Page 10 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

Sydney Sinclair sounds like a stage name. If I didn’t already know she was a pilot, I’d think she was an actress, seconds away from her big break.

She’s that gorgeous.

Tan skin, dirty-blond hair, big blue eyes, and pouty lips. Her body is ridiculous. Curves for days, a compact frame, immaculately manicured nails, and chic style. Basically the opposite of me in every way imaginable.

The reality that I’m attracted to her makes me feel a more intense urgency to convince her to maintain the secret of where we actually met as long as possible. Moira will sense my interest—it’s hard to imagine a person who wouldn’t be interested.

“You two need anything else?” the waitress asks. Her eyes slip over Sydney.

Interested.

“We’re all set,” Sydney replies, flashing a toothy smile. The waitress looks desperate to linger. But I have a case to make.

“Thanks so much,” I say too curtly. “We’ll let you know if that changes.”

Her mouth tugs closed into an almost scowl, but it does the trick. She walks away, swinging her tray, mousy-brown ponytail bobbing.

“Alright, I’m all ears,” Sydney says. “Explain yourself.” She takes a sip of her lavender latte. A rim of foam lingers on her upper lip, and she uses the tip of her tongue to lick it away

I force my focus to her eyes, away from her lips. “First of all, I would like to apologize for grabbing you back there. That was inappropriate.”

“But kinda fun,” she says, winking at me.

I blink, too stunned to speak for a second.

The ease she seems to have—with me, the waitress, simply existing —makes my brain feel itchy.

“I’m just curious why you freaked out so fully and then rushed us out of the house before I could get a look at your mother. ”

“More like before she could get a look at you ,” I correct.

“Okay, intriguing,” she says. Her lips turn down at the edges in what seems to be an almost perpetual frown shape. When she curls them up, the effect is mischievous.

“If you say so.” I’m trying to figure out where to start— how to start—and taking a drink of my green tea feels like the way to stall.

There’s a need for transparency here that I am not used to giving in to so easily.

“Moira, she’s the reason I grabbed you. She’s the reason I do a lot of the things that I do—questionable or not. ”

“Your core wound.” She flips her hair. The silky strands cascade into a deep side part, and she tucks a thick section behind her ear.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“I took a screenwriting class in college,” she says, leaning forward to set her cup back down on the saucer. The golden light streaming in through the window makes her eyes look almost navy. “It’s a term that is supposed to refer to the past pain that drives a character’s choices and actions.”

I’m almost taken aback by how accurate it is.

“Oh,” I say, fiddling with the edge of my cup. “I guess, yes. Moira isn’t the pain, necessarily—but a lot of my choices stem from trying to prove her wrong.” It’s strange to admit it out loud, especially to a virtual stranger.

But maybe even more to myself.

“Like in the case of today’s choice to grab me by the waist and shove me against the fridge with your tits?” she asks. Her tone is playful, even if she’s still trying to dig up the motive for my screwy behavior.

“I reacted first and thought later,” I reply, brushing over the word tits as if it weren’t uncomfortably evocative, “which is unusual for me.” I pause again, trying to summon the courage to carry on down this path. “You’ll think it’s ridiculous.”

“Try me,” she says. “I might surprise you.” She lets her eyes settle on mine, her gaze softer than before.

She’ll be the first person I’ve ever told this story to.

I have to ignore my mother’s voice in my head trying to tell me this part is significant. Soulmates can’t hide the truth from each other . If I believed there was such a thing as a soulmate—fate, destiny, any of it—this would really be a problem.

“Moira is a psychic reader,” I start, and Sydney shifts, elbows on the table, eyes pinned on me.

She’s settling in like I’m about to tell her a fairy tale.

Grimm as it is, I wouldn’t call it that.

“She built this lore for herself among the people in her life: her clients, readers of her self-help books. She could give you closure to your grief, answers to queries you couldn’t otherwise find.

But if you were seeking love—looking for that thread that was tied to the soul of the person who would complete you—Moira could find it.

She could see it, or at least the path to it. ”

Sydney tucks her hand around the nape of her neck, leaning into it for support as she listens. Her gaze is unwavering. “Soulmates. She makes money predicting soulmates.” Her phrasing is a choice . My lips kick up into a tentative smile.

“I never asked her about mine, but if there’s one thing I can guarantee about Moira—at least where I’m concerned—that was never going to matter.”

What I wanted wasn’t the point.

Her face twitches. Where I’m going with this is starting to dawn on her.

“I haven’t been back to LA in four years, and before that it was sporadic.” I pause, breathe, focus. “When I did visit, I tried to steer clear of Kismet.”

“Wait,” she interjects, straightening. Her hands cup the coffee mug. “You didn’t visit your home because of something she predicted about it?” She blinks. Understanding sharpens her features. “A soulmate thing.” Her nostrils flare.

Her hands drop from the coffee mug. One finger turns inward, pointing to her chest.

“I don’t believe in soulmates,” I say swiftly.

“But she does.” It’s not a question.

I lean back, nodding, answering anyway. “When I was sixteen she predicted I would meet my soulmate at Kismet all because of her.”

The heaviness of this information sits between us for a second, charged, almost electric with the way it changes the energy.

“Why would you risk coming back here, then?” she asks. “Going there at all.”

“The engagement invite.” I take another sip of tea, letting the soothing aromatics fill my nostrils.

“She sent the invite to my old address, which just happens to be on-site at Acadia National Park, where I work. My supervisor gave it to me.” I leave out the part about how she encouraged me to consider facing my issues with it—with my mother—in order to become a better, more well-rounded employee.

