return address label said “Quinn-Cavendish III.”
“We have any adoptive families this far away?” I asked.
Elián shook his head. “Not that I remember.”
I opened the card—it said “thank you” on the front. Inside was a picture of a dog I remembered well.
Matilda.
She’d been a huge pitbull; craggy face, giant body. We’d found her abandoned here but were completely out of space. I couldn’t just let her go and I refused to send her to a shelter where I knew she’d be a candidate for euthanasia. We’d been in extreme luck—a friend of Jem’s, Sasha, had been in town and mentioned she worked at the Manhattan Island Animal Rescue shelter. She escorted Matilda back to New York City, but that was two years ago. Last I’d heard, she was still in the shelter, waiting to be adopted.
A picture fell out. A wealthy-looking man in a suit stood with his arms wrapped around Matilda. Behind them, with a matching smile, was a woman who looked like the lead singer in a punk band. Partially shaved head, tattoos everywhere. The couple didn’t fit, at least at first glance.
But the love they had for each other would have been obvious to anyone.
And they were holding Matilda—our Matilda—like she was their most prized possession.
Dear Lucky Dog, the note began. My extremely brilliant—and incredibly convincing—girlfriend Roxy forced me to adopt Matilda one night early on in our courtship. To say this dog has changed my life irrevocably would be an understatement. She has brought me an unconditional love I have never experienced before. We heard recently from Sasha that Matilda came from your fine establishment, so on this first anniversary of her joining our family, please let us extend our sincerest gratitude. You have made our lives wonderful.
The bottom was signed: Best regards, Edward Christopher Cavendish III.
Elián grabbed the picture. “Matilda. I thought she’d be in that shelter forever.”
“Me too,” I said, throat tightening. I knew the story I could share now if someone asked me.
“Oh, and that fancy dude sent this too.” Wes dug in his pockets and pulled out a check.
Edward Christopher Cavendish the whatever had sent us five grand. A sticky note was stuck to it that read: My rich boyfriend is extremely rich. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he sends even more next time.—Roxy Quinn.
“What a mismatched couple,” I muttered. But the check felt right. The check was ours, not from Luna.
Elián pinned the card next to a picture that Buzz had sent us a few days ago—Jack Sparrow looked right at home on Buzz’s boat. He was not dressed in a full sailor costume. But he proudly wore a bandana covered in tiny fish.
“Think I’ve got a few stories,” I said, clearing my throat.
As Wes left to respond to emails, I turned to Elián, crossed my arms. Fidgeted a little in my jacket. “I guess it is time for you and me to start making a five-year plan or whatever. Do… investments.”
He cracked a smile. “Yeah, we gotta do those investments.”
“You know what I mean. You’re right. Luna’s not going to be helping us forever.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said slyly. “She fucking loves it here. She even seems to like the grumpy douche who stomps around grumbling all day.”
I pinned him with a serious look. “You, uh… you think she actually does, though? Like me?”
“Luna?” Elián said. “She’s been walking around with hearts for eyes ever since she met you. She’s almost as obsessed as you are. Look, and now she’s taking you to be her fancy date. You mean a lot to her.”
“Think she understands I’ve never, ever been invited to be in a room full of people like this tonight?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Who cares? You’re going now.”
I knew why I was feeling this way—I was entering Luna’s world tonight. And not the world I usually saw her in—kneeling in the dirt so she could pet Penelope or working on mock-ups with her staff at her office. This was billionaire shit. The next level.
“I’m not sure I measure up,” I admitted.
“You measure way the hell up,” Elián said, clapping me on the shoulder. “Don’t ever forget it.”
I hoped I did. Really fucking hoped.
Because I was pretty damn sure I was madly in love with Luna.
52
Beck
I parked about a mile from Luna’s event, needing the air. Needing a walk to clear the crop of worries that had invaded my thoughts. Worries that I loved Luna and she couldn’t possibly love me back.
Worried that we’d always be too different to