AllFreeNovel
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Jesus. I thought the Jackson genes were strong but the Evans women are carbon copies of each other, both sporting the same mop of blonde hair and bright blue eyes and even brighter smiles, only a few grey hairs and the odd wrinkle separating them. Not that there’s many of those to be found; they could be sisters, honestly.
They even babble the same, talking a million miles a minute as they move inside the apartment, Luna's nerves apparently forgotten. As is my presence until Luna’s mom’s gaze flits my way and her smile widens exponentially. Before I know it, I'm being dragged into a fierce hug too. “You must be Jackson!”
As not-awkwardly as I can manage, I hug her back. “Nice to meet you, ma'am.”
The slap on the arm I get further proves that this woman is indeed Luna's mother, as does her scarily familiar tut of disapproval. “None of thatma'amcrap. It's Isla.”
Oh, how horrified my grandmother would be to hear that.
I smile and nod, and Isla slaps me again, a friendly one this time, two palms clapping against my biceps before she drags her daughter toward the kitchen, making a beeline for the kettle. “Where's all your stuff?” she asks, eyeing Luna's lone handbag suspiciously.
Lu slips into one of the bar stools around the tiny kitchen island, fingers drumming against the surface. “Dropped it off at the hotel before we came here.
“You didn't have to stay at a hotel.”
“You don't have room for us here,” Luna counters, waving an arm around the small apartment. She's not wrong; the one-bedroom apartment barely looks big enough for Isla.
I like it. It's cozy. Everything I want in a home. Lots of distressed wood and bright colors and old, vintage furniture and a myriad of knick-knacks. Photos of Luna and Isla cover every available surface, scattered across coffee tables and bookshelves and hanging off the walls. There's artwork everywhere too on canvases of every size, artists I recognize and artists I don't, Isla’s work probably mixed in there too. A loft hangs above us, and I remember Luna telling me her mom turned her old bedroom into a studio when she moved out.
Isla must notice me staring. Pausing her tea-making, she gestures toward the loft. “Make yourself at home, hun.”
I only falter for a moment before heading toward the steep wooden staircase. Immediately, I'm assaulted by the smell of paint. Bright natural light pours in from a skylight, illuminating the paint-splattered walls covered in finished canvases. Half-finished ones lean against the walls. A battered easel sits in one corner, a desk beside it, piles of paints and brushes and palettes stacked high.
God, I'd love something like this one day. A proper studio.
Not wanting to intrude on what's so obviously such a personal space, I don't linger long before heading back downstairs. My feet hit the bottom step just in time to hear Luna proclaim a whispered 'oh my god.' Still perched on a stool, she hunches over the island with her head in her hands, my favorite pretty blush creeping up her neck.
“What?” Isla remarks, a familiar mischief glittering in her gaze. “I'm just saying! I wouldn't want to stay with my mother either if my boyfriend looked likethat.”
“Jesus Christ, Ma.” Luna rubs her forehead as she lifts her head, a groan ripping from her throat when her eyes land on me. Following her daughter's line of sight, Isla spots me too. Unlike her daughter, she doesn't look the least bit embarrassed.
“Your studio is incredible,” I tell her as I make my way over, coming to a cautious stop beside Luna. I'm not sure how she feels about the whole PDA in front of her mom thing, so I keep my hands firmly by my sides.
That is, until she cozies up beside me, grabs my arm and throws it over her shoulders before shoving her hand in my back pocket.
Isla eyes us in amusement, pure delight in her grin. “Thanks, hun,” she responds to my earlier compliment, shoving a mug of piss-yellow, grassy liquid in my hands. “Luna mentioned you're an artist.”
I force down a sip of the tea and shrug. “I like to draw. Nothing like what you can do.”
“Please, there's no need for modesty in this house.” Isla waves off my words and jerks her thumb in her daughter's direction. “This one sends me pictures of your drawings. They're wonderful.”
I shoot Luna a look. She offers me a guilty smile. “What? They're of me. Figured I didn't need permission.”
Tugging her closer, I drop my lips to her temple. “Sneaky.”
“Smart,” she corrects.
Isla watches our interaction, hands clasped beneath her chin and an honest-to-God sparkle in her eyes. “I think I've died and gone to heaven.”
“Ma!”
“What? I thought you'd never bring someone home. Let me bask in it a little.”
“I'm never bringing him back here.”
Isla holds up her hands in mock surrender, but the grin on her face doesn't fall.
The conversation lapses into mindless chatter, the two women catching up while I choke down the rest of the tea, Luna watching me knowingly all the while. Since we're not staying here, Isla insists that the least she can do is make us dinner. When she opens up the fridge to start pulling out ingredients, she casts a backwards glance at her daughter.
