Lunar Love (55)

I narrow my eyes at him. “Together?”

I imagine slipping my arm around his and being interlocked with Bennett as we peruse beautiful art and drink probably not inexpensive wine. Even that simple gesture would allow me to confirm all the thoughts I shouldn’t be having about his arms. Get it out of the way so I don’t have to ever think about them again. An evening drinking under the stars. With Bennett. It shouldn’t be a thrilling thought, but it is.

Bennett gives the tickets a little wave, shaking off my thoughts with the movement. “It would be a shame to let this night go to waste. I don’t know what drinking with the stars is like, but I want to find out,” he says.

I try to stifle the zing of excitement that zips through me. “This date was supposed to be for you and Harper. I can’t—”

“How about we don’t call it a date then?” he says. “It can be a meeting. We’re two dating service professionals. We can even talk about work all night long.”

“You running out of ideas and need some of mine?” I retort.

Bennett slips the tickets into his back pocket. “If you don’t want to, I’m not going to push you,” he says. “Have a good night.”

“Wait,” I blurt out. “It’s been a while since I’ve been up there. They have one of my favorite paintings. It wouldn’t be right to let those tickets go to waste. They cost real money.”

Real money that Lunar Love doesn’t have a whole lot of. This can be research.

Bennett’s crooked smile spreads across his face. Once again, he holds out his arm to walk me to the tram. The zing morphs into more of a zap, all the initial enthusiasm draining from my body. What am I doing? This is not a good idea. Bennett is my competition. A pseudo-client.

But it’s just one night. And as we’ve established, this is not a date. Rats and Horses do not date. We’re two professionals having a professional meeting. Maybe I could even turn this into a Singles Scouting. I let out a long breath to still my hammering heart, and before I can make up an excuse to leave, I tuck my arm up into his.



At the top of the mountain, the sky looks like a series of pale orange and lavender brushstrokes straight out of a Monet painting. The moon is in its first quarter phase, half of its glowing surface beaming down on us.

“Look at the legs on this one,” Bennett says. He tilts his wineglass and watches as maroon droplets slide down the inside of the stemware. He inhales just above the glass, as instructed by the sommelier. “I’m getting hints of old saddle leather and crushed rocks.”

“Very nice!” I say, mirroring him. “To me, it smells more like freshly printed paper and that feeling when you’re sitting under the moonlight looking up at the stars thinking about how small you are in the world.”

Bennett smirks before sniffing his wine again. “I’m not getting that. Wait. There it is. Ah, nothing like the smell of insignificance and toner.”

We both quietly laugh together, trying not to draw attention to ourselves.

“You really knocked this date out of the museum,” Bennett says, looking pleased. “I learned so much in that class. If date planning was a competition, you’d win. You’re good.”

I knew Bennett the Historical Buff would love what I planned for him. And Harper. Him and Harper.

I lean back against the railing and admire the museum’s imposing architecture, the warmth and permanence of the stone marking its long-lasting presence. Situated at the top of a hill in the Santa Monica Mountains, the Getty is an escape from the city, an isolated retreat from a city of millions. The buildings are so grand and stunning that it’s easy to forget there’s art inside. The various buildings, fountains, and gardens create more of a campus feel than that of a typical museum.

“Where does your interest in history come from?” I ask.

“Well,” he says slowly, “I’ve always been fascinated with the past. It’s oddly comforting to know that there are different interpretations and perspectives of events that took place in time.”

I spin and face the mountains alongside Bennett. “If things can be interpreted so many different ways, how do you know what to believe?”

“That’s the point. All we can do is act on what we know in this moment in time.”

“That makes me anxious to know that anything can be reinvented at any point.” I tilt my glass and stare into the inky wine.

“Nothing’s permanent or guaranteed,” Bennett says softly.

“So you like history because there’s room for interpretation?” I clarify.

His eyes search mine. “Some of the best creations in history were because people were willing to look at the same thing differently. So yes. Though going against what others think often feels like trying to turn a cruise ship in a puddle.”

“You’ve got a point,” I say, “but that sounds a little bleak.”

“Sometimes being bleak is easier.” Bennett pushes his hair back and rests his hand over his mouth. When he looks back at me, his face looks more serious than usual. “Like this pitch, for instance. I’m going to be trying to convince people about my interpretation of the Chinese zodiac. It’s not for another two weeks, but I’ve been preparing every day. I need my delivery to be spot-on.”

“What, are you nervous?” I ask, intrigued by this information.