What the Moon Made

CARRIED AWAY

The first problem with agreeing to stay in Theodore De Luca’s penthouse is that Theodore De Luca now looks entirely too pleased with himself.

Not smiling.

He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who smiles when he wins.

He simply stands beside the bed with his hands in his pockets, wearing the quiet satisfaction of someone who knew exactly how our argument would end before it began.

It’s irritating.

The second problem is that I need to use the bathroom.

Which means I have to get out of his bed.

Theo glances down when his phone vibrates.

That’s my chance.

I push the blanket away and swing my legs over the edge of the mattress.

The shirt falls to the middle of my thighs.

Barely.

I tug it lower before carefully placing my feet on the floor.

So far, so good.

Maybe the dizziness is gone.

Maybe I’m completely fine.

Maybe—

The bedroom tilts sharply to the left.

“Oh, shit.”

My knees buckle.

I don’t hit the floor.

One second, Theo is standing several feet away.

The next, one arm is wrapped around my waist and the other is gripping my forearm, holding me upright.

I blink at the place where he was standing.

Then I look up at him.

How the hell did he move that fast?

“You okay?”

His face is close.

Too close.

Close enough that I can see the faint gold surrounding his dark pupils.

Close enough to smell the cedar and smoke clinging to his skin.

Close enough to notice the tiny scar cutting through his left eyebrow.

My heart stumbles.

His eyes drop briefly toward my chest.

Not to look at me.

To listen, almost.

Which is ridiculous.

“I’m fine.”

“You nearly collapsed.”

“Temporarily.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it sound less dramatic.”

His arm tightens around my waist when I try to straighten.

“I can stand.”

“So you’ve claimed.”

“I was doing fine until the floor moved.”

“The floor did not move.”

“You don’t know that. This building is very tall.”

His mouth twitches.

I notice it immediately.

“Did you almost smile?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“I assure you, I didn’t.”

“That was absolutely the beginning of a smile.”

“Perhaps your concussion is causing visual disturbances.”

I narrow my eyes.

“First you gaslight me about your weird glowing eyes. Now you’re gaslighting me about smiling.”

“My eyes do not glow.”

“Sure.”

“And I wasn’t smiling.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“I sleep perfectly well.”

“You didn’t sleep at all last night.”

His expression stills.

Right.

Apparently I’ve found a flaw in his argument.

“I had something more important to do.”

The teasing response forming on my tongue disappears.

His gaze holds mine.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Something warm and uncomfortable unfolds inside my chest.

I look away first.

“Well, I need to use the bathroom.”

“I’ll carry you.”

My head snaps back toward him. “Absolutely not.”

“You can’t walk.”

“I can walk.”

“You just lost a fight with the floor.”

“It cheated.”

His mouth twitches again.

I point at him. “There. You did it again.”

“Did what?”

“Almost smiled.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“I’m starting to think you’re physically incapable of admitting when I’m right.”

“I’ll admit it the moment it happens.”

I gasp.

“You know, for someone who claims to be worried about my health, you’re very committed to raising my blood pressure.”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Only for a second.

But I see it.

Heat crawls up my neck.

“I’ll carry you,” he repeats.

“No.”

“Then you can stay here.”

“I’m not using your bed as a bathroom.”

“I would prefer that you didn’t.”

“Then let go of me.”

“No.”

“Theodore.”

“Willa.”

The way he says my name should not do what it does to me.

Low.

Slow.

Like each syllable belongs to him.

I blame the concussion.

Actually, I’m going to blame everything on the concussion until further notice.

“You promised you wouldn’t touch me without asking.”

“I asked.”

“And I said no.”

“That was before you attempted to introduce your face to the floor.”

“That’s not how consent works.”

His expression changes immediately.

The humor disappears.

His arm loosens around my waist, though he doesn’t remove it completely.

“You’re right.”

The sincerity catches me off guard.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“I won’t carry you if you don’t want me to.”

He carefully shifts his hand from my waist to my elbow, giving me enough space to step away if I choose.

The room sways again.

I grip the front of his shirt.

Theo raises an eyebrow.

I hate that eyebrow.

“Fine,” I mutter.

“Fine?”

“You can carry me.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

I glare at him.

He definitely heard me.

“Carry me before I change my mind.”

Something warm flashes in his eyes.

“Gladly.”

One arm slides behind my back.

The other hooks beneath my knees.

Then the floor disappears.

I gasp and grab his shoulders.

