Page 50 of Blue Moon

Not even her mom? Ryder almost asked the question but realised he didn’t have to. Of course Amethyst Puckett had never told her daughter that she loved her.

“Then I’m going to tell you every damn day.”

14

RYDER

So many fuckin’ people… Ryder thought the crowds would get smaller as Luna’s run of shows continued, but the opposite seemed to be true. There had to be a hundred fans waiting outside the theatre, plus the ubiquitous reporters and a guy holding a large wooden cross who urged her to repent, repent, repent. Ryder’s body camera filmed all of them.

He forced himself to focus on the surroundings, not on her. She was doing what she had to—signing autographs, posing for pictures, making small talk. Before he met her, he’d figured she loved the attention, but now he saw the way she steeled herself before she walked out the door. He also saw the chart she’d taped to her refrigerator door. Ninety-eight boxes that she ticked off as she completed each concert. At the end, there was a picture of a bed and a TV. Luna didn’t want to take an expensive vacation when the show was over; she just wanted to sleep and watch Netflix.

And last night, she’d added a cake to the chart.

And a dog.

Was it dumb to be jealous of an imaginary dog?

A guy tried to put his arm around Luna, and Ryder stepped forward, ready to remove the offending limb—from the man’s shoulder if necessary—but Luna sidestepped gracefully and held up a hand. She had this. She was used to being pawed by strangers. Ryder didn’t like it, but he had to respect her decisions.

Tonight, she’d worn capri pants, wedge sandals, and a cropped T-shirt. With Amethyst out of the picture, she’d subtly changed the way she dressed—out with the tiny shorts and the barely-there tops, in with tailored pants and shirts that didn’t threaten a wardrobe malfunction every time she moved. At home, she preferred sportswear, leggings and loose sweaters, and a pair of fluffy moccasins gifted by Caro.

Damn, she was beautiful.

Ryder was dressed in an ill-fitting suit. The purpose was twofold—firstly, it acted as a uniform that let him fade into the background, and secondly, the poor cut of the fabric hid a multitude of weapons. If Mark A made one wrong move, he’d regret it.

Luna played to the crowd for fifteen minutes, then moved inside. Ryder had already been in touch with Derek Monroe, who reported no new gifts for Cleopatra and also mentioned that he’d be stationing additional guards by the backstage doors. There were two of those—the door from outside that they were using tonight, and a staff door in the hallway that led from the main hotel. Ryder nodded to the guard outside as they passed, and he nodded back.

“Feeling okay?” he asked in a quiet second as they headed for Luna’s dressing room.

“Mm-hmm.” She glanced sideways and flashed a tiny smile. “At least I slept well.”

They’d both slept well. Luna hadn’t invited him into her bed, so he’d dumped his bag in the spare room, fully prepared to spend the night there. Then they’d fallen asleep watching a movie about werewolves that was all CGI and no plot. In the early hours when he’d woken, neck cricked, and carried a groggy Luna back to her room, she’d gripped his hand and told him to stay. She’d used his shoulder as a pillow the way she had in San Gallicano, and when they woke in a tangle of limbs and sheets, she’d kissed him on the cheek before she disappeared into the bathroom. They still needed to have a long talk about the future, but he knew one thing for sure: Luna Maara would be in his.

She greeted each of her dancers with a hug, and Paul glared over her shoulder at Ryder. Ryder kept his expression impassive. They weren’t each other’s competition, and they had the same goal, which was to keep Luna safe. He couldn’t hate the guy.

But he could hate the next guy.

The newcomer was an inch shorter than Ryder with dark hair and a sharp jaw. His physique said he clearly spent time in the gym, and his suit fit a fuck of a lot better. He walked in as if he owned the place.

“Luna…” The prick kissed her on both cheeks. “I just wanted to check everything’s okay? Derek said there was a security issue?”

“I’m fine. There’s a creepy guy sending me stuff, that’s all.”

“You want me to look into that?”

“My own security is handling it, but thank you.”

Ryder stepped forward. “The notes are being analysed, sir, and we have protocols in place.”

“Good. Let me know if you need anything else tightened up here.” He wrapped an arm around Luna’s shoulders and turned her away, effectively dismissing Ryder. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Who the fuck was this asshole, and why wasn’t Luna giving him the cold shoulder? Information came from an unlikely source.

“That’s Romeo Serafini,” Paul muttered from behind. “His daddy owns the hotel.”

Ah, fuck. The Mob boss’s son. Okay, rumoured Mob boss. Frank Serafini was no Al Capone, but he wasn’t clean either. Ryder had only seen one picture of Romeo, taken several years ago, and he’d worn his hair much longer back then, like Italian fucking Jesus. Ryder went after them.

The person Romeo wanted Luna to meet turned out to be a kid. A dark-haired girl, no more than seven or eight years old, stood by the craft table clutching a guitar in one hand and a bunch of flowers in the other.

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