Page 48 of The Sun and the Moon
“You think there’s a reason?” I say.
“With her, there’s always a reason.”
I flick my eyes up the road to see the sign for our hotel becoming clear. It’s called the Hygge, after the Danish word used to describe something that invokes a cozy, contented feeling of well-being. Which is anything but the way either of us feels as we turn off the road—struggling through a throng of people crossing—to enter the hotel parking lot. Cadence pulls under the porte cochere and cuts the engine. A young man dressed in a navy-blue vest, fitted white button-down, and navy slacks opens her door.
She lets out another deep huff. I don’t think about it. I just reach out.
My hand presses to her shoulder in solidarity, but the burst of heat that shoots through my center sets me off-kilter. She turnsher face up, and her eyes catch mine. The heat pulses between my legs as I hold the look.
“I’m glad you’re with me this weekend,” she says in a low voice that cracks right at the end.
“Checking in?” the valet attendant interrupts. Cadence’s lips work into a swift smile, which she leaves plastered on as she turns to the attendant, climbing out but leaving the keys in the car.
My head drops back against the rest and my eyes close. “Me, too,” I reply to her, too late, barely audible. She doesn’t hear me. My eyes peel open and drop to look at Chicken, who now stirs on my lap, realizing the car has come to a stop and no doubt needing to pee again. I brush my hand over his head.
“Uh-oh, buddy,” I say. “None of this is good.”
?The Hygge is the physical manifestation of that word’s intended design. At least, this lobby is. Cozy fur throws, plush couches in neutrals, a glowing fireplace with two rich velvet chairs in a classically Scandinavian design. The light-washed wood floors are covered in artfully laid rugs with blue, red, and white Danish prints.
As we approach the front desk, we meet up with some of the engagement party attendees, as well as Moira and Dad, who are standing side by side at the front desk. Dad is noticeably quiet in the shadow of Moira, who is busy yapping with a tall sandy-haired man who looks distinctly like a real-life version of Anna’s love interest inFrozen.
“Sven,” Cadence says, quiet enough that only I can hear her. I press my hand to my lips to hold in a guffaw. “I know, he literally looks like a cartoon character.”
“I was just thinking about the guy with the reindeer inFrozen,” I reply. “Isn’t his name Sven?”
“I think that’s the reindeer,” Cadence says, her lips threatening a smile.
“Honestly, he kind of resembles the reindeer, too.”
There’s the smile. The way it lights her eyes is intoxicating.
Moira throws her head back in a cackle at something Sven says, and Cadence fills in the blank after my quizzical expression. “She’s been coming here since I was in middle school; she’s ingratiated herself to everyone with a pulse.”
Cadence is biased against her mother, something that I understand comes from years of feeling powerless, or at least feeling like she doesn’t have autonomy from her mother’s strong personality. But even with the bias, her assessment of Moira feels pretty fair. She has a way of making you forget your own boundaries in favor of the ones she lays out. I never would have agreed to a tarot reading from some random psychic—not even as a party trick or in a tipsy state of being.
I glance over from Moira and Dad to see that Greg and Pam have arrived. They have a son my age, so I am well acquainted with them since many of my teenage summers were spent lounging in the pool in their backyard. Greg is a distinguished-looking man, with close-cropped silver hair and a strong jaw. Pam is a small-boned and pretty Black woman, with shoulder-length braids and a kind smile. I’ve always liked her way more than her husband.
I lean over, pressing the tips of my fingers into Cadence’s wrist. The contact sends shoots of energy up the length of my arm. When she turns her face toward mine, the heat of her breath hits my cheek.
“Greg and Pam, two o’clock,” I say, my mouth going dry. This close, I can see a dimple indenting when her lip twitches up. It makes a half-moon right at the corner. I force myself to focus by removing my fingers from her wrist and edging my face out of the proximity of her breath.
“Do pilots have some sort of dress code?” Cadence says in a quiet voice. A chuckle rumbles in my throat, and I have to swallow it back. “Could have picked him out anywhere.”
“Until the rest of Dad’s pilot friends arrive, and then it’s like aWhere’s Waldosituation,” I quip. She flicks a glance to me.
“You don’t dress like part of the club,” she says, allowing her gaze to travel over me. Everywhere her eyes touch is a stroke of heat.
“Cade.” A younger woman’s voice breaks Cadence’s focus from me, rescuing me from a near collapse under its weight. We both look toward the sound to see a redhead whose voice is high and bell-like, a contrast to her grungy, nineties-inspired cutoffs, flannel, and crop top, which reveals a tattoo on her abdomen. She’s accompanied by a guy the size of a redwood tree approaching. Her face has this wide-open quality about it that makes her look younger than she probably is. Her eyes flick from Cadence to me and then back.
“She’s in rare form,” the redhead says. She’s looking at Moira when she speaks.
“Rare in what way?” Cadence asks.
“The exceptionally Moira way.” The redhead grins, and Cadence groans.
Cadence’s eyes drop to her legs. “You’ll freeze, you know.”
“The winds aren’t that bad yet,” she replies.