Theo lifts me against his chest as if I weigh nothing.

Not as if I’m light.

As if I weigh nothing.

I am not a small woman.

Kyle used to complain if I asked him to help move a box. Once, he made a dramatic production out of carrying me three feet from the couch to the bed, then spent the next day claiming I’d injured his back.

Theo doesn’t grunt.

He doesn’t adjust his grip.

His breathing doesn’t even change.

He simply carries me across the enormous bedroom like this is something he does every morning.

Which brings up several questions I am not emotionally prepared to examine.

“Do you carry all of your injured houseguests around like this?”

“No.”

“Just the concussed ones?”

“You’re the first.”

“I’m honored.”

“You should be.”

I roll my eyes.

The motion makes my head throb.

I wince.

Theo stops walking.

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re in pain.”

“My head hurts. Apparently that’s what happens when someone uses it to test the structural integrity of a wall.”

His jaw tightens.

The warmth in his expression disappears.

For one moment, I see something cold move behind his eyes.

Something that reminds me of the gold.

“I’m okay,” I say quietly.

“No, you aren’t.”

“I will be.”

His gaze searches my face.

Then he starts walking again, more carefully than before.

The bathroom is somehow larger than my entire childhood bedroom. Black marble covers the walls, and a freestanding tub sits in front of another wall of windows.

There are no blinds.

“Do you ever worry about people seeing you?”

“No.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“We’re too high for anyone to see inside.”

“That sounds like something a man who walks around naked in front of windows would say.”

Theo sets me carefully on my feet beside the sink.

His hands remain at my waist until he is certain I’m steady.

Then he steps back.

“For the record, I don’t walk around naked in front of the windows.”

I look at him.

“Why did that sound like a challenge?”

His gaze lowers slowly.

It moves over his shirt covering my body and down to my bare legs.

Every inch of skin it passes over seems to warm.

When his eyes return to mine, they are darker.

“If I were challenging you, Willa, you would know.”

My mouth goes dry.

“Oh.”

That is all my concussed brain can produce.

Theo backs toward the door.

“I’ll be outside.”

“Right.”

“Call for me when you’re finished.”

“I can walk on my own.”

He looks pointedly at the hand I have braced against the sink.

“Call for me.”

He closes the door before I can argue.

Bossy.

Controlling.

Infuriating.

Unfortunately, also the most attractive man I have ever seen.

Life is deeply unfair.

When I finish, I open the bathroom door and find him waiting exactly where he said he would be.

He straightens from the wall.

“I can make it to the kitchen.”

“I’m sure you believe that.”

“The dizziness is better.”

“Willa.”

“Fine.”

I raise my arms like a toddler demanding to be picked up.

“Carry me, then.”

His eyes darken.

I immediately lower them.

“That was weird. Forget I did that.”

“No.”

Before I can ask what he means, he scoops me into his arms again.

I curl one arm around his shoulders.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“Yes.”

At least he’s honest.

He carries me from the bedroom and through the penthouse.

The place is enormous.

Open.

Quiet.

The floors are dark wood, broken up by expensive-looking rugs and furniture in shades of cream, gray and black. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around nearly every room, offering a view of the city that seems impossible.

“I think your apartment has its own zip code.”

“Penthouse.”

I look up at him.

“Did you just correct me?”

“Yes.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By Vale?”

“Among others.”

“Women?”

His gaze shifts to mine.

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

I try to make my expression casual.

Disinterested.

Like I’m asking purely for journalistic reasons.

Not because the idea of Theo carrying another woman through this penthouse causes something sharp and ugly to twist in my stomach.

“Are you asking how many women I’ve carried through my home?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I was asking whether women have told you that you’re insufferable.”

“Many times.”

“Oh.”

I don’t like that answer.

Which is stupid.

Of course there have been women.

Look at him.

There have probably been hundreds of women. Thousands. Entire nations of women.

He glances down at me.

“But I’ve never carried any of them.”

The tightness in my stomach eases before I can stop it.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“No,” he says. “But it was what you wanted to know.”

I look away.

“I liked you better when you were silently brooding beside the bed.”

“No, you didn’t.”

The worst part is that he’s right.

The kitchen is sleek enough to belong in a magazine. Black cabinets stretch to the ceiling, surrounding a massive marble island. Everything is spotless.

Theo sets me on the edge of the counter.

My hands automatically grip the cold marble beside my thighs.

He steps between my knees for half a second to make sure I’m balanced.

My breath catches.

His does too.

