Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
Luna
Day two of my bland existence.
I’ve already checked my insufferable tutor off the schedule, and that leaves the well-meaning but completely inept chess coach. I watch with disbelief as she makes the biggest blunder in opening principles—moving her white pawn to f3.
I move my black pawn to e5, now occupying the center of the board.
My coach considers, and I watch in complete horror as she moves her pawn to g4.
“Checkmate.” I almost feel bad announcing as I move my queen to h4, capturing her king.
“Uh, right you are,” she bumbles. “I was testing you to see if you’d catch that.”
Suuuuuure.
Thankfully, Vince arrives home and my chess “training” comes to an end for the day. The two chat, and I excuse myself to the kitchen, grabbing a soda .
“You drink too much soda,” Vince says from the doorway.
Ignoring him, I pop the top, taking a big sip and making an Ahhh sound.
“How did tutoring go?” he asks.
“Fire the tutor,” I tell him bluntly.
“Why?” He raises an eyebrow.
“I don’t like her,” I admit.
He snorts. “You don’t like a lot of people.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You and my tutor hardly qualify as ‘a lot’ of people.”
“The answer is no,” he says with finality, loosening his tie.
“Why do you always wear a suit?” I wonder.
“Clothes are a representation of your image.” He looks me up and down, clearly unimpressed with mine. I’m wearing an oversized hoodie and skirt; the skirt I love, but the hoodie is out of habit: long sleeves to hide the scars. I’m no longer cutting, but I still have to live with a permanent reminder that I used to.
“What’s the image you’re portraying?” I return the favor, looking him up and down; he’s wearing what I’m learning is his favorite three-piece suit. “Criminal accountant?”
Vince crosses the kitchen in the blink of an eye, snatching the soda from my hand and pouring it down the sink.
“Asshole,” I mutter.
“How was chess practice?” he asks, tossing the empty can in the recycling.
“Fire the chess coach,” I tell him with a frustrated sigh.
Vince raises an eyebrow. “Why? You don’t like her too?”
I shake my head. “I like her fine; the problem is I bested her with a Fool’s mate.”
“Layman’s terms,” he says.
“I won a game against my coach in two moves,” I tell him incredulously. “ Two. Moves. And that’s who you want to train me? Someone I could beat in my sleep?”
“Alright, we’ll look for you a new chess coach. ”
“I want to join the Chess Hall in New York City; it’s one of the oldest and most prestigious clubs in the world.” I make my case. “All the who’s who of Grandmasters are either members or have visited the club at some point in their careers. It’s the best place to learn, make connections, and try to land a Grandmaster coach.” I hold my breath as Vince considers.
“We’ll take a trip to check it out tomorrow.”
I grin from ear to ear, until the image of yellow roses pop into my mind.
“What’s the scowl for this time?” Vince sighs.
“You Stockholm syndroming me.” I spin on my heel and stomp off.
“Still not a verb,” he calls after me.
Vince
“Smells good.” Luna says from the doorway.
I wipe the smile from my face before craning my neck; I was wondering if Luna would show for dinner or if I’d have to use force. “I thought we’d start with a light salad with a lemon vinaigrette?—”
“I’ll take ranch.”
“But I thought ranch was for fries?” I mock, raising an eyebrow.
“And I thought lettuce was for rabbits,” she fires back.
“Have it your way. Salad with ranch . Fettuccine al burro , and a cherry and dark chocolate crostata is in the oven.” And if she scrapes this dessert in the trash, I’m turning her over my knee.
My hand twitches .
“Impressive. Who taught you to cook?” Luna wonders, having ventured over to take a peek at what I’m doing behind the stove.
“Self-taught,” I confess. “When I started making a little cash, I was no longer limited to government cheese and canned meat; my palate expanded.” I ladle some of the pasta water into a bowl before draining the fettuccine and placing the hot pasta in the bowl, giving it a toss.
“What you said earlier about your image: you always wear a suit so people never guess you were a kid who ate government cheese and canned meat,” she muses.
“I always wear a suit because I always mean business,” I say dismissively, but she’s not wrong. “Make yourself useful and chop some parsley for me.” I change the subject, adding butter to the pasta.
“I don’t know how to use a knife,” she admits.
I grab her wrist, shoving up her sleeve and looking pointedly at her scars.
“Asshole. That’s not what I meant,” Luna snaps, jerking her arm away from me.
“Show me your other wrist,” I command.
“And this is why we only get along for five minute increments,” she snipes.
I raise an eyebrow. “Five minutes is being generous. Show me your other wrist.”
She flips me off as she displays her other wrist, with no signs of recent cuts.
“Good girl.” Dammit . That’s twice now.
So goes to tug her sleeve down, and I tell her, “Your image: you hide behind your hoodies so people never guess you were a kid who cut herself to escape from her abusive father.”
“You know what, I’ve decided I don’t like the dime-store philosophy game,” she says, trying to jerk her wrist away, but I won’t let her .
“Luna, you don’t have to hide your scars from me,” I tell her quietly, the air between us having become intolerably thick. “Those cut marks? Proof you’ve clawed your way out of hell. Be proud, not ashamed.”
“What would you have done if I had been cutting myself?” she says, barely above a whisper.
I release her wrist, casting my gaze away from her hypnotic eyes. “Moot point. Here, let me show you how to chop herbs.” I grab the knife and bundle the parsley sprigs together before demonstrating chopping. “You try.”
I step aside, and Luna takes the knife, looking unsure.
“Hold it like this with your fingertips pointed inward.” I reach my arms around Luna, watching over her shoulder as I adjust her hand to the correct position. Now that she’s no longer in danger of losing a digit, I guide the knife with my hand over hers. I find myself inhaling deeply, her lush and surprisingly sweet scent filling my nostrils. It’s a flora, fruity scent I’m trying to place; I take another inhale.
Ah, it’s apricots.
“Not a chef here, but pretty sure chopping requires some kind of knife movement,” Luna says, and I realize we’ve stopped chopping.
Apricots and attitude.
“I’ll finish this; you get the silverware,” I say, dropping my hand and returning to the stove. I busy myself with finishing the pasta, refusing to analyze why I’m acting so damn weird around my ward .
My phone buzzes, and I grab it from the counter.
Why didn’t I get an invite to family dinner?
I send a reply to my nosy-ass brother.
I’m busy tonight.
“If you need to go murder somebody, I’m good here by myself,” Luna pipes up.
“Sorry to disappoint . You’re stuck with me tonight. ”
Dinner proceeds with Luna taking verbal jabs at me, and me being amused at her effort.
I clear our plates and present the crostata. “This is dessert, not me ‘Stockholm syndroming’ you.”
“See, it’s a verb.”
I sigh heavily. “Eat.”
She reluctantly takes a bite of cherries and pastry, and then another, and another, a look of pure bliss on her face.
“ Una ciliegia tira l’altra ,” I murmur.
“What does that mean?” She catches me watching her.
“One cherry leads to another.” The literal translation, but the innuendo means something else. And that something else pops into my mind; an unbidden image of Luna in my lap as I feed her cherries and lick the juice off her plump lips.
“I’m not familiar with that expression,” Luna says, her tongue darting out and licking cherry juice from those lips I was just imagining.
“I’ve gotta take a call.” I push away from the table and storm out.
One thing is not going to lead to another.