“I should warn you.”
Luna’s whispered words bring me to a halt. I glance over my shoulder and find her dithering at the top of the stairwell of her mom’s building, staring at the apartment at the end of the hall, nose scrunched and expression pained. I raise a brow, gesturing for her to continue.
“She’s going to be excited.”
“Okay?”
“Like, really excited.” She manages a couple of steps towards me, close enough that I can grab her hand. “And a little forward.”
“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Luna’s free hand smacks me on the bicep. “If anything she says makes you uncomfortable, just tell her to back off, okay?”
“I have four sisters who live to make me uncomfortable. I can handle your mother.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Luna rolls her eyes but she lets me drag her down the hall. We stand outside a pale pink door for a grand total of three seconds before it flies open and Luna gets yanked forward, wrapped up in the arms of a woman the spitting image of her. “There you are!”
Jesus. I thought the Jackson genes were strong but the Evans women are carbon copies of each other, both sporting the same mop of blonde hair and bright blue eyes and even brighter smiles, only a few grey hairs and the odd wrinkle separating them. Not that there’s many of those to be found; they could be sisters, honestly.
They even babble the same, talking a million miles a minute as they move inside the apartment, Luna’s nerves apparently forgotten. As is my presence until Luna’s mom’s gaze flits my way and her smile widens exponentially. Before I know it, I’m being dragged into a fierce hug too. “You must be Jackson!”
As not-awkwardly as I can manage, I hug her back. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”
The slap on the arm I get further proves that this woman is indeed Luna’s mother, as does her scarily familiar tut of disapproval. “None of that ma’am crap. It’s Isla.”
Oh, how horrified my grandmother would be to hear that.
I smile and nod, and Isla slaps me again, a friendly one this time, two palms clapping against my biceps before she drags her daughter toward the kitchen, making a beeline for the kettle. “Where’s all your stuff?” she asks, eyeing Luna’s lone handbag suspiciously.
Lu slips into one of the bar stools around the tiny kitchen island, fingers drumming against the surface. “Dropped it off at the hotel before we came here.
“You didn’t have to stay at a hotel.”
“You don’t have room for us here,” Luna counters, waving an arm around the small apartment. She’s not wrong; the one-bedroom apartment barely looks big enough for Isla.
I like it. It’s cozy. Everything I want in a home. Lots of distressed wood and bright colors and old, vintage furniture and a myriad of knick-knacks. Photos of Luna and Isla cover every available surface, scattered across coffee tables and bookshelves and hanging off the walls. There’s artwork everywhere too on canvases of every size, artists I recognize and artists I don’t, Isla’s work probably mixed in there too. A loft hangs above us, and I remember Luna telling me her mom turned her old bedroom into a studio when she moved out.
Isla must notice me staring. Pausing her tea-making, she gestures toward the loft. “Make yourself at home, hun.”
I only falter for a moment before heading toward the steep wooden staircase. Immediately, I’m assaulted by the smell of paint. Bright natural light pours in from a skylight, illuminating the paint-splattered walls covered in finished canvases. Half-finished ones lean against the walls. A battered easel sits in one corner, a desk beside it, piles of paints and brushes and palettes stacked high.
God, I’d love something like this one day. A proper studio.
Not wanting to intrude on what’s so obviously such a personal space, I don’t linger long before heading back downstairs. My feet hit the bottom step just in time to hear Luna proclaim a whispered ‘oh my god.’ Still perched on a stool, she hunches over the island with her head in her hands, my favorite pretty blush creeping up her neck.
“What?” Isla remarks, a familiar mischief glittering in her gaze. “I’m just saying! I wouldn’t want to stay with my mother either if my boyfriend looked like that.”
“Jesus Christ, Ma.” Luna rubs her forehead as she lifts her head, a groan ripping from her throat when her eyes land on me. Following her daughter’s line of sight, Isla spots me too. Unlike her daughter, she doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed.
“Your studio is incredible,” I tell her as I make my way over, coming to a cautious stop beside Luna. I’m not sure how she feels about the whole PDA in front of her mom thing, so I keep my hands firmly by my sides.
That is, until she cozies up beside me, grabs my arm and throws it over her shoulders before shoving her hand in my back pocket.
Isla eyes us in amusement, pure delight in her grin. “Thanks, hun,” she responds to my earlier compliment, shoving a mug of piss-yellow, grassy liquid in my hands. “Luna mentioned you’re an artist.”
I force down a sip of the tea and shrug. “I like to draw. Nothing like what you can do.”
“Please, there’s no need for modesty in this house.” Isla waves off my words and jerks her thumb in her daughter’s direction. “This one sends me pictures of your drawings. They’re wonderful.”
I shoot Luna a look. She offers me a guilty smile. “What? They’re of me. Figured I didn’t need permission.”
Tugging her closer, I drop my lips to her temple. “Sneaky.”
“Smart,” she corrects.
Isla watches our interaction, hands clasped beneath her chin and an honest-to-God sparkle in her eyes. “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.”
“Ma!”
“What? I thought you’d never bring someone home. Let me bask in it a little.”
“I’m never bringing him back here.”
Isla holds up her hands in mock surrender, but the grin on her face doesn’t fall.
The conversation lapses into mindless chatter, the two women catching up while I choke down the rest of the tea, Luna watching me knowingly all the while. Since we’re not staying here, Isla insists that the least she can do is make us dinner. When she opens up the fridge to start pulling out ingredients, she casts a backwards glance at her daughter.
