Never Marry Your Brother's Best Friend (Never Say Never, #1)

I review the file in front of me once more, then close my eyes. I’m ready for this. I’ve prepped the same way I have for every other deal I’ve sealed over the last decade. I just really need a win right now. Especially after the mess I made of things at the museum.

I knew Luna would be surprised at the fake proposal. That was the point. Now, if I need to show a cute video of my art-obsessed wife, it’ll look like I’m a romantic husband who swept her off her feet. I’m all about putting my best foot forward, especially for a deal like this.

But her reaction shocked me. Neither Zack nor I expected her to freak out so badly. Especially when everything had been going so well for the tour. I was having fun with Luna, listening to her talk about the art and seeing her in a new role where she’s comfortable and confident.

And then it all went to shit.

But it’ll be worth it. It has to be. I still agree with Zack’s assessment that this is my best option given the tutoring was a bust. And though he assured me that he’ll make things up to Luna, I expect an extra ‘tutoring’ invoice from her for her trouble. I’ll have to send it with some big apologies and maybe a Jackson Pollock coffee table book to smooth things over.

One little in with Mrs. Cartwright. That’s all I need and this will be worth it. I can do the rest of the job of securing this deal with my skills, experience, and hard work. I’m ready for this.

I pick up my phone and dial, waiting nervously for the call to be picked up. I’m doing this myself, not having an assistant or associate reach out, because I want Elena Cartwright to know that I intend to provide the best degree of personal service I’m capable of. Plus, I know the value my last name and our company name carry and intend to leverage them as heavily as possible. “Hello, this is Carter Harrington with Blue Lake Asset group calling for Elena Cartwright, please,” I tell the woman who answers the phone.

“Good news, young man . . . you’ve got her.” She laughs, but it ends with a bit of a cough.

“Oh, good to speak with you, ma’am. I understand you are considering a new portfolio management firm,” I say politely. “I would love to meet with you to see if our firm would be a good fit for your needs.”

“The first thing I’m looking for is someone who’ll leave all that pomp and circumstance behind. I don’t need all that razzle-dazzle. Just call me Elena.”

I blink in surprise. The older generation, particularly those with wealth, tend to want all the fanciness and then some. But I can be chill if that’s what Mrs. Cartwright—I mean Elena—prefers.

With a chuckle, I mimic her casual tone. “Well, I can sure do that.”

That seems to be the right thing to say because it opens the floodgates, and suddenly, Elena is telling me all about her portfolio, from properties to funds and more. Zack said she knows her stuff, but she’s surprisingly well-versed on the details for someone with such a large and varied estate. And talking through what has been previously effective lets me see where I can offer something different to improve things for her.

“At this point, I’m not worried about much, darling. I’ve got more money than I could ever spend.”

“Of course! You and Mr. Cartwright worked hard so your family could be well-cared for in generations to come.”

“We made dang sure of it, I tell you that for sure. I’ve always handled the financial stuff, but Thomas had a good head on his shoulders too. But his true love—other than me, of course—was art. I can’t tell you how many times that man painted me,” she says wistfully.

I hope she means in a regal, Southern matriarch way, but her tone makes me think there are nude paintings of Elena Cartwright over their marital bed. Draw me like one of your French girls and all that.

The very idea is jarring.

But she’s given me the opening I need. “I can understand that. My wife, Luna, is quite the art lover too. She’s always going on about Rembrandt this and Pollock that, but my favorites are her own pieces. To see the way she creates . . . it’s beautiful, magical.”

I may not have seen anything Luna has personally painted, but the way she brought the art in the museum to life, I can imagine her doing the same with her own work.

“Oh, darling. That makes my heart melt like butter on a hot biscuit.” She sounds a bit choked up, and I say a silent thank you to Luna. “I tell you what, let’s have us a bit of dinner this weekend and we can talk about my portfolio. Do you need to check with Luna’s schedule to see when she’s available?”

What? Why would I need to do that?

And then it hits me.

Elena means dinner with me . . . and Luna. My wife, Luna.

“Oh, I’m not sure she can. She’s so busy, you know, and I try not to bore her with too much work talk,” I say, hoping Elena can be charmed into meeting with only me.

“Nonsense. If she’s an art lover, she’d never forgive you if she missed out on seeing Thomas’s collection. I wouldn’t want you to be in the dog house. Why, I remember one time Thomas went to town with a friend. They were going to play a round of golf or something, I forget what. But they went to the movie theater instead, and he saw that tornado movie without me. You know the one with that cutie-patootie Bill Paxton? He knew how much I liked that fella, so whoo-boy, I was hotter’n an August day in Atlanta. Made that man sleep on the couch for two solid nights.”

“You didn’t,” I tease, following along with her dramatic story-telling.

“You betch’ur bottom I did, but do you know how he got out of the doghouse?” She pauses, and I can sense her smile through the phone. “He set us up a little picnic out back at sunset, and we had ourselves ice cream sundaes for dinner. He knew that ice cream is the way to my heart because we’d gone for milkshakes on our first date.”

“Sounds like he was a good husband, even though he didn’t take you to see Twister,” I agree.

“Oh, he took me, alright. I made him go watch it again. With me.”

I laugh in surprise. For such a wealthy, influential couple, it sounds like the Cartwrights were remarkably normal. Maybe even a bit simple in their lives together.

“That’s why I’m tellin’ you, you’d best bring your Luna to see this art or you’re going to be sleeping on the couch and planning ice cream dates.” Her voice has gone from congenial to hard, as though testing to see whether I’ll accept her wise advice.

I don’t think. I don’t consider. I certainly don’t plan, which is my modus operandi. But nevertheless, the words spill out. “Of course, I’m sure she’d be thrilled to come.”