Luna big and round with a baby in her belly and it’s not a bad image. Luna would be a great mother, I think, remembering her with Grace and the stories she tells about school field trip kids.

  It just won’t be my baby.

  Eventually, this whole thing is going to come to an end. I’ll get the deal and get to work proving myself to Elena, and eventually, Luna and I will probably get divorced when it’s been appropriately long enough. After that, she’ll find someone and fall in love for real, get married for real, and have a baby . . . for real.

  My gut roils at the thought of someone else touching her, loving her, creating a family with her. I swallow thickly and agree, “Family is everything. We love each other no matter what.”

  And isn’t that the fucking truth? I’m talking about Luna, but also, my whole family.

  We loved Cameron through his darkest days when his wife died, leaving him alone with Grace. We supported Chance starting his own business and the slow days when he wasn’t sure it was going to succeed. We defend Cole even though we don’t really have any idea what the hell he does. We make sure Kayla gets her turn in the spotlight when she could easily be overshadowed by her numerous brothers. And we accept that Kyle is always going to have one foot in and one foot out of the family, even if we don’t understand why. We just welcome him into the fold every time he chooses to come back.

  And me too. Look at what they’re doing so I can have a shot at this deal. Going along with my crazy lie and this whole created life with Luna? Well, other than Dad.

  Pat clears his throat, and I realize that he and Elena are staring at me. “Penny for your thoughts?” Elena asks gently.

  At the same time, Pat says, “That’s enough blubbering on about nothing. We should get down to the details here. I want to see what you have planned.”

  He makes it sound as if his shotgun is ready to punch holes in whatever plans I have, but I take Pat’s offered rescue from the emotional bend of our conversations, not needing to analyze any of my family drama or feelings for Luna right now. “Great idea. My research shows that you follow a pretty strict eighty-twenty split for assets, leaning heavily into conservative investments. Correct?”

  It’s the jumping off point we need to discuss all facets of the Cartwright portfolio, from stock holdings to property investments, donations to taxes, and everything in between.

  Hours later, Elena is nodding off in her chair, even occasionally snoring, while Pat and I hammer through report after report and I show him where I see potential improvements in the management of the Cartwright estate.

  But no matter what I say or what actions I suggest, he’s professionally distant, bordering on cold. My charm hasn’t worked on him, my plans haven’t swayed him, and for someone who purports wanting to retire, I don’t think he’s ready to release one finger from managing the Cartwright portfolio. Or at least, not let it go to me.

  “Being that aggressive is foolhardy,” he repeats, despite having seen the projections I compiled. “I don’t care what your little cartoon arrow shows, that’s not the best strategy.” He waves at my tablet presentation, which does indeed have a green arrow showing a dramatic rise in investment returns.

  Gritting my teeth to control my frustrations, I assure him again. “It would play out this way. I’ve done it before, and it’s even how I have some of my own personal funds invested.”

  “Then you’re not a portfolio manager, you’re a gambler hoping for the big score. It might even be a good strategy for someone your age, but not in this case.” He slams his stack of papers to the table, and dismissing me, he turns to Elena. “I know you trust your gut, but seriously?” He holds a hand out, gesturing toward me and wrinkling his nose.

  He’s woken her up, and she wipes drool from the corners of her mouth, sputtering, “Wha–what’s . . . what’s going on?”

  “This kid wants to move you into a more aggressive vehicle—”

  Elena interrupts to ask, “Like a sports car?” She’s smiling like a kid on Christmas morning who got exactly what they asked Santa for.

  “No, investment vehicle,” I correct. “But if you want an exotic car experience, I know just the place. We took Dad there for his birthday last year and he loved it.” I flash my charming smile, wanting to smooth things over because waking up with someone yelling at you can be disconcerting.

  “Yes,” she answers quickly, “especially if I can have a hot racecar driver teach me.” After a little wiggle with her arms held out in front of her like she’s gripping a steering wheel—I refuse to think she’s imagining otherwise—she asks, more seriously, “What’s wrong with an aggressive investment vehicle?”

  She’s asking Pat, but I need to answer this. It’s key to transitioning her to me as the portfolio manager and getting her to trust my judgment. “Mr. Oleana has you heavily invested in very safe stocks, bonds, etc. They’re stable, they have a decent interest, and they grow incrementally each year. You make a steady income from them that will support you to the day you die and beyond.”

  “Morbid,” Pat adds. “And safe is good.”

  I lick my lips, tasting victory. “Good isn’t good enough, not for Elena Cartwright. You’re leaving potential money on the table.”

  “Do tell,” she orders, leaning forward on the table to rest her chin on her palm.

  I explain how Pat does all his planning based on the need for conservativeness at Elena’s age, but that based on her available income, she could be much more aggressive. “Yes, there could be losses, or there could be great gains.”

