Luna Exposed

by Kristin Leigh

  “Sure, I’d appreciate that. Show me to the kitchen and you can go grab me something while I pop the popcorn.”

  From the slightly amazed look on his face, I can tell he didn’t think I’d accept the offer. But he mutters something under his breath and leads me to the kitchen. He pulls out an air pop machine, a box of kernels, and a large bowl and places it all on the solid marble countertop before disappearing through the door. I stare at the machine, a little amused. How could he not know how to make popcorn with a popcorn maker?

  By the time he returns with a white T-shirt and what looks like red and black plaid boxer shorts, I’ve got the popcorn made, buttered, salted, and waiting on the counter. I found a soda maker too, and made us both sodas.

  Made myself right at home in the giant, completely modern but somehow old-fashioned kitchen, nosing around and plundering. A year ago, no way. I would have stood by the counter like a good little girl, popping popcorn and waiting. Now I know Gabe well enough to know that he wouldn’t mind my snooping in his kitchen cabinets. And if he does mind, who cares? He’d probably get that tight-lipped look for a minute and continue whatever he’s doing without a word.

  I blink up at him as I take the clothes, realizing that I actually know Gabe better than I thought.

  He picks up the bowl of popcorn and tosses a few into his mouth. “There’s a bathroom just down the hall,” he says, pointing through the door.

  I find a storage closet first, but the second door I open is a half bath, though it’s bigger than my whole bath. I strip out of my clothes quickly and have the plain white T-shirt on before I remember that I didn’t shave and he’s given me shorts.

  Shitballs.

  It’s not like it’s obvious, or really disgustingly long. It’s only been a day. But I’m prickly, and even though he’s promised to stick to the “no sex” rule, he admitted he had no plans to abide by the “no touching” rule.

  Dammit. I need a razor.

  I yank open the doors below the sink and find nothing but cleaning supplies. There’s a cabinet above the toilet and I open that and pilfer. There are a few new toothbrushes, some spare rolls of toilet paper and…Ah ha! Underneath folded hand towels is an old fashioned, single blade bic. I’ll have to use handsoap for lather, and I’ll probably end up with razor burn. But there’s lotion on the counter, and at least I won’t be fuzzy. Rash or fuzzy? Which is sexier?

  I’m halfway through my second leg, gliding the crappy little razor on the back side of my thigh, when Gabe knocks on the door.

  “Luna?” Tap, tap, tap. “Are you all right?”

  Caught. “Uh, I’m fine. Just…” Fuck, what do I say? Before I can say anything, the door opens. I jerk to try and catch it before he can see—did I seriously forget to fucking lock it?—but the razor slices the tender skin beneath the curve of my ass, which makes me yelp and jump.

  And I can’t catch him in time.

  Here’s what I think he sees, judging by the way his jaw works and he fights a smile.

  Me, in a white T-shirt and yellow panties, legs covered in pitiful suds from the handsoap, balancing on one leg a handtowel so I don’t drip on the floor, one leg slightly pink with blood, foot propped on the sink, a razor clutched in my hand, and my eyes wide as dinner plates.

  Have I ever been so embarrassed? I started my period in seventh grade, but a teacher noticed and called Dad before the other kids saw. When Dad picked me up from the office and wrapped his big coat around me, then sat me in the car to have “the talk we should have had last year,” before taking me to buy tampons, pads, menstrual cups, and everything else a girl might need…yeah, all right. Maybe that was more embarrassing than this.

  But this is still a fucking nightmare. My best hope is to play it off and pretend not to notice how hard he’s trying not to smile.

  Smug bastard.

  “Just freshening up.” I glare at him, hoping he gets the hint.

  He doesn’t. “I see that.” His lips twitch and dear God, I want to fucking hit him. Men don’t have to deal with this. They shave their face and if they don’t feel like it, hey, it’s a sexy shadow. No one ever called prickly calves sexy, at least not since the seventies. So he doesn’t understand.

  “Luna,” he starts, and then cuts off with a strangled cough. He clears his throat, and I know he’s trying not to laugh, though his shoulders are shaking a little. And oh, it’s so embarrassing and infuriating. When he gathers himself, he looks at me and says, deadpan, “It wouldn’t have made a difference to me.”