“You work at a national park?” I can’t decide if she sounds surprised or impressed.

“I’m a park ranger,” I say, unable to suppress the sense of pride in my voice.

“Ah, so that’s what this just came in from the trails vibe is about.”

“In what way do I give off that vibe?” I grip the edges of my denim jacket and tug it around me as an example of my neutral, not-trail-like style.

She points two fingers at me, sweeping them up and down.

“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror? You’re wearing hiking boots.

You’ve got a Save the Forest enamel pin on your denim jacket.

” She grins. “Your hair is windswept and wild.” The word wild twists through my gut, so loaded and still so welcome as it trips from her lips.

“LA is a very outdoorsy place.” I clamp down on the exhilaration.

“But, like, in the REI membership, hike Runyon Canyon kind of way.” I want to be offended, but I’m not sure why. She’s not wrong. “So you’re suspicious of this engagement, too?”

“ Too? ” I can’t keep the surprise out of my voice this time.

“You first.” Another cock of her brow. A clear challenge.

“Moira never wanted to get married. She was adamantly against it for herself, claiming her soul needed to be free, not bound to another person.” This gets a guffaw from Sydney.

“She’s a trip,” she grunts.

“You have no idea.” There’s a twinge of pity in her eyes.

It doesn’t linger, but for a moment I see understanding reflected there.

“Marriage, commitment,” I plod on, resisting the urge to spill everything.

To add fathers to the list. I don’t want to unpack all of my trauma and inner thoughts for this woman.

“The whole till death and true love thing wasn’t for her. So, what? Suddenly that’s changed?”

“You don’t think so?” she asks. “You said you haven’t been home in four years. You don’t sound like you’re on the best terms.” She shrugs, playing devil’s advocate now, when seconds ago she was readily agreeing that this betrothal is fishy. “Maybe she’s changed.”

“Moira doesn’t change.”

She looks me over, nibbling the edge of her lower lip as she considers. She crosses her arms and leans back, a more defensive, less vulnerable stance.

“My dad hasn’t dated much since my mom passed,” she says, her tone more guarded now than before.

“And when he has, the relationships usually fizzled out pretty fast. But not this one. It went so fast that I haven’t even met her yet, and sure, I’ve been busier than normal lately, but…

” She pauses, nostrils flaring. Annoyed, I think, and maybe it’s with herself.

“He didn’t tell me it was serious, which makes me even more sus. ”

“How fast has it moved?” I ask, because I genuinely don’t know, and because I think it could be a clue to Moira’s motive.

“Like three months? They went from meeting up for coffee to my dad basically living with her.” She crosses her legs, pretzeling up as she leans forward. “He’s bringing Chicken for sleepovers and sunset dinners.”

I’m confused, and I don’t try to hide it. “ Chicken? ”

“His old-man Chihuahua.”

“Moira hates dogs,” I counter. And many other living things that require her attention for their survival. “There’s no way.”

“Well, Chicken is a nonnegotiable,” she says. “And she’s getting all cozy. He sent me a pic showing them snuggled up.”

“The speed of the relationship is a red flag to me.” I am cautious to a fault when letting people into my inner world, my life.

It takes time to build trust, to really see the truth of another person clearly enough that I can be sure letting them in will be worthwhile.

That level of trust is something I haven’t achieved in a long time, not romantically. Not even with friends—not really.

I came by this trait genetically.

“No offense, but it’s hard to imagine my dad being the one to ramp up this timeline.

At least not without hefty encouragement,” she continues, treading carefully.

I don’t think she wants to offend me by outright suggesting my mother could be that outside influence or that the reason for the red flag timeline is rooted in Moira’s malicious intent.

“Moira must have a reason for pushing this forward so fast. That’s the only explanation.” I say what she is scared to. She is taken aback.

“What reason could she possibly have?” She’s searching my face for a clue. It’s the first time I’ve felt shitty about my suspicions. Thinking them is one thing, admitting them out loud feels like it makes them all the more plausibly true.

“I have a hard time believing love is driving her decision to get married.”

“What, like she’s conning him or something?” She outright cackles at the suggestion. But when I don’t immediately dismiss it, her expression tightens. “You’re serious?”

“There’s no way to know for sure without doing some investigating, but…” I pause, feeling wholly ridiculous. What am I, a private eye? “I haven’t been here in four years. I didn’t come here to celebrate.”

She curls her lip again. Mischievous. The spark in her irises is just as sneaky.

“You came here to break up the engagement.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, I recognize them to be true.

I hadn’t fully thought of what I was doing here as that direct, but it is.

There’s no other way to say it. I came here because I don’t trust my mother, and if I can prevent another person from getting unwittingly yanked into her orbit, sucked through the event horizon into her black hole of a personality, then I must.

I know too much not to.

“Cadence,” Sydney says. Hearing my name in her mouth shakes something loose. A dormant feeling. A sleeping beast. Our eyes lock—heated, honest. “What’s the plan?”

“You want to help me break them up?”

“Call me partner ,” she says. “Let’s break this case wide-open.”

A thrill scampers up my spine, the heat of it curling around my ears and warming my cheeks. A partner. Someone who gets it, wants in. Someone who puts themselves in the fray with you and promises to have your back.

I don’t believe in soulmates. I won’t acknowledge that the Universe might be trying to turn Sydney into mine.

But a partner? I wouldn’t mind that.

Even if it’s only for a week.