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She seems shocked at my opinion on the situation, but it’s pretty obvious if you ask me.
“Well, not like I’m in any position to turn guys down, though,” she laments.
I grab the other pillow, propping my chest on it. It pushes my hips into the bed, and I note that at least my dick has gone soft now. “What the fuck does that mean?”
The demand is sharp as I search her face for what she’s talking about. She sinks into her shoulders and sighs. “Look, Carter. I know you’re supposed to be my fake husband and all, but we don’t have to do this.” She waves from me to her. “We’re in different worlds—financially, professionally, personally, physically. It’s okay. I’m happy with myself for the most part, but other than Elena, who might be blind as a bat for all we know, no one would believe we’re a thing.”
Her shrug is one of resignation and her tone of quiet acceptance. But I don’t get it . . .
“We are different,” I start, and I see her cringe, waiting for whatever she thinks I’m going to say. “But different can be good,” I finish. “I don’t really get why you cry when you see a painting or don’t always say out loud what you’re thinking, and I definitely don’t understand how you can get art from your brain out to the real world. It’s magic, it’s witchcraft, it’s something I absolutely can’t do.”
“Sure, yeah,” she says dismissively. “But people don’t want—”
“I wasn’t done. Last but not least, quit saying you’re not pretty or that this is unbelievable.” I use her earlier words so she knows I heard her. “You’re beautiful, and anyone who doesn’t see that is an idiot.” I don’t add that I was one of those idiots a few short days ago. “Any man would be lucky to call you his.”
She scans my face, searching for the lie, but I’m telling the truth. Finally, she says, “I don’t understand why you need this deal so badly. Your life is charmed. You’re one of those people born with a silver spoon, but you’re making it hard on yourself, going to extremes like this whole fake marriage thing for a deal. This would be a lot even for someone who had nothing.”
“Easy is boring. I need to prove myself,” I confess.
Unconvinced, she asks, “To whom?”
“To my brother, my dad, my family. Hell, probably even to myself a bit. There’s a lot of pressure that comes with that silver spoon. So much that I feel like I’ll choke on it sometimes.”
The confession surprises me more than her, I think. I hadn’t realized I felt so trapped by my family’s competitive nature. Probably because it’s been bred into me for generations. I could use one of my mom’s easily given reassurances right about now, but she saves those for Grace these days, trusting that her adult children have their shit together. If only she knew how much that’s not true.
“Hmm, you’re maybe not as bad as I thought you were.” Luna smiles to soften the not-quite-a-compliment but then yawns.
“Apology accepted. I’ll move over to the couch so you can get some rest.” I shove the pillow back toward the head of the bed, but she stops me.
“It’s fine. This bed is huge. You stay on your side and I’ll stay on mine.” She draws a line down the center of the bed with her hand.
“My back is gonna thank you in the morning.” We both get rearranged so that we’re under the blankets, but not touching, with a few inches of no-man’s land between us. As I reach over to turn off the lights, I chuckle and murmur, “Good night, wife.”
She laughs and answers, “Good night, Carter.”
I flick off the light with the remote on the nightstand, and we go silent, waiting for sleep to come. Luna succumbs pretty quickly, and I should be thinking about Elena, this deal, and how I’m going to get that handshake in the morning before we leave.
But all I can focus on are Luna and her soft breathing.
CHAPTER
TEN
LUNA
I wake up, or maybe I’m not awake because this must be a dream. I’m floating on a cloud of the softest, fluffiest cotton and there are warm, strong arms wrapped around me. There’s also a very hard something pressed between the cheeks of my ass.
I arch my back into the sexy feelings as I sink into the dream with a moan. It jumps, and I’m about to open my knees in invitation when the arms tighten into a delicious hug that pulls me against the hardness forcefully. “Good morning, beautiful.” I shudder reflexively, heat pooling between my legs that has nothing to do with the high thread-count duvet.
My brow furrows as the dream turns confusing. That voice is oddly familiar . . . but why? Or who?