  “I already have more money than I know what to do with and currently have a double-digit return rate. By your estimations, that would go up approximately eight more percent per investment year?”

  Ooh, she is a slick one. She wasn’t sleeping a bit. She was quietly listening to me and Mr. Olena’s discussion, evaluating me the whole time.

  “Yes, creating the type of gains that don’t only create generational wealth but also provide an opportunity to donate to the causes and charities that are closest to your heart, spreading those benefits to even more people in need while still carrying on the Cartwright legacy.”

  Before Pat can interrupt me, I add, “I know you’re already donating significant amounts of money, but what if you could do more? An entire wing at the museum in Thomas’s name, a children’s hospital in all four corners of the state, or whatever you feel called to do. The point is . . . as you said, you have more money than you know what to do with, so why be this careful? You’re not going to run out . . . ever.”

  “She might if you’re the one holding the checkbook,” Pat interjects.

  “Checkbook? That only goes to show how outdated and out-of-touch you’re being. No one has a checkbook anymore. There’s an app for that,” I quip, but my frustration is showing.

  “Enough.” Elena pushes back from the table a bit, throwing her hands up. “Carter, thank you for coming. I think me and Pat have some things to discuss.” She dips her chin, glaring at Pat through her brow.

  I know a dismissal cue when I hear it, so I rise. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Oleana, Elena. I hope you’ll give some serious thought to my suggestions.”

  I shake both of their hands, but Elena’s is decidedly limper than before. As I wait for the elevator doors to open and let me out of here, I yell at myself.

  Did I blow it? Fuck, I hope not. Not after everything I’ve done to appeal to Elena.

  But when the elevator doors open, I’m not prepared for what I see. Claire, Elena’s niece, is stepping off, and when she nearly walks into me, she sneers quite obviously. “You!”

  I don’t know why she’s here at Mr. Oleana’s office, or why she’s so mad at me. But I offer my most charming smile. “Nice to see you, Claire.”

  “Fuck you,” she hisses, bumping my shoulder as she passes me by.

  What is her deal?

  I don’t get a chance to ask because she disappears into Mr. Oleana’s office. I consider chasing her, not wanting her to blow my chances any further than what I just did, but my phone rings and when I look at it, my dad’s name is on the screen.

  “Hello?”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  LUNA

  “Hope y’all had fun and maybe learned something cool today?” I let the question hang, hoping for raised hands from the group of kids I’ve been showing around the museum for the last two hours.

  “My favoritest thing I learned is that they made paint with dirts and eggs in the olden days,” a little boy informs me.

  “Ooh, good one. Yep, paint was made with different types of dirt, colored rocks, minerals, even gemstones.” I freeze dramatically, holding out both hands in a ‘stop’ pose, and look around at the kids with overly wide eyes. “But what’s the rule there?” I prompt.

  “Don’t use jewelry to make paint!” several kids shout in unison.

  “Yes!” I pump my fist to celebrate their correct answers. “Because gems and jewelry are . . .?”

  “Different!” the kids respond.

  I bend down, wanting to make sure this lesson sticks long after they leave the museum. “Or your momma will get mad at you, and you, and you.” I point at various kids, and then myself, “And mad at Miss Luna, and we don’t want that, do we?”

  “Nooooo!”

  I hold up my hands, high-fiving the kids. Another successful school field trip tour in the books!

  But as I wave goodbye to the group and their teacher, the overhead speaker calls out, “Luna to the front desk, please.”

  What? I don’t have another tour today. I was looking forward to a little time wandering the halls and talking to museum guests. Guess that’s changed.

  Maybe Carter is here?

  When I approach the desk, the receptionist looks at me in surprise even though she’s the one who paged me.

  “What’s up?”

  Silently, she points to her right, and I look where she’s indicating. “Oh. Ma. Gawd.” My first instinct is to duck down behind the desk so I can’t be seen, and I immediately drop to the floor. I know what I saw, but I keep repeating, “No, no, no, no.”

  Josie leans over the desk, and I hear her above me. “You good?”

  “I don’t know,” I confess honestly, looking up into her concerned face. She’s not usually very friendly with me, so I must be freaking her out if she’s being nice. “How long has she been here?”

  “Maeve? She got here this morning, like usual.” When I glare at Josie, she smiles back triumphantly, well aware that I’m not talking about Maeve who I saw at the coffee pot in the employee lounge this morning. “Oh! You mean the other lady? She’s been here about an hour, just chatting away with Maeve. Who is she?”

  Who is she? She’s the Elena Cartwright! What is she doing here?

  It’s not that I don’t want to see Elena, but she’s supposed to be meeting with Carter and her money guy today, so her being here is unexpected. I don’t do well with the unexpected. I like to plan. Prepare.