  Then he fucking loses it. I have to give him credit though. When he starts hee-hawing with ridiculous laughter, he jerks me into his arms and grips my ass, burying his face in my neck. I think he has a thing for my neck. He does that a lot. Not that I’m complaining.

  “Baby, I love that you want to be silky smooth for me, and as flattering as it is, I should probably let you in on a secret.”

  If he tells me he likes hairy legs, I’m leaving. Hmm. Or maybe that would make him perfect. Nah, it would make him a liar. But that’s not what he says.

  He whispers, “You should have done this at home. But since you didn’t, you shouldn’t have stressed it. It’s not as big a deal as you think.”

  And somehow, that’s the right answer and it’s more irritating than if he’d lied. Because he’s not saying he likes prickly calves, but that he’d deal with it without being disgusted.

  I pull away and give him the evil eye. “But I didn’t do it at home, so now I have to do it here. Just go away and pretend this never happened.”

  He just stares down at me, the blue ice of his eyes soft and filled with good humor. The corners of his eyes crinkle in a smile and he says, “I’d like to take you upstairs. Spread you out on my bed and kiss you from head to toe, shaved or not.” He presses a kiss to my forehead and backs out the door, and just before it closes he murmurs in his sex-at-midnight voice, “But I can do that on the couch too.”

  I close my eyes and count backward from twenty. It doesn’t work to slow my heartbeat, but I don’t really expect it to. I finish shaving with a shaky hand, my mind conjuring up images of the recliners and sofa in his theater room, very X-rated images that I’m sure he meant to leave me with. I rinse my legs, and dry them before applying the lotion. It’s hand lotion but whatever. It works in a pinch. The boxers he gave me are too big, and while they don’t fall past my butt, they won’t stay around my waist either. I have to keep pulling them up. The T-shirt must be an undershirt, because it’s not that bad. It’s a little big, but not falling off. It must be tight as hell on Gabe. It probably stretches across his chest, clinging to the wonderfully firm muscles. I bet I’d be able to see his nipples poking out through it. Yum.

  He’s sitting on the sofa when I get back, the popcorn bowl in his lap while he does something with the remote.

  “I know you said you wanted to pick the movie, but I think I did all right. If you want to change it, that’s okay too.”

  I sit next to him, close enough to reach the popcorn, but far enough away that we’re not going to accidentally touch. I look up at the screen and see that he put in The Count of Monte Cristo.

  “This is actually great.” I’m a little surprised, but try not to act that way. Don’t want to hurt his feelings, after all. “This is one of my favorite movies.”

  “The book was better,” he says, pressing a button to start the movie.

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “None of the adaptations on film have the same detail and ending as Dumas wrote,” he explains.

  “Hollywood never sticks to the book,” I muse wryly. Then, suspicious, “You’re not going to ruin anything for me, are you? Tell me there’s no happy ending or that he actually dies or something?”

  “Not much to ruin. The basics are the same, but the details are different. It’s a good book and a good movie.” He holds the popcorn out to me and I take a few. “As long as you can keep them separate…” He shrugs and I gather his meaning.

 
; “Separate things and don’t take it so seriously. I get it.” He looks a little surprised, but nods.

  The movie starts and we turn our attention to the television. We’re mostly silent until the Count rescues Albert from Vampa’s fake kidnapping, which is when Gabe discovers the popcorn bowl is empty.

  “More?” he asks. I shake my head and he puts the bowl on the floor next to the sofa, then leans back against the arm and pulls me on top of him. I let him because…ah hell, I let him because I want to…because he’s sexy as hell, he’s such a good guy, and he smells so damn good.

  With a hand to the back of my head, he urges my head onto his shoulder and positions my legs on either side of his. I’m fairly certain he’s about to start violating the rules now. But he doesn’t. He’s not even hard, though I can feel the outline of him through the thin boxers I have on and the silky gym shorts he’s wearing. We return to watching the movie—impressively—with no wandering hands.

