Page 25 of The Sun and the Moon

Sydney

We’re about to turn onto the main drag of Solvang and are greeted by a craggy stone pillar holding a blue-and-white sign that says Welcome to Solvang in ornate Danish letters (what else would I call that blocky script?), and right below, it indicates that the village center is a half mile ahead.

Cadence hasn’t brought up the reading with Moira again.

Neither have I. After her story about the hummingbird picture, we ended up spending the rest of the drive talking about anything but her mother. Or my father.

Since we met, their relationship has loomed like a storm cloud over us, big and ominous, ready to burst and ruin our plans.

Our plans being to ruin theirs—but whatever.

It was nice to talk about ourselves, to share bits of who we are in this moment and how we got here.

I learned that her supervisor wants her to start leading tours, which is a promotion of sorts, but she’s torn since her favorite part about working for the parks is being with nature.

Not humans. Which I get, but I think she should go for it, and I blurted as much.

“You do?” she asked me, a quizzical expression on her face.

“Sounds like the tours are an important part of furthering visitors’ understanding of the park, which seems like a vital way to help bring in donations and support conservation.

” I don’t know why I felt so confident in offering her advice—she doesn’t exactly seem like the type to revel in listening to the opinions of others.

Her smile let me know she didn’t mind hearing mine, which sent a butterfly wing fluttering through my tummy.

I learned she likes lobster rolls but doesn’t like lobster by itself ( shells freak me out ), and she doesn’t eat beef or pork; she was a vegetarian for years and sometimes still toys with going back. She lives alone, and she’s single.

That last part I may have found a bit too interesting.

This kind of one-on-one is something I usually reserve for therapy, or Joe when we’re both feeling existential or lonely.

It’s not usually the kind of conversation I have with people I’m attracted to.

And despite my best efforts, I can admit that I am definitely, not maybe, attracted to Ranger Girl.

From the passenger seat, I’ve had a prime viewing spot to take in her unusual beauty.

Her cheeks are smattered with dark freckles, a sharp contrast to her fair skin.

Her long, curly black hair seems to have a life of its own with the way it twists and moves and drifts and tangles.

In profile, her long, dark lashes whisper against the skin on her cheek when she blinks.

Her chin is her most delicate feature, dainty but defined.

The perfect shape to clutch in hand and tug close—

I blink away at that.

Attraction is one thing. Acting on it is another.

At least I have the road ahead to focus on.

We’re now entering the village, heading toward the center.

Many of the buildings that line either side of the main road toward the town center were built in the Danish Provincial style, with thatched roofs and charming facades featuring board-and-batten siding in a variety of colors to match the buildings.

There’s a mixture of brick and other more modern buildings sprinkled in, but all of them have worked to streamline the aesthetic.

Through a courtyard that leads to another section of shops, I can see one of the village’s famous windmills.

It’s a slow crawl through the village center.

Cadence pushes out a puff of air through her nostrils in annoyance.

“What?” I ask. “I don’t love that sound.”

“I just can’t believe she planned her engagement weekend on Danish Festival weekend. The village is going to be unhinged and booked to the brim,” she says with a growl. I do like that sound. Jesus, I’m a mess.

“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 turns her 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 in Frozen .

“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 in Frozen ,” 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 a Where’s Waldo situation,” 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.

“The temp drops fast,” Cadence counters.

It’s clear from their exchange that there is substantial history between them, but it feels more familial than romantic.

“And you’re Lola,” I break in as the thought enters my head and then immediately leaves my mouth. I extend my hand, and Lola ignores it.

“Sydney, the pilot daughter,” she says brightly. She grabs me in an unexpected embrace. She smells of cinnamon and sugar, and I remember she was experimenting with baking cookies recently, but somehow she feels like the type of person who would just always smell like that.

She presses back, and then motions to the man-tree beside her. “This is Hawthorne. My plus-one.”

“Hawthorne,” Cadence repeats his name as if searching for the rest of it.

“That’s it,” Lola says.

“Named for the author,” Hawthorne says, his voice a rumble of thunder through my bones. Lola leans into him, but with her petite figure, she only reaches the middle of his chest. The logistics of this pairing baffle the mind.

“We have a theory,” Lola says. She and Hawthorne lean toward us.

Cadence and I instinctively reciprocate.

This move puts our bodies even closer. The light press of her arm against mine is almost all I can think about.

“This is a hell of a lot of trouble for an engagement party.” Lola raises both her thick copper eyebrows.

Without her saying the rest, my stomach drops. A cold pit forms in its place.

“You don’t mean you think they’re secretly getting married this weekend?” Cadence asks, sounding appalled. Lola bites her lip and nods.

“They invited, like, fifty people,” Lola continues. “I saw the guest list. And plus, this romantic setting—”

“Solvang is hardly romantic,” Cadence cuts in.

“We’re surrounded by wineries and cute inns, it’s practically a Hallmark movie,” Lola says, scrunching up her face in annoyance. Cadence leans back, as if by moving away from Lola she can get away from this possible scenario.

“There you two are,” Moira calls to us. She motions for us to come over. Cadence looks like she wants to stay put, Lola makes her wide eyes wider, and Hawthorne stands erect like the old-growth tree that he is.

“Come on.” I tug lightly on the edge of Cadence’s t-shirt, and I could swear she leans in. Against me. It doesn’t last long, but I know it happens.

“There’s a problem with your rooms,” Moira says.

And for the second time in two minutes my insides become a tundra.