  Screaming in my head, I measure the distance to the nearest hallway, trying to figure out whether I can crawl over there without being seen. I think I can do it and even make it two feet before Josie throws me under the bus.

  “Luna, what are you doing on the floor?” she says, intentionally loud enough for Maeve and Elena to hear.

  “What? Luna?” I hear Maeve’s voice echoing in the lobby.

  “Shiiii—” I whisper, but I realize there’s nothing to do but stand up and take my lumps. I pop up too quickly, my vision going a little fuzzy, and have to hold on to the counter so I don’t fall. “Oh! Hi there!” I say, my voice an octave higher than usual. “What’s up?”

  Maeve clears her throat, glaring at me in a silent order to pull myself together. But Elena seems more concerned that I’ve lost my mind, looking from me to the floor. “You okay, dear?”

  “Yes, yes,” I assure her hastily. “I thought there was something . . . on the floor?”

  “There was . . . you,” Josie murmurs. Thankfully, I don’t think Maeve and Elena hear her.

  Finding some semblance of normalcy—or at least what passes for it—I walk toward Elena with my hand out. “Sorry, just surprised to see you. But it’s a great surprise.”

  Instead of shaking my hand, Elena holds her arms out, enveloping me in a hug. I stiffen for a split second but then hug her back warmly.

  “Good to see you too.”

  When she pulls back, I don’t know what to do with my arms and end up with them clenched behind my back as my brain yells, “What is she doing here?”

  On cue, Maeve tells me, “Mrs. Cartwright was just telling me about your suggestion that she consider an exhibition here of Mr. Cartwright’s collection.”

  She sounds a little put out, and I realize that I probably should’ve mentioned it to her before, but it was nothing more than a passing hope. Elena hasn’t said anything more than ‘interesting’ about it.

  “Are you actually considering it?” I ask Elena excitedly.

  She grins. “I thought I’d check the museum out first. Make sure it’s a place Thomas would feel like his collection would be at home.”

  Nodding, I agree. “Absolutely! I’d be happy to show you around.”

  “I think you have another tour in a few minutes, right, Luna?” Maeve prompts.

  I shake my head, pulling out my phone to double-check. “I don’t think so. Unless someone booked one since this morning?” I glance to Josie to make sure no one has called in but find she’s fighting back a laugh. I don’t understand why until I glance back to Maeve, who’s trying to silently communicate with me again, and I realize that she probably wants to be the one to show Elena around. “I mean, uh . . . maybe I have . . . another tour?”

  Maeve smiles, and I breathe a sigh of relief for getting it right.

  Elena’s not having it, though. “Surely, there’s someone else who could handle that? It’d make me happier than a tick on a fat dog to have Luna show me around. It only seems right since she’s the reason I’m here, and I’ve been wanting to see that Renoir of yours since she told me about it.”

  “Oh, well, then there you have it,” Maeve answers, seemingly decidedly less than enthusiastic about my showing Elena around. She probably wants to get her own moment to shine, and I’m in the way of that. “I’d be happy to speak with you about the exhibition in more detail after Luna shows you around.”

  “Sure, sure.” Elena dismisses Maeve with a wave of her hand, then holds her elbow out to me. I slip mine through hers and she smiles. “Take me places and show me things, dear.”

  I lead her off toward the Renaissance wing, trying to keep an Elena-appropriate pace and not the run-away speed I’d like to go at to get away from Maeve’s sharply raised brow.

  “This is one of the most popular areas of the museum,” I tell Elena as she looks around. I know she’s not as passionate about art as Thomas was, but I naturally drop into tour guide mode as we explore. “A lot of folks like the clear imagery, and the bright colors are very uplifting.”

  Elena listens as we walk through room after room, but eventually, I pick up a weirdness in the way she’s watching me and barely glancing at the displays. I don’t think she’s here for the museum. She’s here for . . . me?

  Hopefully, she’s scoping me out for the exhibition, but I’m not sure that’s it. I swallow thickly, knowing that if she asks any direct questions about Carter and me, she’ll be able to see through any awkward answer I give. And I really hate lying to her. She’s so sweet and kind, and I feel like we could be friends even though there’s a lifetime’s worth of years and millions of dollars between the two of us.

  It’s like she’s been waiting patiently for me to catch on that she doesn’t care about the museum because when she sees recognition dawning in my eyes, she smiles gently before sitting down on a bench in the middle of the room. She pats the space beside her, and I slowly lower myself beside her. “Elena?”

  “What brought you to art?” she asks, looking around at the paintings. We’re in the modern art section, an area that people tend to either love or hate.

  I stare into the pop art piece in front of me, searching for an answer that will make sense. “You ever felt like you didn’t fit in?” I ask her. I recognize how stupid that sounds and don’t wait for her answer. “That was me. But art was . . . accepting. It made me feel normal.”