Page 17 of The Sun and the Moon
“You don’t have an appointment, then?” she asks.
“No, sorry, I didn’t realize I needed one to stand in the foyer,” I reply. Her lips thin.
“But you’re here because of Moira?”
“I guess you could say that I came here because of her.”
There’s a noise in the other room. The creak of an old doorknob turning.
Someone is opening the door to the Reading Room. Good. This woman was clearly not planning to let me have an audience with the madame, and I didn’t come here just to get weird with a stranger who is also a major hottie.
Despite how invigorating I do find the experience to be.
“Fuck,” the woman curses under her breath.
“Excuse me?” I barely get it out of my mouth before she grabs me by the waist with both hands—strong, long fingers, short nails—and yanks me behind the swinging door she recently emerged from.
“What the actua—” Her hand clamps over my lips.
We stumble into a brightly colored kitchen, where she drives me up against the refrigerator, pushing me bodily (hers against mine) taut to the door, her breath coming fast and hot on my cheek. I struggle (a little, for show mostly), which causes her to tighten the grip she still has around my waist. My body surges with attraction.
She’s clearly nuts, but my libido doesn’t seem to care.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, eyes wide with panic. “But she absolutely cannot see you in the foyer right now. No matter what.”
I bite her hand, forcing her to release my lips with a shiver.
“What the hell?” she growls, wiping her hand on her jeans and glaring at me hard.
“What the hellis right. You just assaulted me in a place of business, psycho.”
“I’m not psycho, I’m trying to prevent my mother from sayingI told you sothis early in my trip.”
My brain locks in on a few details contained in her statement.
Mother. I told you so. Trip.
“Are you Madame Moira’s daughter?” I ask, trying to see the resemblance and mostly failing. The black hair and freckles, maybe, but where Moira is sharp and mysterious, this woman is soft and vulnerable. Every feature wide, plush, gentle.
I vaguely knew Moira had a daughter, thanks to my deep dive on the internet, but most of the photos online—which are pulled from some of Moira’s books—are from when she was a teenager, and in those, she had a pixie cut and looked rather impishly grunge.
Very different vibe.
“Afraid so,” she says. She looks genuinely disappointed.
“Then you’re here because of the engagement party.”
Her brows shoot together. “How do you know about that?”
My lips twist into what I hope is a devious smile. “I’m Sydney, Rick’s daughter.”
“The pilot.”
As recognition settles over her face, she also seems to remember that she is still holding me hostage against this refrigerator, her hand tight and warm around my waist, her tits pressed up against my shoulders since she’s a few inches taller. She releases me, taking a step back.
“We should talk,” she says, just as the sound of a woman’s voice travels through the door. Raspy and deep, with a slight indistinguishable lilt that could be affected or could just be the remnants of an accent.
“Cadence?” comes the voice. A name.