  He gradually hardens beneath me, but makes no effort at all to move beyond the cuddling. When the credits roll he looks down at me, his eyes narrowed to slits of blue fire. “Good love story?”

  What? He wants to talk about the romance? I blink a few times to clear my head. “Uh, it’s okay, but I’ve always liked the revenge aspect of the story more than the rekindled love part.”

  “Hmm. What kind of love story do you like, then?”

  I contemplate for less than a second before answering, “Lady or the Tiger.”

  “What the hell?” He sits up partially, just enough that I tilt over between him and the back of the couch. Then he leans over, completely blocking my view of anything but his chest, neck, and face. “That’s not a love story. It’s about a spoiled princess that sends her overly trusting lover to his death.”

  I shake my head. He’s so wrong. “No, it’s about a princess who gives the man she loves to another woman rather than see him die.”

  He blinks at me. “Woman, I am here to tell you, no woman would let her lover marry a woman she hates just to keep him alive. That’s a crappy love story. Try again.”

  “Hey! It’s a great story! And it’s not about whether the lady or tiger was behind the door. It’s about who you are and how you would react. It’s a choice you get to make, and that’s what makes it a good love story.” I’m slightly offended.

  He eyes me skeptically. “Are you saying that you would send me to another woman to keep me from being mauled by a tiger?”

  I smile sweetly at him. “But I don’t love you, Gabe. We’re not in love, remember?”

  He growls a little, low in his throat. Then, “What about your husband? Ex-husband. Whatever.”

  I laugh, a short, completely humorless laugh. “I would have sent Corey to the tiger, every time. But just to spare the poor woman behind the door the agony of living with him. Bad example.”

  He blows out a breath and looks at my forehead, thoughtful.

  “What about you?” I ask, curious now. “What love story do you like?”

  He grins. “That’s easy. Peter Parker and MJ.”

  “Seriously? Superhero romances are a cop-out. Try again.”

  The smile fades. “Uh…”

  I stop him before he can use Star Wars. “And no Skywalkers. Doesn’t count.”

  “Dammit. Titanic?”

  “Nope. Now you’re reaching.”

  He purses his lips and tilts his head. “Romeo and Juliet,” he finally says, looking ridiculously proud.

  “Ha. Too well known. Plus, Romeo and Juliet is a story about two teenagers that end up dead because they wouldn’t follow their parents’ rules.” I shake my head. “One more time.”

  His eyebrows lower and he frowns. “Why do I have to keep trying? Lady or the Tiger isn’t a good love story. Why don’t you try?”

  Okay, I can do that. “Shah Jahan and Mumtaz Mahal.”

  He quirks a brow at me. “The guy that built the Taj Mahal for his wife, right?”

  I nod. “She died in childbirth and he built it for her final resting place.”

  Gabe shakes his head. “Nope. That’s not a love story, it’s just life.”

  I sigh in defeat, and give him the only love story that makes me cry every fucking time. “Fine. The Gift of the Magi.”

  His brows lower and he frowns. “Refresh my memory.”

  “It’s a short story about a couple that have no money at all at Christmas. She has long, beautiful hair, and he has a watch that’s a family heirloom. She sells her hair to buy him a watch chain, and he sells his watch to buy her combs for her hair. So they end up with no money, and pretty useless gifts, but they’re still happy and in love.” I pause, thoughtful. “Now that I think about it though, her hair will grow back and his watch is gone forever. So he really made the bigger sacrifice.” I shrug and finish, “But if I have to pick just one love story, that’s my favorite.”

  Gabe’s silent for a long time, his eyes searching mine. After a long time, he licks his lips and looks away. “Why?”

  I cock my head as much as I’m able from my position and tell him, “Because love sacrifices. Sacrifice is the definition of love. They both give up something special for each other, even though there’s a painful irony to it. But love is painful, bittersweet. It’s supposed to hurt. It’s supposed to rip your insides out and stuff them back in no particular order. It’s not perfect and pretty, and it’s not something you can put in a sparkly box with a nice big, bow on it. It’s not a stroll in the park on a sunny day. It’s a crazy, fucked up sprint through a tornado. It breaks you, tears you apart, and if you’re lucky, it’ll build you back up and you’ll come out the other side of the tornado holding someone’s hand.” He turns to me, his eyes burning, and I look away, vaguely aware that I’m seeing him through a haze of tears. “But most of us aren’t that lucky.”

