Wild Open Hearts (Bluewater Billionaires) - Kathryn Nolan Page 0,53
lip—“I thought you’d be interested.” She had a strange inflection on interested. If it wasn’t so dark out, I’d worry she’d see my cheeks redden.
“It’s not that I’m not interested,” I managed. One side of her mouth lifted, hopeful. “But you can’t pretend you don’t notice where our friendship doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure, I’ve noticed it,” she said, chin lifted again. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, suddenly exhausted. Why did I care about this shit anyway? Friend or not, Luna da Rosa was really only a CEO that was volunteering at my nonprofit. That was all.
Luna was worrying at her bottom lip, all the flirtatious lightness of earlier drained away. “Impasse is right, Mr. Mason.”
“Maybe I’m…” I shrugged. “Like an eight or whatever on the grumpiness scale.”
Luna actually smiled. “I actually think you’ve been a zero for a week straight now.”
“Happy to hear, I guess,” I said. I knew I sounded gruff. Awkward. I wanted to slip back into the dream of that beach; the mangoes, the sunset, her hair beneath my fingers.
“I should go get back to work, I guess,” she said, walking slowly down her incredibly long driveway. “I’ll see you in a few days at Lucky Dog.”
“Thanks for the drink,” I mumbled.
Her expression was a mystery. “Good night.” She waved, then turned to walk down the path, shining in the moonlight.
I got on my bike and roared off to my shitty apartment on the other side of town.
30
Luna
What the hell had just happened?
One second, Beck was tenderly stroking through my hair in a way that left me breathless.
The next? We were awkwardly at an impasse again in front of my house—Beck’s walls all the way back up. And me, unsure of what I’d done, or not done, or how to fix it. The shift was alive and well tonight, as I walked through my driveway beneath a dark canopy of stars, salt on the breeze. Because I’d been proud, excited, to show off Bluewater and the amazing things that we’d done. But wouldn’t I feel the same way that Beck did if I was dating a man so much wealthier than I was—like so much more?
Wouldn’t a neighborhood of super rich people, no matter how funky or loving or beautiful, make me feel guarded?
“Pssst. Moon.” I turned, jumping, to find Emily slipping out from the small path that encircled my courtyard.
“Is having that much sex with Derek every day making you quieter?” I teased, laughing breathlessly. “You could have killed me. I could have died and come back reincarnated as like a cheeseburger.”
“The horror,” Emily mused. “Can I come in?”
“Please,” I said, wrapping her into a side-hug. I flicked on the colorful lights and lamps that adorned my living room. Put the kettle on and lit a tray of candles. I made Emily a cup of chamomile tea, grateful for the distraction. Beck’s words had left me unsettled. It didn’t feel like an argument, necessarily. It just felt… complicated.
“What’s up, beautiful?” I asked, handing her a small, teal coffee mug. “Where are Cameron and Daisy? And Derek?”
Her lips quirked. “Daisy is on a spontaneous trip to Bali with, I believe, a European prince.”
I snorted into my own mug.
“Cameron’s with Jude. Derek has a late meeting. I thought I’d come over because, you know, the picture that’s floating around. With Beck.”
“Wait, what?” I reached for my phone, stowed safely in my bag. When I pulled it out, my screen was filled with notifications and missed calls from Jasmine. “Oh my god, my phone’s been on silent this whole time.”
I tapped open the screen, frantically searching. Emily placed a steadying hand on my arm.
“Moon,” she said. “Where were you that you had your phone on silent for the first time in a decade?”
I looked at my friend. “I was having a beer with Beck at Lummus Park after we rescued a stray dog together.”
Understanding flooded her features. A tiny smile. “The picture makes more sense now. And I’ll preface this by saying it’s only floating around gossip blogs and lifestyle websites. I don’t think it’s a setback. I’m sure Jasmine does though.”
A text from Jasmine. Three, actually. The last one: This photo is going to be an issue with our Fischer Home Goods meeting tomorrow.
“Oh, shit,” I muttered.
I finally found it—I’d been tagged on Instagram. It looked like a classic paparazzi shot, the picture focused on my face.
“Oh my god, I see what you mean,” I said, fingers flying to my mouth.