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I stand in front of the piece silently, hoping that Carter can see some of the magic he saw in the Picasso painting in this one as well. Unexpectedly, Carter drops to a knee beside me, and at first, I think he’s fallen. Maybe he passed out or spontaneously hurt his leg?
I gasp, “Are you okay?”
He looks at me from a crouched position and reaches for my hand. I reach back to help him get up, still confused on how he ended up on the floor, but he doesn’t stand. No, he holds my hand in his warm, large one and gazes up at me with a strange look in his eyes.
“Luna, thank you for sharing your days with me, and your nights. I hope to share a lifetime of them together with you as my wife. Will you marry me?”
“What?” I manage to squeak out.
Did he bump his head somehow? Is he having a stroke?
My focus shrinks and time rolls in slow motion. I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with a thick swallow, and then he smiles and tiny lines sprout beside his eyes, which are so blue and locked on me in a way that makes my whole body freeze in place. Squeezing my hand, he repeats more clearly, “Will you marry me?”
That’s what I thought he said, but it makes absolutely zero sense. We barely know each other and don’t even like each other. We’re ridiculously incompatible, my awkwardness and his smooth charm a piss-poor fit. And again . . . what?
Through the fog of my confusion, I hear a voice cry out, “If you don’t say yes, I will, honey!”
I look around to see that we’ve gathered an audience of onlookers who have their hands clasped over their mouths or at their chests, eyes wide with excitement over witnessing what must look like a romantic proposal. It’s my worst nightmare come to life, or one of them, at least.
I can feel my mouth opening and closing as I look back to Carter. “I . . . I . . .”
He pushes a ring onto my left ring finger and then stands, grabbing me around the waist in one movement. He spins me in a circle wildly, my feet flailing through the air. Applause surrounds us and then . . .
Carter. Freaking. Harrington. Kisses me. Right on the lips, like he has any right to.
My first thought is that he’s a great kisser—his lips soft, his mouth warm, and his breath minty. My second thought is . . .
“Put me down!” I shout, slapping at his shoulders.
The onlookers laugh, and a lady says, “Let him pick you up while y’all can still do that.” I glance over to see her smiling lovingly at the wrinkled and hunched man at her side.
Carter chuckles at the woman’s comment like this whole thing is some big joke and whispers roughly in my ear, “Smile, Luna.”
The heat of the words and the gruffness of the order surprise me, but what surprises me more is the shiver that runs down my spine. I look at Carter, whose lips are entirely too close to mine again. I wiggle, looking for the stability of the floor because the foundation of my world has gone wobbly.
I don’t like Carter Harrington, so why is it suddenly so hot in here? And why did he propose to me?
Carter lowers me but keeps me tucked into his side with a tight arm around my shoulders, smiling at the crowd like he’s the mayor as he accepts their congratulations and well wishes. I’m too awkward and too confused to move away, my feet frozen in place and my face a mask of puzzlement.
That only gets worse when Zack steps out from around the corner with a victorious smile. “Got it!” he shouts, holding up his phone.
The crowd begins to dissipate, leaving the three of us alone with the Jackson Pollock painting that I’m definitely never going to look at the same way again.
“What?” I push away from Carter, feeling like Zack caught us doing something wrong. I won’t admit to anyone, not even myself, that I feel the loss of the weight of his arm around my shoulders. And I totally don’t stumble as I put space between us because my whole world just went . . . what did Carter say his grandmother called it? Cattywampus—that’s it. That’s what I am. But I’m fighting my way back to even-keeled with every passing second.
Carter flashes me a sheepish smile. It’s one I’m sure has gotten him out of trouble his entire life, but it’s not working on me. Not now.
“I got to thinking last night after we talked. I do wish you could be there to help me, but if not . . .” He pauses and gives me a hopeful look as though I’ve reconsidered and decided to go along with his plan for me to be his assistant. I cross my arms in response. “Right, so if you’re not there, I can at least say that I have an art-loving wife. And now I have a sweet story, with video proof, of how I got engaged on a private tour at the museum in front of her favorite piece in the collection.”
