“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.

  Luna freezes, looking down for a long moment as if considering her answer carefully. When her eyes lift to meet mine, there’s doubt, but she nods. “I can’t believe I’m going to do this, but for someone like me, seeing those pieces is akin to a chance to hold the Holy Grail. I can’t say no.”

  “Ooh, get it, girl!” Samantha squeals, now supportive of the whole lying situation if Luna’s good with it.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  LUNA

  “I’m gonna wear the little black dress I showed you,” I tell Samantha again. She shoots me a dangerous look and I clamp my mouth shut. That lasts all of ten seconds before I remind her, “It fits, and it’s perfectly respectable.”

  “You mean boring,” she corrects, and then, with a sense of finality, says, “And still, no. You’ve worn that to a funeral and two weddings.”

  She leads me down the sidewalk of the fashion shopping district, stopping in front of stores that I would never give a second glance. Mostly because even the mannequins in the windows seem to be judging me with their faceless, eyeless aura of superiority. Admittedly, they’re dressed better than I am, and I pulled on non-painty, non-lounge clothes today in an attempt to rise up to Samantha’s style level.

  I glance down at my black jeans, Converse, and plain green T-shirt and then over to Samantha, who’s wearing leopard print trousers, a black V-neck blouse that shows a bit of cleavage, and red peep-toe shoes.

  “Hey, do you have something going on today?” I ask, realizing she looks dressed for more than a day of shopping. I hope I’m not interrupting her day, but a sizable portion of my mind is also thinking that maybe I can still get out of this expedition and just wear the black dress. “If you have a date, we can skip this.” I’m trying to be a good friend, but so is she.

  Samantha and I met when she came to the museum for her Art 101 class, and she basically adopted me as her friend by force, for which I will forever be grateful. After double majoring in Psychology and Biology, she’s now well into her graduate program specializing in sex therapy and likes to make me blush by sharing too much about her studies. Through her, I know way too much about kinks for someone who doesn’t know if I even like vanilla. All jokes aside, she takes her schoolwork very seriously, saying she wants to help people live a full and fulfilling life. She leads a much more exciting life than I do for sure, dating guys of every type, which she says gives her ‘stimulating intel’ for the future. I wonder who she’s seeing today.

  “Not till later. You want to come?”

  “Eek!” I exclaim. “No, no, no.”

  “Consent is key,” Samantha agrees sagely.

  “What if I don’t consent to going into the store and trying on dresses that aren’t going to fit anyway?” I’m exposing a bit of my own insecurity with the question. Places like this store don’t dress people like me—short, curvy, and plain. They’re for people like Samantha, who truly wakes up looking like a goddess.

  Samantha opens the door and nearly shoves me inside. “Nice try, but this is your best option. Let’s go.”

  I stumble over my own feet and right into the saleswoman inside, who I think has been watching me try to talk my way out of this.

  “Ladies.” Not exactly a friendly greeting, but before I know it, Samantha is explaining to her what I need.

  “A fancy dinner?” the saleswoman repeats. She’s staring at me as though my version of ‘fancy’ and hers couldn’t possibly be the same thing. “I’m sure I can find you something.”

  She gives me a shrewd look, and I feel like she’s taking my measurements as accurately as if she had a tape measure choking my curves. But despite her words, she seems less than confident about fitting me.

  Now that Samantha’s gotten me in here, I’m committed to this, and I stand up as straight as I can, still only reaching the lithe blonde’s chest. “Can we skip the whole Pretty Woman moment? I have a black Amex card, courtesy of my dinner date, so if you can find something here . . .” I trail off and look around doubtfully to throw out the challenge, “I would appreciate it. Otherwise, I’m sure Samantha can find somewhere else willing to take my money.”

  The saleswoman takes the rebuke congenially, her customer service mask never slipping. “No need for that. I’ll pull you some options if you’d like to look around.”

  Samantha claps her hands giddily. “Ooh, the claws are out! Let’s get this party started! Bring the champagne too, Brenda.”

  “I’ll do that first. I know how you are, Samantha,” she teases with a wink, seeming much friendlier and more helpful now.

  When she disappears, Sam starts shopping in force. Walking to the nearest rack, she begins flipping through the dresses. “First off, good job standing up for yourself with Brenda.”

  The compliment is appreciated. Sam knows that on the pages of Alphena, I can do or say anything, but in real life, it’s another matter altogether. One I’m working on. But she’s not done. “Second, you need something that’ll knock Carter on his ass.”

  “What? No, I don’t,” I warn. “I need something appropriate for dinner. That’s it. Carter has nothing to do with it.”

  “Your husband has nothing to do with it?” Samantha taunts.

  Husband.

  My fake husband, Carter Harrington, my brother’s best friend.

  This is nothing like me. I don’t do wild, outlandish things. I’m boring as hell, disappearing into a world of my own creation with Alphena for days or weeks on end.

  Panic shoots through me. “Oh, my God!”

  Brenda pops up like a groundhog from a rack across the room. “Everything okay, ladies?”

  Samantha waves her off. “Yeah, we’re good. She just realized that she’s gonna need to shave her kitty cat before dinner.”

  Brenda blinks, clearly shocked but fighting to keeping a neutral face. “I could have the drugstore deliver . . . uhm, supplies?”

  “You’re a doll, but no need. The dinner is tomorrow. She’ll take care of things tonight.”

  With a grateful nod, Brenda disappears back into her search.

  “Samantha.” I shake my head, my eyes unfocused as I realize the full scope of what I’ve promised to do. In the moment, the possibility of seeing the art got to me, but this is so much bigger than that. I have to play the part of Carter’s wife. And I couldn’t be a worse match for a man like Carter. Nobody will believe he and I are a couple.