Or maybe I imagine it.

His hands rest lightly against my hips.

Heat radiates from his palms through the thin fabric of his shirt.

We stare at each other.

The entire kitchen seems to disappear.

There is only Theo.

The hard line of his body between my legs.

His face inches from mine.

His scent filling my lungs.

His eyes lower to my mouth.

My lips part.

Something hungry moves across his face.

Then he steps back.

The air returns all at once.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he asks.

As if that didn’t just happen.

I clear my throat.

“Scrambled eggs and toast.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.”

“You need to eat more.”

“My head still hurts.”

His expression softens.

“All right. We’ll keep it light until you feel better.”

I watch as he crosses to the refrigerator.

“You cook?”

He glances over his shoulder.

“You sound surprised.”

“I assumed you paid someone to materialize food whenever you became hungry.”

“I gave the staff the morning off.”

“Because of me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I thought waking up in a strange place would be overwhelming enough without several strangers walking around.”

The simple thoughtfulness of it hits me harder than it should.

“Oh.”

Theo turns back to the refrigerator.

I watch him remove a carton of eggs, butter and a loaf of bread.

The shirt stretches across his back when he reaches into a lower cabinet for a pan.

And good God, that back.

Even through the fabric, I can see the muscles shifting beneath it.

Broad shoulders.

A narrow waist.

Power in every movement.

He rolls his sleeves higher, revealing more of the tattoos covering his forearms.

And the veins.

Why are his forearms so attractive?

They’re forearms.

Everyone has them.

I have two of my own, and they’ve never inspired a single impure thought.

Theo’s are apparently different.

Theo’s forearms belong in pornography.

He cracks the eggs one-handed against the side of a bowl.

Of course he does.

The muscles in his back flex as he whisks them.

I shift on the counter.

My bare thighs slide against the marble.

This is absurd.

I have a concussion.

I am homeless.

I am sitting in a billionaire’s kitchen wearing nothing but his shirt while he makes me breakfast.

And somehow the most pressing thought in my head is how his hands would feel on my—

No.

Absolutely not.

I look toward the windows.

Anywhere except at him.

This has to be some kind of trauma response.

Or brain damage.

Maybe inappropriate attraction is a symptom of a concussion.

I should ask Dr. Vale.

Actually, I would rather throw myself from the penthouse.

My eyes drift back to Theo.

He reaches for the salt.

A vein moves beneath the skin of his forearm.

Jesus Christ.

I was never this attracted to Kyle.

The thought comes without warning.

Kyle.

The woman in our apartment.

The disgust on his face when I confronted him.

His hand striking my cheek.

My skull hitting the wall.

The heat inside me disappears.

A painful pressure forms behind my ribs.

How long had he been cheating?

Was she the first?

Had he brought other women into our bed while I was at work?

Had I been sleeping beside him every night while he lied to my face?

The pan makes a quiet sound as Theo sets it down.

“Willa?”

I blink.

He’s watching me.

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

His expression says he doesn’t believe me.

I straighten.

“How did you know I wasn’t?”

“You became quiet.”

“I’ve been quiet.”

“Not like that.”

I stare at him.

For one strange second, I wonder if he can somehow feel what I’m feeling.

Which is ridiculous.

He’s observant.

That’s all.

Intuitive.

The kind of man who notices everything because he built an empire by never missing details.

“I’m fine,” I repeat.

Theo holds my gaze for another moment.

Then he turns back to the stove.

He doesn’t push.

I appreciate that more than I’m willing to admit.

A few minutes later, he places two plates on the island.

The eggs are soft and covered with black pepper. The toast is cut diagonally, because apparently even Theodore De Luca understands that triangular toast tastes better.

I slide carefully from the counter.

My feet barely touch the floor before his hands close around my waist.

“The table is ten feet away,” I say.

“Eleven.”

“I can walk eleven feet.”

“You couldn’t walk three feet ten minutes ago.”

“I’m feeling better.”

“Good.”

He lifts me anyway.

I groan.

“This is becoming excessive.”

“I disagree.”

“You’re going to carry me everywhere, aren’t you?”

“Until you can stand without swaying.”

“And if that takes days?”

“I’ll manage.”

I look at the effortless way he holds me.

“I’m beginning to think you carry cars recreationally.”

His mouth curves.

A real smile this time.

It changes his entire face.

Theodore De Luca is already unfairly attractive when he looks cold and severe.

Smiling should be illegal.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m concussed.”

