Page 26 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

They only have one room available.

I keep repeating the words in my head, trying to alchemize them into something different.

I had assumed Moira, in her infinite psychic-ness—and her certainty that I would come to this party—would have gone ahead and booked me my own room.

I don’t mean to sound entitled or anything, and it isn’t my preference, it’s just what my mother would normally do.

So not only is this a disaster, it’s suspect, as it goes against behavior I have come to expect from her.

My mother is the type of person to plan a dinner reservation without confirming you’re available and then make you feel like shit if you can’t make it.

The Hygge is her haunt. The spot she stays in every time she comes to Solvang.

“You’re telling me that you forgot to book me my own room?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“I forgot to call in the whirlwind of your arrival,” she says, tapping her room key on the counter. Impatient. I can read on her face the subtle shift from amused to agitated as it happens in real time.

“And there’s nothing available, not even for you?” I ask, not trying to flatter her, though she definitely takes it that way. Her smile creeps back out, chasing her annoyance away with the flames of her ego. I cross my arms to shut out her happiness as it bounds toward me.

“The Danish Days Festival brings in thousands of extra travelers,” she replies. “So, as you can probably imagine, the whole town is full.”

I open my mouth to argue, because in a tourist town like this, there has to be something available. An Airbnb at the very least—even if it’s not ideal. But Rick gets in there first.

“Well, Syd wouldn’t mind letting you bunk with her,” he says, and then turns his crystal-blue eyes to Sydney.

I swear to God, the look that passes between them is loaded.

He practically pleads. My mind is glitching over his use of the word bunk , like we’re two girls at summer camp and not two gay girls with heaps of chemistry and a stupid soulmate prediction fucking around with our heads.

“Oh, what a wonderful idea, love,” Moira says, gripping Rick by the arm and tugging him in for a kiss on the cheek. He beams.

I am at a loss for words, but thankfully Sydney isn’t.

“If that’s the easiest option,” Sydney says, holding her dad in a glare before shifting her eyes to me. “As long as you don’t snore.”

That is not what she was supposed to say. She was supposed to be as surprised as me, shaken to her core. The chemistry was supposed to make her proximity-conscious. She shouldn’t offer her room. She can’t possibly think this is actually a good idea.

I can’t sleep near enough to her that I can imagine what it would be like to sleep with her.

“I don’t snore—”

“Ah, then it’s settled,” Moira interrupts me before I can protest any more. She turns to Sven, who has been silently watching this exchange, doing nothing to try to stop it. “We’ve solved it. Let’s get them checked in!”

While they’re distracted, I turn to Sydney.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say. Not we shouldn’t do this —which we shouldn’t.

Not I can find somewhere else to stay —which I am sure I can even if it’s a couple towns away.

But when my eyes find hers, I forget the panic.

I forget the lone-wolf girl with no one to have her back.

Because Sydney’s eyes are like deep water I could let myself float in.

They cover me in comfort like lapping ocean waves used to when I was a little girl.

They seem to say that this is going to be okay.

Because it’s not just me going through it.

It’s us .

“It’s just two nights, Ranger Girl,” she says. “And as far as anyone knows, we’re not women who could be soulmates.” She coaxes her lips into a tiny smile, and I’m fixated on the way the left corner kicks up higher than the right. Crooked and perfect.

Moira turns back to us, holding a small paper envelope with our room keys and instructions on how to navigate our way there.

“Sven will have your bags brought over,” my mother says, her eyes steady on me. I feel like she’s waiting for something, but I can’t imagine what. I clutch the keys and lift my brows.

“We better get settled in, then,” I say, holding her green eyes with mine.

“Shuttle to Whimsy Winery leaves in thirty minutes.”

“We’ll be there,” I say, giving her a tight smile.

“You remember the dress code—”

“I have plenty of business casual—”

“No hiking boots—”

“Mom, stop.” The name, Mom . Her eyes sheen immediately.

“It’s nice to hear you call me that,” she says, and she doesn’t seem to care that Rick and Sydney are close enough to hear and are definitely watching.

“Reflex,” I say. She nods almost imperceptibly. I walk off in the direction of the doors that lead to the courtyard connecting the lobby to the rooms.

?Sydney and I stand in front of the one queen-size bed sitting ominously in the center of the space.

“There’s only one bed,” she says. I hear a chuckle in her voice.

“She booked you a queen, not a double.” It still isn’t sinking in.

“To be fair to your mom—”

“Let’s not—”

“She didn’t know I would be sharing a room with you,” she says, and I swear to God, now she is most certainly holding in a laugh. Not a chuckle; a full-on guffaw.

“You don’t think she knew—”

“Cadence, she isn’t psych—”

I whirl on her, my mouth flying open in an O as she clamps her hand over her lips and crumples, unleashing her laugh into the room and all over me. It’s sunshine, warming everything, and I have no defense against it.

She drops to the bed and falls onto her back, giving me the most insane view of her body prostrate against the white hotel linens.

Her hair is coming loose from the high messy bun and streaming out in rays.

She rolls onto her side, looking up at me.

Her body makes a perfect hourglass shape when standing, but it’s even more aggressively clear just how scandalously flawless her shape is when she’s lying like that.

Her full, natural-looking breasts peek from her shirt.

Her ass spreads against the bed, her thighs pressing to touch each other.

Her eyes blink, bright with humor.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, her expression settling, softening. I have no idea what my face is doing.

“What am I looking at you like?” Heat pools in my cheeks. It races down my spine. It gathers between my legs in a pressure I wish I could ignore.

Want is unmistakable, inconvenient. It’s making me lightheaded.

“Like you want to kiss me.” Her voice is steady. My eyes trip to her lips as if I’ll see proof of that word, kiss , floating there. “You’re looking right at my mouth.”

