Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108730 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
“Ooh, moose knuckle! I like that one!” Jacob tells us, and Peanut Butter barks in agreement.
That’s all Elena can take. She bangs the table with a palm as a loud belly laugh escapes, her eyes squinch shut, and her mouth drops wide open. “Oh, my word! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a month of Sundays. You asked for it, Claire, and Carter delivered with bells on. Or balls, in this case.”
I chance a smile and then laugh along. Luna places her hand over mine in a move of solidarity, and it suddenly feels less punishing to have my hand squeezing her thigh and more sexy, especially as my pinkie moves an inch higher of its own volition.
Though there’s laughter around the table, I still hear the tiny hitch in Luna’s breath and it makes my heart stutter.
But as the laughter fades, Claire straightens her back, visibly resetting herself. “If we could stick to the topic at hand . . . Carter, we won’t be needing your services.”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
LUNA
Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep.
“And break for fifteen.” I stand from where I’ve sprawled on the floor for the last forty-five-minute work sprint and stretch my arms overhead.
“Let me finish this chapter. I’m on a roll,” Samantha argues with her nose buried in her notes.
That’s not what we agreed upon, and we’re sticking the plan. Past history has proven we do best with forty-five/fifteen-minute cycles. It’s how we can work successfully for the whole evening, which is what we both need to do tonight. Me, on Alphena. Sam, on coursework for the test she has next week.
This interruption is key to her studying, even if she doesn’t think so. She’s spread out on the couch—laptop, papers, highlighters everywhere—so I plop right down in the middle of the tornado.
“Hey!”
“Break. Time.” My declaration is met with an exasperated sigh. “You know you need it. Don’t ignore your body’s signals.” It’s a direct quote from her, one she’s told me numerous times, but that doesn’t mean she likes me throwing it back at her.
She glares at me for a long moment where I think I’ve won, then she leans back against the arm of the couch and a slow smile steals her lips.
Uh-oh. When she looks at me like that, I’m in trouble.
Deflect! Save yourself!
“Hungry? Thirsty? I’ve got Raisinets, popcorn, wine, La Croix . . .”
Samantha wrinkles her nose. “I hate that shit and you know it. La Croix is water that they wave fruit over and pump full of more air than a puffer fish’s ass. And raisins are not candy, no matter how much chocolate you cover them in.” I have a split second of thinking I’ve gotten away with the deflection before she shatters the illusion. “Body signals, that’s the topic at hand.”
“Nope, I happen to love Raisinets.” I make a run for the kitchen, but with the size of my apartment, I’m not exactly far away and Samantha keeps talking.
“You owe me a story. How was dinner with your husband?”
I shove a large handful of candy in my mouth and gesture that I can’t talk right now. I should use the time to think of how to explain the craziness of the dinner with Carter, but instead, what pops out as soon as I can talk is . . .
“We had fake-sex.”
And also, a stray Raisinet that was somehow going ninja on my tongue. I cover my mouth with a hand, chewing and swallowing as quickly as I can without choking.
Samantha sprints across the room to my side. “You had sex with Carter Harrington? Seriously?”
She picks up a candy and beans me in the forehead with it. Luckily, I catch it on the drop and hold it in my hand with the others. “Fake sex,” I repeat, “Not peen in vag. That’s your specialty.”
“Details, Luna,” she says, not offended at all by my comment. “Are we talking dry humping, fingering, or what?”
“Samantha!” She tilts her head in a threat to continue listing sexual acts until I start explaining or die of embarrassment. Given the heat of my cheeks, death by mortification is entirely possible, so I spill my guts. “We had dinner and it was fine. Except we had to take Grace and Peanut Butter. But still, fine. And the tour was amazing. Thomas’s collection was all I hoped and more. Surprisingly, I think my favorite was one of his personal works. It was beautiful in a different way than I expected. The technique was flawless, but it was the emotion in every stroke that showed how much he loved Elena, his wife.”
Samantha holds up a finger, halting me. “Who are Grace and Peanut Butter?”
“Carter’s niece and his brother’s dog. There was a family mix-up and he ended up emergency babysitting, so we had to take them with us to dinner.”
“To a business dinner? Oh-kay, you know that’s weird, right?” When I nod, she rolls her eyes. “But then y’all did dinner, a tour . . . unless there’s something I need to know there, get to the fake sex part. I want to hear all the wet, juicy, sloppy details.”