“Hun, can you drop this over to Mrs Russo?” She brandishes a Tupperware stuffed full of what looks like some kind of pasta. “I told her you’d say hello while you’re here, and I promised her my leftovers.”
Luna opens her mouth to protest, but it quickly snaps shut when her mom pins her with one of those don’t-mess-with-me looks that I think only the Evans women have truly mastered.
Luna turns to me, eyes apologetic. “You gonna be okay here by yourself?”
I nudge her gently toward the door. “Go.”
She rises on her tiptoes, pressing a quick kiss to my lips before shooting daggers at her mom. “Behave. Please.”
Isla slaps one hand over her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
Reluctantly, Luna snatches the Tupperware and ambles out of the apartment, shooting her mother one last warning look before disappearing. When the door closes behind her, Isla pats my arm. “Here, come help.”
I round the island to stand beside her, taking the knife she holds out to me. Together, we chop vegetables in silence.
Well, we do for a solid two minutes until Isla sighs and sets her knife down. I knew a ‘don’t fuck with my daughter speech’ was coming but what leaves her mouth? Not quite what I expected. “My daughter is a handful.”
Unsure of how to respond, I stay silent.
“She’s a handful,” Isla repeats. “I know it, she knows it, you probably know it by now. She is not an easy person to know. She doesn’t trust very easily or let people in very often and it speaks wonders that you managed it because she makes it hard on purpose. But that tough front she puts on is just that; a front. She hurts just as bad as any of us.”
That, I already know.
“You make my daughter happy, but as soon as you don’t, we have a problem. You hurt my girl, I hurt you. Got it?”
“Got it.” I nod. “For the record, I have no intention of hurting your daughter.”
“I know you don’t.” Isla nudges me, a hint of a smirk on her face. “But I’ve always wanted to give the whole scary mom speech. How’d I do?”
A laugh escapes me as I go back to chopping carrots. “Shaking in my boots.”
Luna is still asleep when I wake up on Christmas morning.
Sprawled on my chest like she always is, naked like she always is. I swear the girl can’t sleep with a scrap of clothing on.
Tucking a wayward strand of blonde hair behind my girl’s ear, I brush my lips against her cheek. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”
Luna grunts and burrows her face in my chest, clutching me tighter and coaxing a chuckle out of me. “What’s that?” I tease, fingers tickling her arm. “You don’t want your presents?”
Her head shoots up so fast she almost clocks me on the chin. “I’m up.”
Wrapped in the duvet like a burrito, Luna shuffles upright, scrutinizing me as I rifle through my bag. “Jackson,” she mutters in warning, cautiously eyeing the multiple gifts I retrieve. I shush her by tossing the first one on her lap, gesturing for her to open it as I stretch out at the foot of the bed.
I purposely started with an easy one but her face still goes a little funny as she unwraps the small parcel to reveal a small box. “To replace the one I stole,” I tell her as she lifts the lid and wastes no time slipping the ring inside onto her pointer finger. A simple gold band—one that won’t stain her skin green—with a moonstone in the center of a setting shaped like a star that you can spin—so she doesn’t rub her skin raw anymore.
That crumpled expression remains even as she holds her hand in front of her face and murmurs, “I love it.”
“Good.” I toss her another, eager to get this over with because God, I hate giving presents almost as much as I hate getting them. “Next one.”
This one, she rips open with a little more enthusiasm, her caution waning ever so slightly. Her laugh hits me right in the chest as a whole bunch of panties rain down on her lap, a mixture of skimpy lacy and comfy cotton.
“To replace the ones I ripped,”“ I explain, swatting her away when she flicks the fabric at me. “That one, too.”
When she opens the biggest parcel in the pile, I get a faceful of LuluLemon leggings. “This is too much!”
“You’re not done yet.”
Luna huffs but puts down the present-slash-weapon and reaches for the last one. The only one I’m actually nervous about.
“Don’t kill me, okay?”
“Great start.” Luna snickers but her laughter abruptly dries up when she opens the slim envelope in her hands. She pulls out the contents gently, hands trembling like she’s scared she might ruin them. Her throat bobs as she swallows, her voice a little shaky. “I don’t think I can accept this.”
“You can,” I disagree. “No returns.”
“They’re-”
“Flexible,” I finish for her. Flexible return tickets from New York to Los Angeles, valid any time within the next year. One for her, one for her mom, in case Luna wants to go home or Isla wants to come to us. Whatever they want. “You can use them whenever you want.”
“Jackson,” she breathes my name like it’s a complaint and a praise. “Too much.”
“Not enough,” I reply, crawling over and flopping down beside her, pressing my lips to her shoulder.
I’d give the girl the fucking world if I could.
Even if the girl very clearly doesn’t want it.
With shiny eyes, she pouts. “I don’t wanna give you your presents now.”
“You already gave it to me.” And the now-shredded scrap of pink lace on the hotel room floor was put to good use.
“That wasn’t your present.”
“Felt like one.” As blue eyes roll, I shuffle upright, leaning against the headboard with my hands folded in my lap. “Come on, then. I want my presents.”
Every last one of her grumbled protests, I refute. She doesn’t seem to realize that I wasn’t expecting anything in the first place. That she could get me dirt and I’d be the happiest man alive. That I’ve never gotten a present that was actually for me, that didn’t revolve around a price tag.
And a Bob Ross mug with a Target label on the bottom?
That’s definitely for me.
