The peaceful morning shattered at eleven thirty-seven when Luna's phone rang.

She and Grayson were curled together on the living room sofa, her head on his shoulder as they watched some mindless romantic comedy—her choice, his amused tolerance. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her arm while she critiqued the heroine's terrible decision-making skills.

"She's going to pick the wrong guy," Luna muttered, stealing a piece of chocolate from the box balanced on Grayson's chest.

"How can ...