“No, Luna. It’s a gift. I’m not going to leave you in the lurch. I’ll make sure you’re okay, you know that. I’m going to make sure you’re happy with whatever the arrangement is.”
What is it about this exchange that’s hitting me right where I live?
I don’t know.
I don’t fucking know.
But as I watch this strangely beguiling girl in her yellow dress with her sun-kissed skin and her eyes which I can see in the golden light are green and flecked with color, like her pupils are emitting some glowy, mesmerizing light that I want to attract in ways I really don’t fully know how to fucking analyze, something’s happening to me.
Don’t be a goddamn sap, you idiot. She’s gorgeous, that’s all. Something’s not “happening to you.” You want to take her to bed and feed on all that cute-hot beauty, that’s what’s “happening.” You want to peel off that yellow dress and suck on her cherry-ripe nipples which you can just barely see the outlines of under the thin fabric. Then you want to do unspeakable things to that sweet, luscious mouth.
I look for the inevitable flaws, which are usually the first thing I notice. But what’s fascinating me is that … there aren’t any. Her face is outstandingly … symmetrical. Her eyes are bright and clear. And determined.
Luna from Iowa. Luna with the soulful eyes and angular shoulders and the vibrant allure that’s more real than I know how to handle.
Goddamn it.
Maybe I’ve had more to drink than I realized.
“Hey,” someone next to me says. My concentration diverts briefly to my left.
It’s the blond. She’s checking me out.
“What brings you to Key West on a Thanksgiving weekend?” She blinks her lashes at me, which are thick with caked mascara. I stare at her for a few seconds and there they all are: the flaws. The overdone makeup. The smile that does nothing to hide the desperation in her eyes. The hunger for things I can give that have nothing to do with the person I am.
Since when did that matter?
“Business or pleasure?” she says coyly.
My gaze slides away. I’m staring. Not at the blond, but at the girl in the yellow dress.
“Pleasure,” I reply.
Hers.
And mine.
I can’t believe it’s come to this. My bestie is bailing on me.
Of course I understand why. But Iowa, our past, our families—or what remains of the wreckage, in my case at least—feels a million miles away.
Can I do this alone?
I take a deep breath.
Of course I can.
I can.
We’ll get an investor who will pump a huge cash injection into our—my—business and everything will be wonderful. Josie will go home to Iowa and be welcomed into the loving circle of her supportive family where her twins will be well taken care of. And so will she. It’s all for the best.
And me?
I feel like more of an orphan than I ever did when my parents left me.
Suck it up, Luna. You’re twenty-three years old. You’re quirky and energetic and capable. You can do anything you set your mind to.
Can I?
Yes.
I’ll figure it out.
I’ll have to figure it out.
Josie’s eyes are bloodshot and her eyelashes are wet and spiked like art deco designs. Noah, I can’t help thinking, you really missed out on something spectacular. She looks so tired. I guess growing two babies inside your body is going to take its toll. And she hasn’t even gotten close to the hard part yet.
“Right now,” I tell her, “I want you to go upstairs and relax. Sleep for a while. I’ll help Rico until the rush is over and then I’ll come upstairs and we’ll figure out exactly what we’re going to do. Okay?”
Josie wipes her eyes, but they’re still leaking. “Okay. I’m so sorry, Loon. I’m sorry about everything.”
I give her a hug. “Don’t say that. There’s nothing to be sorry about. Everything happens for a reason. Those twins are the reason. Those little babies are going to light up your life in all the best ways. They’ll have a fabulous life back in Iowa with their tree houses and their swimming holes and their carpools and their cousins.”
I gently guide Josie back towards the door that leads up to our apartment and I send her on her way. She’s so emotionally fragile these days, breaking down at the drop of a hat. Yesterday she cried her eyes out over a dog meme she saw on Instagram. She needs to rest.
Once she’s gone, I turn my attention to the customers. The place has filled up and there are ten or so people seated at the bar.
A man is watching me. He’s been watching me for a while. His drink is empty. I walk over to him. “What can I get you?” He’s dark-haired and good-looking—like, insanely good-looking—in a smug, over the top kind of way. The kind of way that guarantees he could and probably has banged every woman in sight for most of his adult life. I can’t tell if the woman sitting next to him is his date or not. If she is, he’s giving her the cold shoulder and this annoys me.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks me. So she must not be his date.
Arrogant doesn’t even scratch the surface with this one. This guy could probably give a master class on the subject. “Thank you, but no. I don’t drink when I’m working.” I glance at the blond woman, who’s staring at the guy like he’s the answer to all her prayers. “But she looks like she might want one,” I suggest.
“All right, then,” he says, without missing a beat. His voice is deep and has a smoky husk to it that’s almost comically sexy. No doubt women fall at his feet. Luckily, I won’t be one of them. I learned my lesson a long time ago. Guys like this one—the “alphas,” who every woman in the room watches and covets and wishes was hers, are the ones who will destroy your life. I should know. It happened to me once and I honestly don’t know if I could survive a second round. So I go out of my way to avoid smug jerks like this one, especially ones whose collar is barely dry from the wrath of the last woman he scorned. When you work in a bar you learn the signs. “Put her drink on my tab. I’ll have another Jack Daniels on ice. And when your shift ends, I’ll buy you whatever you want.”
He’s outrageously sure of himself. Most people I deal with on a daily basis have threads of insecurity to their overall manner, but this guy doesn’t. And neither do I. My mother once told me she’s never met anyone as brave as I am. Not that it’s helped me all that much, but for some reason this guy reminds me of that quality in myself. Like I’ll need all the bravery I can muster when he’s around. Which is a weird thing to contemplate, but there it is.
“My shift never ends.” I’m trying hard not to be rude to him, but my emotional scars are lighting up and my heartbeat is racing. I add three ice cubes to a glass and pour his whiskey.
He cocks his head slightly. His eyes are an unusual shade of aqua, rimmed by dark, dense lashes, quietly challenging me. There’s a rough, masculine glamor that clings to him like he’s been sprinkled with angel dust. He’s extraordinary, one of nature’s chosen ones.