Page 22 of Blue Moon

“Really? Literally the whole rest of the world would disagree with you.”

“Has the rest of the world taken the time to get to know you?”

“No, but…” Luna blew out a long breath. “I won’t lie; it’s creepy being compared to a ghost.”

“Why do you think I didn’t tell you?”

“Are you going to keep things from me again?”

“No.” Maybe he should tell her why he’d been in Georgia? “Let’s order dinner, and then you can ask me anything you want.”

“This doesn’t mean we can just go back to the way things were. It’s not that simple.”

“I understand.”

But she was agreeing to dinner, and something was better than nothing.

“Don’t touch me. No hugs, none of that kissing my hair and making me go all fuzzy.”

Kissing her hair made her go fuzzy? Interesting.

“I promise.”

“Oh, and don’t think you’re staying here tonight.”

He had hoped, but small steps for the win. He wasn’t going to push and risk losing her altogether, not when she was trying to meet him halfway.

“Fine, as long as you keep your phone fully charged and next to you, and you promise to call me if anything makes you uncomfortable.”

“Okay. Will you stay nearby?”

“I’ll be at the Black Diamond. Let’s find a menu and order something to eat—it’s getting late.”

Luna cast a wistful glance at the trash, and Ryder’s teeth ground all of their own accord. He needed to get those notes to Blackwood and beg Hallie to take a look at them. Who the fuck was Mark A, and why had he fixated on Luna? He thought she was Cleopatra come back to life? From what little Ryder knew about Queen Cleopatra, Luna didn’t look much like her, and she wouldn’t be ruling over a country any time soon.

There were two possibilities. One, the note-writer knew exactly what he was doing, and he was deliberately trying to scare her; or two, he was in the midst of a mental health crisis, and he needed professional help.

Either way, when it came to Luna’s safety, Ryder wasn’t taking any chances. They needed to find Mark A and remove him from the picture.

8

LUNA

Huh. Ryder thought I reminded him of his dead girlfriend? That was weird, but not as weird as my stalker, who thought I reminded him of a dead Egyptian pharaoh. When I used to complain about all the pageants Mom entered me into, she’d told me that my life was never destined to be average, and I guess she was right.

Ryder said I could ask him anything, but I had to tread carefully. I’d seen the pain in his eyes when he spoke about Neve. Although he’d hurt me—badly—two wrongs didn’t make a right, and if we were going to salvage a friendship out of this mess, I needed to act sympathetic rather than nosy, even if I was burning with curiosity. And I found that I did want to salvage a friendship. For a month in San Gallicano, Ryder had been my rock, and I appreciated having someone strong to lean on.

Ryder brought in the microwave, only to find that my old one wasn’t actually broken, it just smelled really bad and the lasagne was burned onto the glass plate thingy at the bottom. So now I had two microwaves.

Two microwaves, and a table full of Chinese takeout boxes, this time delivered by a driver who didn’t sing and didn’t abandon them on the doorstep. Ryder went downstairs to collect the food and tip the guy while I set out plates and cutlery. Ryder could probably use chopsticks, but I couldn’t, not if I wanted the food to end up in my mouth. Months had passed since we shared a meal, and in San Gallicano, we’d mostly eaten simple, home-cooked dishes. Grilled fish, rice, and vegetables jazzed up with spices. And we’d never eaten alone.

This was new territory.

I only hoped he kept his word about not touching me. He’d already shaken my trust, and if he lied one more time…whatever this thing was between us, it would be over.

Men just couldn’t help themselves; that’s what the man who stole my virginity had told me. If a pretty woman flirted with them, instinct took over. I hadn’t even realised I was flirting, but I’d had a couple of cocktails—cocktails I’d been far too young to drink—so maybe I’d inadvertently encouraged him? Whatever, now I went out of my way to act cold toward every straight man in my orbit. Cold, or sometimes plain nasty. However I behaved, it didn’t matter to the paparazzi. They wrote whatever they wanted to write. I could tell a man to jump off a cliff, and as long as I did it while wearing a short dress and a smile, rumours of a budding relationship would circulate a day later. I’d had sex precisely once in my life, but I still got called a slut.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Ryder said. “The portions are bigger than I thought they’d be.”

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