Page 85 of Divorced from Number Thirty-Eight
I’m learning that Luna is the type of person to always keep everyone around her guessing.
So, Courtney doesn’t stand a chance.
Especially when her only response is to lift her chin, cross her arms, and—yup, seriously—stomp her foot. “I’m not leaving.”
Luna shrugs her shoulders. “Suit yourself.” A nod to the nearest platter of food. “You hungry?”
“Tiny tornado,” Aiden warns.
If that isn’t a fitting nickname for the other woman…
My lips twitch and I don’t miss Gray relaxing next to me.
“What?” Luna asks, shrugging her shoulders. “We have plenty.”
“I’ll not leaving until I talk to Gray!”
Smitty interjects before Luna can—or maybe, it’s that the two hooligans are pulling a one-two punch that not even the most determined shit-stirrer can top. He twists his big body our direction. “Say hi, Gray.”
“Hi,” Gray parrots.
“There,” Smitty says. “You talked to Gray. Now”—he grabs a sandwich, shoves it in her hand—“you can go.”
He doesn’t touch her, but he somehow manages to shepherd her toward the door.
A door which she grabs the edge of, halting everyone’s progress.
Leo sighs. “Why does this shit always happen here?”
“I have a gift for drama,” Luna quips.
“I’ll get her out of here,” Gray says, taking a step forward.
“Nope.” A wave of her hand as Smitty and a couple of men in suits that scream expensive! (I think someone said their names are Jean-Michel and Jace) maneuver her outside, the front door miraculously closing behind them. Courtney’s protests grow loud enough to be heard through the wood. “Trust me on this,” she says. “There’s no need to engage and give her what she wants. You stay here while she has her scene. The boys will make sure she hits the road when she’s done.”
“Luns, she’s my problem?—”
“And we don’t do solo shit,” Aiden says firmly, as though reminding Gray of something (like, perhaps, words they’ve exchanged before). “Right?”
Gray sighs.
But, likely because Aiden and Luna are making sense, he relents—albeit begrudgingly.
“All right,” he grumbles.
“Good,” Luna chirps. “I’ll leave you in the very capable hands of Faye…” Her head tilts to the side. “Wait, I don’t actually know your last name.”
“It’s Sullivan,” I tell her.
She freezes. “Sullivan? You’re not related to Faye Sullivan, the author, are you?”
“Um…” Nerves beginning to twine through my belly, I glance at Gray then back at her. “I am her.”
“Wait, you’re Faye Sullivan?!” she exclaims.
The room grows quiet, all the remaining eyes turning to me.
Focusing on me.