“That excuse is becoming convenient.”

“It’s the only good thing Kyle has ever given me.”

The smile vanishes.

Theo places me carefully in a chair at the dining table.

The anger that flashes across his face is quick but unmistakable.

He sits across from me.

“Don’t give him credit for anything.”

I pick up my fork.

“He gave me a concussion.”

“He gave you pain.”

His eyes hold mine.

“You found your way out despite it.”

Something in my throat tightens.

I look down at my eggs.

“That sounds suspiciously inspirational.”

“I can insult you instead, if you prefer.”

“That would feel more normal.”

“You’re remarkably stubborn for someone who cannot walk in a straight line.”

“Better.”

We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes.

The food helps.

The pounding behind my eyes eases from murderous to merely hostile, and my stomach stops threatening mutiny.

Theo watches me take another bite.

“Better?”

“A little.”

“Finish the eggs.”

“You’re very bossy.”

“So you keep telling me.”

“Most people would take that as criticism.”

“I’m not most people.”

“No,” I say before I can stop myself. “You’re definitely not.”

His gaze catches mine.

The teasing disappears.

Something quieter takes its place.

Something that makes it suddenly difficult to swallow.

Theo leans back in his chair.

“I need to work out before I go to the office.”

“Of course you do.”

His eyebrow lifts.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing. I’m just shocked your shoulders happen naturally.”

His eyes darken.

Heat rushes into my face.

I focus intently on my toast.

That sounded flirtier out loud.

“Have you been examining my shoulders, Willa?”

“I’m a journalist. I observe things.”

“My shoulders are relevant to your article?”

“They could be.”

“In what context?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“I look forward to reading it.”

“You’ll have to buy a copy like everyone else.”

“I own the magazine.”

My fork stops halfway to my mouth.

“What?”

“A controlling interest.”

“Of course you do.”

His mouth curves.

Then the word work catches up with me.

My stomach drops.

“Shit.”

Theo’s expression changes instantly.

“What?”

“My job.”

“What about it?”

“I’m supposed to be there.”

“No, you aren’t.”

I stare at him.

“Yes, I am.”

“No.”

“Oh, good. We’re doing this again.”

“I handled it.”

My fork lowers to the plate.

“What do you mean, you handled it?”

“I informed your editor that you were ill and would not be coming in today.”

“You called my boss?”

“My office contacted her.”

“That’s worse.”

“How?”

“It makes it sound official.”

“It was official.”

“You can’t just call my job and tell them I won’t be there.”

“Apparently, I can.”

I glare at him.

He calmly drinks his coffee.

“Did you tell her I was here?”

“No.”

“What did you tell her?”

“That you experienced a medical emergency and needed the day to recover.”

“And she accepted that?”

“Yes.”

Just yes.

As if people don’t ask Theodore De Luca questions.

Actually, they probably don’t.

“What about my article?”

“Your deadline has been extended.”

“You had my deadline extended?”

“Yes.”

“Because you own the magazine.”

“Because you have a concussion.”

I study his face.

There is something about the answer that feels incomplete.

But my head hurts less, the eggs are good, and for once my entire life is not demanding immediate attention.

I decide to let it go.

For now.

“Fine.”

Theo’s eyebrow rises.

“That was easier than expected.”

“I’m choosing peace.”

“A wise decision.”

“Don’t make me regret it.”

“I would never.”

We both know that is a lie.

By the time I finish eating, I feel significantly better.

Not healed.

But the room stays still when I turn my head, which seems promising.

Theo collects our plates before I can stop him.

I watch as he carries them to the sink.

“You know, this is all very confusing.”

He glances back at me. “What is?”

“You cook. You clean. You own at least one shirt that isn’t a suit.”

“I contain multitudes.”

I laugh softly.

This time, it doesn’t hurt quite as much.

I stand slowly, keeping one hand on the table.

Theo notices immediately.

“I’m okay.”

He remains close but doesn’t touch me.

“How dizzy?”

“Maybe a two.”

“Out of?”

“Seven.”

His eyes narrow.

“Ten.”

“That isn’t reassuring.”

“I’m not trying to reassure you.”

“That much is obvious.”

I take a careful step.

Then another.

The floor stays where it belongs.

Victory.

“Can I look around?”

Theo studies me.

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re a journalist.”

“I thought we established that.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

I smile sweetly.

“Are you hiding something?”

“Yes.”

I stop.

“What?”

“My patience. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to locate.”

I roll my eyes.