  “I told you this whole thing is absurd,” Samantha says, “and that’s saying something, when even I’m reigning you in. I’m usually the one telling you to get out there and experience life, not just draw about it.”

  “I don’t know if I can do this,” I confess.

  “Not like this, you can’t,” Brenda interrupts, walking up with an armful of dresses. “But there’s not much you can’t do in the right outfit. Let’s go.”

  Numbly, I follow her to the fitting rooms and let her help me into a dress. I instantly feel like I’m playing dress-up in someone else’s closet, but Brenda exclaims, “This is so you!”

  She doesn’t even know me. That’s obvious given this red dress with a neckline somewhere below my sternum.

  Back in the shop, Samantha bursts out in laughter. “If you were going to a strip club, that’d be perfect. But for dinner? Absolutely not. Your tits, while fabulously motorboat worthy, are one breath away from popping out. Venus may’ve free boobed it, but you cannot.”

  Around ‘strip club’, I’m offended, but by the time Sam mentions Venus . . . “You do listen to me when I talk about art, don’t you? That’s so sweet.” Touched, I place my hands over my heart and find bare skin. “Oh!” My breasts are not just showing off, they’re showing out.

  “Of course I listen,” she preens. “Now take that off.” She wiggles her fingers at me to shoo me back to the fitting room, and I hear her tell Brenda, “Less slutty, more sensual.”

  I try on a few more dresses, each of them okay but not it. Until the last one.

  “Carter’s jaw is going to hit the floor when you walk out in that. It’s perfect.”

  When I look in the mirror, I think Samantha and Brenda might actually be right. I never think of myself as a sexy woman, but in this green dress, I am. My curves are whiplash worthy, my breasts are pushed up to be shapely but not overly exposed, and my ass is guaranteed to bounce a quarter. Best of all, the knee-length skirt and short sleeves keep it modest enough for dinner at the Cartwright estate.

  When Brenda walks off to look for jewelry, Samantha purses her lips. “Okay, you’ve got the body armor for dinner, but are you sure about this?”

  Looking at my reflection, I’m more ready than I was before we got here, but still . . . “No, not at all sure. But ugh . . .” I groan. “Sam, some of the pieces in this collection haven’t been seen in decades. The list of what Thomas Cartwright purchased, as well as his own paintings, is more supposition than fact. The last time I saw even a guess at a list was when Art World did a story about an insurance company agreeing to cover the collection, and a few of the pieces were named. Now I have a chance to see them first-hand, with Elena Cartwright herself as a tour guide. As crazy as it is, I have to do this or I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Samantha tilts her head, mulling over what I’ve said. Finally, she says, “Okay, if you say so. But I’m not talking about the art. I’m talking about Carter. You’re stepping into dangerous territory with a man like that. I mean, he’s . . . him.”

  “I know, and I’m me,” I say bitterly, turning away from the mirror. “I’m out of my league.”

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she corrects firmly. “I’m worried about Carter.”

  “You think I can’t handle him?”

  “I think he’s a do-or-die businessman who’s obviously willing to go to major lengths and lie through his professionally-whitened teeth without losing a wink of sleep at night. But that’s not how you operate. I want you to be careful with him. Don’t get caught up in this husband-and-wife act.”

  “I’ll be careful,” I vow. “This is solely about the art for me. I have no plans of falling for Carter Harrington. He’s too old for me and too focused on business. He’s one of those guys who only date gorgeous, debutante types and probably think graphic novels like Alphena are silly stories for kids. I honestly don’t like him very much.”

  “But he’s, and I quote, ‘a good kisser’,” she reminds me.

  “A kiss doesn’t have to mean anything.” I shrug noncommittally.

  Samantha frowns. “You’re lying to the wrong person here, Luna. A kiss is the physical meeting of two souls, sharing time, heat, and space. Their breath becomes one as their bodies react to one another. Don’t simplify or degrade something so vital.”

  Her words are poetic and make my whole body go liquid, but she’s missing a key factor. “If the people are kissing as part of a relationship, whether a momentary or permanent one, that’s true. But a kiss can also be just a kiss. No meaning, no souls, no promises. Just a touching of lips, no different from bumping into someone on the sidewalk.”

  Sam sighs heavily, unconvinced but not willing to argue further. “Be careful.”

  “I will.”

  The promise is heavy, even as I pay for the dress, shoes, and jewelry using Carter’s Amex card, but I keep reminding myself . . . the Thomas Cartwright collection.

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  CARTER

  Standing outside Luna’s door once again, I feel like my world has become some over-scripted pseudo-reality show in the last twenty-four hours. I’ve gone above and beyond for deals before, but this is so much more. No matter, though, because I’m doing this, as crazy as it is.

  I knock on the door, and in the few seconds before I hear Luna turning the lock, I have one last thought of making a run for it and calling the whole thing off.

  But before I can, the door swings open.

  “Wow, you look great.” The words pop out of my mouth before fully forming in my head, but they’re true. Luna is wearing a dark green dress, showcasing an hourglass shape she usually hides beneath the oversized overalls and frumpy uniform. Her hair is down and curled, her lips glossy, and behind her glasses, her eyes are almost doe-eyed with liner and lashes.

  In an instant, her smile falls. “You don’t have to sound so surprised. Come in while I grab my purse.”

  I can’t help but notice the way her ass sways left and right with every step of her clicking heels on the wood floor as she strides to the kitchen. And of course, she catches me looking when she spins back around.

  “Seriously?” she huffs, totally busting me.

  Shrugging innocently, I reply, “What? I’m just appreciating my wife, and I said you look great.”

  “Don’t even start. And it’s not what you said, it’s how you said it,” she says quietly. I open my mouth to ask what she means, but she cuts me off with an outstretched palm. “Can we just go?”