Page 87 of The Sun and the Moon
I want her in this with me. Whateverthisis.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cadence
I’ve been pacing the length of this room since we got back from the winery, and I know it’s making Chicken nervous. He’s sitting up on his bed, the tip of his tongue sticking out through his missing front teeth, watching me with concern in his dark brown eyes. I texted Sydney with an SOS as soon as I was free from Moira’s view, but I haven’t heard from her yet. For all I know, I could be wearing a hole in the carpet and she could still be riding a horse through the forest.
I look over the weekend itinerary on my phone.
Cheese and Wine at the Hygge 2 p.m.
I drop my phone on the bed and fall back onto the cool linens, closing my eyes and dragging my fingers back and forth over the lids until I see green orbs floating against the darkness. They have to give their guests enough warning so they can get ready and be at the shuttles by five. It’s almost two, and my guess is theinvites will be delivered to the wine and cheese tasting that is supposed to take place here at the Hygge soon.
A decoy tasting that’s probably not even a tasting at all.
Just a way to get their guests in one place to receive their invitations.
It’s so fucking theatrical that I almost wonder if Rick came up with the idea. There’s a stamp ofmagician doing a trickhere. I know he’s been training in illusion; maybe this is one he wanted to try out.
I’m freaking out over how to tell Sydney, how she’ll react, how it will make her feel, but if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m also freaking out about how this will change the course of this weekend, popping the bubble we managed to climb inside last night before we even get to enjoy it. There’s no way to know if we’ll get another chance to hold each other close.
Behind my lids, I can see her now. The soft, sloping lines of her body. The plump pout of her lips. Her hair like sunshine, her eyes like the sky. I want more of her than I’ve gotten—this wasn’t enough, just a few short days. This wasn’t enough to hear all her stories, memorize every one of her laughs.
I want more time and space and daydreams and tears.
I want to know her like a best friend and touch her like a lover—
The metallic grind of the lock opening yanks me from my yearning spiral.
I scoot into a seated position as the door opens.
Sydney.
Her hair is windswept, as if she ran here. Her cheeks flushed from sun or exertion, I don’t know which. She’s dressed in a pairof jeans and a dark blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The shirt is fitted, like it was tailored for her body. It matches her eyes like it was made using a sample of the color.
I shoot up from the bed, closing the space between us. I take her by the waist, tucking my other hand in her hair until I am cradling her head.
I cover her lips with my own.
The kiss is hungry, my tongue fervent.
She smells as good as she tastes, and even with the chaos about to close in, I feel my body ease as my breath and hers mix like a master-blended wine.
Her arms tighten around me as her hands reach for my ass. She tucks her palms in the pockets of my jeans, pressing my hips against hers. I know this can’t last—we have to talk—but her kissing me like this is the best salve to any wound.
Chicken’s bark breaks us from our bliss. Her lips unhook from mine with a laugh. I drop my forehead to hers, my shoulders shaking in a responding chuckle. Her eyes turn up to peer into mine. The soft light brown lashes, coated with mascara so they stand out, brush her skin.
“He probably needs to eat his lunch,” she says with a sigh.
“I think he’s just worked up because we’re worked up,” I reply, grinning over at the little rascal. “I fed him when I got back from the winery.” I straighten but don’t pull away completely. She doesn’t release my ass; I don’t let go of her waist. A smile cracks her cheeks, and she leans in to kiss me again.
“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, tightening her hold on me.
“He was hungry,” I say, not sure what this reaction is about but not wanting to stop her from feeling it. “And I don’t mind.”
We stand there for a moment, just holding each other, a few more breaths inside the bubble, until finally she tugs her hands from my back pockets and I let mine drop from her waist.
“I have to tell you something crazy,” I say, just as she says, “I think my dad is the con artist.”
