Page 2

Two

Luna

My heart is pounding and pretty much every cell in my body is telling me to stop this insanity and to turn around and get the hell out of here.

To leave Aiden to his life without adding the craziness of mine.

But I’m desperate.

And alone.

And this is the only thing that’s given me the slightest bit of hope over the last eight months.

And…because I’m almost out of time.

So, I reach into the paper bag I brought, pull out the oversized grocery store cupcake I bought with pretty much the last money I had in my account.

Pretty much because I still technically have nine dollars and sixty-seven cents left until pay day.

Part of that desperate.

But not all of it.

Because I can manage the money—yeah, I’ve been living paycheck to paycheck, surviving because I don’t have access to the family funds I’m legally entitled to, but I have a job and a car and a place to live.

I’m lucky.

And I’m…still almost out of time with very limited ways to move forward.

“Luna,” he says and the note of warning, of sharpness in his voice—Aiden was the one person who never disappointed me, who never hurt me—stings.

Slamming the door on those thoughts, I drop the bag to the floor, fumble with the lid of the plastic box of the cupcake, managing to get it open just before I hear him say, “Luna,” again. Only this time, instead of censure, his tone has gone gentle.

Right. I can’t have that either.

Gentle is soft. Soft means that I’ll have all those same feelings again.

And then the Maybelle curse will strike anew.

I shove all that down as I hold up the cupcake, slap a bright smile on my face, one that I perfected during my competition days, and declare, “Happy Birthday!”

Then watch a strange cascade of emotions fly across his face—disbelief and confusion, sadness and pleasure, and…a softness.

A tenderness.

Like a store-bought cupcake and a middle-of-the-night declaration is so far away from what he was expecting to receive that it means more than it should.

I ignore the blip in my heart.

“Luna,” he says a third time.

And this time it sends heat flickering through me, twining down through my belly, dancing between my thighs.

Uh-oh.

Shaking myself, I march across the room, set the cupcake on the counter, and pull out the lighter and candles I bought, further depleting my bank account.

Thank God, payday is Friday.

Which is in far too many days, if my stomach has any say.

But don’t all those health nuts preach about fasting?

It’s good for me, right?

Meanwhile, I ignore the rumbling in my stomach saying that it may be good for me but that doesn’t mean it’s fun, and plop the “2” and “5” candles into the top of the cake.

“This is crazy, Luns.”

My heart skips at the nickname, and my stomach twists at the words.

Because he’s the only one who ever called me that.

And because he’s right.

This is crazy.

But…desperate times and desperate measures.

Plus, a bit—or more —of impulsivity that will likely blow up in my face thrown in.

I flick the lighter, sparking the little flame to life, holding it over the first wick until it catches then the second. “Happy Birthday,” I say quietly, nudging it toward him, finally finding the courage to truly look at him.

He’s gorgeous.

He was when we were teenagers and he’s even more so now. A boy grown into a man—no longer a body built on lean strength and wiry prowess, but instead he’s all broad shoulders and a flat stomach and thighs that are so powerful my mind drifts to all the naughty things that brawn could be used for.

But it’s when he turns, bends, and picks up a pillow that must have fallen off his couch at some point—whether by my buzzing about and acting like a frenzied hummingbird or earlier in the day before I intruded on his peace, I don’t know.

But it’s his turning and bending that has my body going stock still for a second.

His ass.

God, his ass.

Why is it that hockey players always have the best asses?

He straightens and I jerk my gaze away, realize the candles are burning down, sending wax onto the swirls of frosting that were making my stomach hungry in a completely different way, and say, “Come make a wish.”

There’s a flicker of something across his striking green eyes, something intense that I can’t read.

But then he’s slowly striding toward me, expression inscrutable.

One hand hits the counter. Then the other.

He leans forward, lips pursed—something that sends another flare of heat through my belly—and starts to blow.

“Wait!”

He freezes aside from those green eyes.

They slide toward mine, hold.

“You didn’t make a wish.”

He didn’t have time, just walked over and started to blow.

He lifts a brow in question.

“It’s your birthday,” I whisper, heart pounding.

I don’t know why this is so important to me right now—or maybe I do, but I just don’t want to look that closely at the emotions churning their way through my insides.

Either way, I keep whispering, “You have to make a wish before you blow out the candles.”

Green eyes fixing mine in place.

A big body next to mine, the power in his frame coiled tightly, as though it may spring free at any moment.

Then his eyes close, he’s statue still for a heartbeat.

His lids peel back…

And he blows.