“You can explore.”

“Everything?”

“Anything you want.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“For me or for you?”

I’m not sure.

Before I can answer, Theo nods toward the hallway.

“The main living area is through there. My office is to the left, the library is on the second floor, and the terrace can be accessed through the sitting room. The stairs near the kitchen lead down to the gym.”

“You have a gym inside your apartment?”

“Penthouse.”

“Keep correcting me and I’ll start calling it your condo.”

The look he gives me suggests this is an unforgivable threat.

“My bedroom is at the end of this hall,” he continues. “There are four guest rooms on the opposite side. The staff quarters are downstairs.”

“Staff quarters?”

“The penthouse occupies three floors.”

I stare at him.

“Your home has more floors than my entire apartment building.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“You haven’t seen my apartment building.”

His expression hardens slightly at the mention of my apartment.

I pretend not to notice.

“I’ll be downstairs if you need me,” he says. “Don’t use the stairs.”

“How am I supposed to explore if I can’t use the stairs?”

“Explore this floor.”

“That’s limiting.”

“You have a head injury.”

“You take all the fun out of concussions.”

“Call me if you become dizzy.”

“I’m not yelling through your penthouse.”

He reaches into his pocket and places a phone on the table.

Mine.

The screen is cracked, but it still works.

“Call me.”

“From ten feet away?”

“From anywhere.”

I look down at the phone.

There are missed calls.

Three from Kyle.

Seven from Jamie.

My chest tightens.

Theo notices.

Of course he does.

“I’ll check them later.”

He says nothing.

For some reason, that feels kinder than telling me what to do.

He walks toward the stairs.

“Try not to break into anything while I’m gone.”

“No promises.”

“I expected as much.”

Then he disappears downstairs.

I wait until I hear a door close before I begin snooping.

Not snooping.

Exploring.

He gave me permission.

Sort of.

The living room looks like something staged for an architectural magazine. Pale furniture. Dark wood. Massive windows. Everything carefully arranged.

Nothing personal.

No framed photographs.

No forgotten coffee mugs.

No worn blankets thrown over the back of the sofa.

There aren’t even any books left lying open.

I move into the sitting room.

Same thing.

Beautiful.

Expensive.

Empty.

The office is darker than the rest of the penthouse. A massive desk faces the windows, its surface completely bare except for a laptop and a single black pen.

The shelves hold books about business, conservation, politics and history.

Nothing with a cracked spine.

Nothing that looks loved.

I open one drawer.

Empty.

The next contains neatly organized files.

Boring.

The third is locked.

Interesting.

I crouch to inspect it.

The room tilts slightly.

I straighten immediately.

Okay.

No crouching.

I continue through the penthouse, searching for something that tells me who Theo is when no one is watching.

There’s nothing.

No family photos.

No souvenirs.

No ridiculous childhood objects his mother refuses to let him throw away.

Not even a refrigerator magnet.

It doesn’t feel like a home.

It feels like an extraordinarily expensive bachelor pad.

My eyes drift toward the bedroom hallway.

How many women has he brought here?

The thought arrives uninvited.

I imagine them walking barefoot across these floors.

Sitting at his kitchen counter.

Wearing his shirts.

Sleeping in his bed.

A sour feeling settles in my stomach.

This is stupid.

I barely know him.

He can bring whoever he wants into his home.

He probably has.

Women who belong in his world.

Beautiful women with sleek hair and designer dresses. Women who know which fork to use at expensive restaurants and don’t wake up in a stranger’s bed with a concussion after discovering their unemployed boyfriend having s*x with someone else.

I look down at myself.

Bare feet.

Bruised cheek.

Theo’s shirt hanging from my body.

For a few minutes in the kitchen, it had felt strangely intimate.

Him cooking for me.

Carrying me.

Watching to make sure I ate.

But maybe this isn’t unusual for him.

Maybe I’m not unusual.

The thought shouldn’t hurt.

It does anyway.

My head begins throbbing again.

I decide I’ve explored enough.

The walk back to Theo’s bedroom takes longer than expected. By the time I reach the bed, my legs feel weak and exhaustion has settled into my bones.

I climb beneath the blanket and lower my head carefully onto the pillow.

His scent surrounds me again.

Cedar.

Smoke.

Theo.

I close my eyes.

The last thing I think about before sleep finds me is the empty penthouse.

A home filled with beautiful things and not a single piece of the man who owns it.

And the uncomfortable possibility that I want to know why.