I blink, ready to dispute her assessment, but I can’t. Because there’s no denying it. I was looking at her mouth.

I would kiss her if she let me.

She grips me by the hand and tugs me onto the bed beside her. I let myself fall, rolling against the cool linens and ripping my baseball cap off. My hair flies out, wild around my head, and she tucks her face close to it, moving some of the tendrils.

Playing with them.

The tips of her fingers caress the dark strands, twisting the ends around her pointer finger as her eyes flutter up to me, shining with interest.

I am not someone who thrives under the weight of attention, always preferring to sink back to the edges of a room, seek the darkness outside the spotlight. But something about the way Sydney Sinclair bestows attention doesn’t make me want to shrink away.

I become a fern on the floor of a forest, stretching her fronds toward the sun.

“What if I said you were right?” I say, twisting around to prop up on my arm. So far, she and I have managed not to lie to each other. So far, we’ve been transparent. We’ve worked together. We’ve made pinky promises and landed on partnership.

I don’t want to pretend with her. A realization that terrifies me as much as it thrills me.

“ Are you saying that?” She raises her arm, curving it behind her head until she’s propped on it. I’m at a slight advantage from my more upright angle, and I feel more physically in control, even if emotionally I’m a buoy in a stormy sea.

“What if I am?” I let myself look at her. Really look . She doesn’t shy away from my gaze. She shifts just her face so that she’s looking up at me. Her skin is a soft golden tan, the kind you’d see on a girl in a sundress at the beginning of summer. Kissed with color and almost shimmering.

“I’d be surprised,” she says, taking her lower lip between her teeth.

Small and white, straight but not perfect.

One of the front teeth kicks out a tad, overlapping the smaller one behind it.

“But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought the same thing.

” Her eyes trail over my face like she’s tracing an outline. “If you said that, I mean.”

I swallow a hard lump that’s formed in my throat.

“I can’t say that,” I reply, but I am desperate to inch closer.

I haven’t wanted to kiss someone in a long time—so long that I almost forgot what the desire feels like. She rolls to her side, drawing a section of my hair between her fingers.

“Then don’t say it,” she says, eyes on my hair with a hunger. “You can just do it.”

“I don’t know what it means if I do.”

“Does it have to mean something?” She lifts her gaze.

“The soulmate thing—”

“But neither of us believe in soulmates.” The shoulder of her sweatshirt slips down to reveal creamy tan skin and a neon-blue bra strap. Her eyes land on my lips, and my hand itches to reach for her waist, cup the small of her back, and pull her against me.

Feel the weight of her body, not just her gaze.

“We could try it,” she says, and her lip curls. She has a small, slightly pointed nose, which she scrunches as her smile spreads. “It might be fun.”

Fun. I could kiss her just for fun.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything about our souls,” she breathes. This close I can feel the heat. I want it to consume me.

For fun.

“No strings,” I say, but I’m not thinking about the kind that mean obligations or commitment, payment or puppetry.

I’m thinking about the string tied from one soul to another.

“Just how I like it.” The words leave her throat with a growl.

All I have to do is lean in and our lips will touch. She wets hers. Now they glisten, enticing, inviting. “Okay,” I whisper.

“Okay,” she consents.

Her hand twines in my hair now, up to the nape of my neck, fingers stroking skin as our breath mingles in the tiny expanse of space between us.

My hand snakes around her waist, flattening my palm to her back, pressing her closer. I resist the urge to squeeze her flesh, run my hand over the generous slope of her ass, cup the curve at the bottom.

I focus on the smell of her skin, fresh air and spice and sunshine. Her nose touches mine in a gentle nudge, waiting for me to do the rest.

And so I do. Slowly, slowly.

And then all at once.

I take her lips hostage, mine fitting over the soft, supple curves of her pout. My tongue slides past that cute crooked tooth, searching. Tasting. Coffee and mint, a little salty and sweet and so warm.

A small primal noise rumbles from my throat.

Her hand cradles my head, and she closes the gap between our bodies just enough that I can feel all her ample curves against my longer, leaner lines. Her tongue touches the tip of mine, her hips press into mine, amplifying the ache that pulses between my legs.

Knock knock knock.

Our faces whip apart, but our bodies stay in tandem.

The sound is coming from the hotel door.

“Who the hell would—” she nearly spits. I love that she hasn’t let me go yet. Makes me hopeful she doesn’t want to—isn’t regretting what just happened now that we’ve been interrupted.

“Valet,” I reply. “They haven’t brought our bags yet.”

“Oh fuck.” She turns back to look at me.

Her lips are a deeper shade of pink. She grins.

“Let me get my cash for a tip.” Her eyes drop to my mouth.

“Fuck.” But she smiles when she says it.

“Coming!” She lifts herself off the bed and walks across the room to where her purse sits by the coffee machine on the dresser.

Her yoga pants are riding up a little in her ass crack, adding definition to the outline.

Jesus Christ.

I sit up, crossing my legs and leaning against the end of the bed to ease the throbbing.

She opens the door to reveal the same valet attendant from when we arrived earlier. He’s got a cart with her duffel and my rolling suitcase sitting on it, as well as the bag containing Chicken’s food and water bowls, treats, and the ziplock plastic bag of dog food they packed him for the weekend.

As far as I know, Chicken is staying with Moira and Rick, not us, so that will need to be returned.

Us. We are staying in a room together, but we are not an us . We are trying to make sure her dad doesn’t get swindled, but we are not a couple . We just kissed like starving people loading up plates at a buffet, but we are not hooking up .

The valet drops the bags just inside the door, and Sydney discreetly hands him a folded-up dollar bill in an amount I can’t see before she shuts the door and turns around.

My eyes can’t get enough of this view.

And then on the dresser her phone begins to buzz with a call.