  He’s quiet, but I can feel his eyes on me though I refuse to look away from the dark brown leather of the back of the sofa. “Braveheart,” he whispers and for an instant I think he’s calling me that. Then I realize he’s telling me what love story is his favorite.

  “Why?” I whisper, repeating his question from earlier as I turn back to him.

  He swallows and closes his eyes. “Because that’s what a man does for the woman he loves. He risks everything, throws aside everything he knows for her. And if he fails her, he tears the world apart, starts wars, dies for her.”

  What an insane pair we are. He opens his eyes slowly, the pale blue becoming visible one scant millimeter at a time. We just lie there, my body cradling his, looking into each other’s eyes like silly, love-struck teenagers for a long, long time. Finally, he takes a deep shuddering breath and pushes himself up and off me to stand next to the couch, his fingers tunneling through his hair repeatedly. I’m cold now, with the heat of his body gone so I sit up and wrap my arms around myself as best I can.

  How the hell did we get so intense? This stupid conversation about love stories morphed into something I don’t think either of us expected, something that turned out to be far too revealing for both of us. I don’t know if we’re really prepared for what we appear to be getting into.

  Because it’s become obvious to me—and judging by his nervous, terrified rabbit expression, to him as well—that we’ve just jumped off the high dive into deep fucking shark infested water.

  He stands there for a minute and when I finally return to my original seat, he sits beside me again, hands in his lap. We still don’t speak.

  We make a silent agreement to ignore what just happened, the incredible moment of bonding that caught us both by surprise, and just watch another movie. Gabe gestures to the built in DVD case that is actually a wall, and I nod. I’m glad I actually do get to choose this time, and I try my best to pick something that has absolutely no romance or sex in it. We need to cool this down. I choose The Hunt for Red October and fall asleep less than a half hour into it.

  I barely come awake when Gabe lifts me into his arms, but when he starts up the stairs I manag
e to wrap my arms around his neck and plant a kiss beneath his ear. I’m vaguely aware that he takes me to a different bedroom and this time I’m glad that it’s not just a sex room we’re visiting. This time, I actually want to see all of the little personal things that make it his room. But it’s dark and I’m half asleep, so it’ll have to wait.

  He settles me on the bed and I feel the soft sheet and light comforter cover me to my shoulders. Then a big, warm hand strokes my hair back and…

  Holy shit. He kisses me.

  Hard, hot lips suck lightly against my upper lip, then press. There’s a quick swipe of his tongue on my bottom lip, and then he’s gone, whispering, “Good night, Luna,” into the darkness.

  Chapter 18

  I wake to a light tapping, and don’t understand. Carmen just barges in, and Hannah won’t come to my bedroom unless her sister is on her way as well. Neither of them knock or tap, and Dad usually leaves me alone unless he needs something.

  Then I notice the hard, warm body pressed against my back and the heavy arm wrapped around my waist. Gabe’s house. He kissed me. Sort of. The hand attached to that arm is between my breasts and when the tapping comes again, his thumb brushes my nipple. A little jolt of pleasure shoots through me and the nipple hardens beneath his thumb.

  “Morning,” Gabe whispers into my hair.

  “Good morning,” I return.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Not today, Susan,” he raises his voice to be heard through the door.

  But apparently whoever Susan is doesn’t give a damn, because the door opens and a fifty-something, tiny little bottle-blonde prances in with a huge, covered tray in her hand. She can’t be an inch over five feet tall. “Now Mr. O’Malley, what kind of housekeeper would I be if I let you have a guest without offering breakfast?”

  Gabe lifts his head and looks at her with one eye open. “The employed kind?”

  “Ha. You wouldn’t fire me. What would you eat?” She puts the tray on a table by the window and starts uncovering the dishes, whipping out napkins, and getting two places set at the table.