Page 37 of The Sun and the Moon

Cadence

Sydney looks like she’s about to pounce on me when I step down from the platform.

I should feel impressed with myself that I can still do it, no instruction needed.

I shouldn’t care that now Moira is recounting the original axe-throwing tale to Pam and Greg, emphasizing her role in it.

I shouldn’t be embarrassed by the attention, the cheers of fuck yeah, good throw coming from onlookers as they pass by.

As soon as I near Sydney, all of that drifts away. The noise in my head gets quieter, shifting into a single palpable feeling instead.

Want.

I don’t care that I met her at Kismet all because of my mother.

It doesn’t matter that she could be my soulmate, and that must mean fate isn’t a fallacy.

Because like Kit said when she pulled that Ten of Cups, the catalyst isn’t what decides a lifetime of love. It’s not the thing that makes a soulmate a partner. Not even the Universe has the power to do that, not without the help of the querent.

“We should make ourselves scarce,” Sydney says in a low voice as we turn to watch Lola take the platform. She’s trying to mimic my stance and almost nailing it.

“Wanna get food?” I ask, but my eyes say bedroom .

“I could definitely eat,” she replies, a naughty uptick to her lips.

Lola lifts the axe into position with hesitance. “Why don’t you head over to the garden?”

Leaving together at the same time will warrant an explanation. May get us tagalongs. If she skips out ahead of me, I can just feign needing to go lie down or something. They won’t know we’re together, and we won’t have to make an excuse as to why we left at the same time.

She gives me a wink, taking her lip hostage between her teeth.

I force my focus to Lola and let Sydney slip away.

I ignore when she is stopped by Rick asking where she’s off to and she says, “Need some air.” Lola releases the axe with just the right amount of force, I can tell as soon as it starts to spin.

The blade makes contact with the wood right at the edge of the target, but it sticks.

She flies up, clapping, and whips around to look at me.

She searches for my approval like I’m an older sibling, someone whose opinion matters. I’m surprised by the ache in my chest when our eyes meet. She hops down from the platform, and I extend my hand for a fist bump.

“Almost in the target,” she says in a self-deprecating tone.

“Better than most of the guys in the place.” I mean specifically Hawthorne, and she knows it. She grins at my slight of him. The shelf life of that relationship just got a hell of a lot shorter.

“Where’s Sydney?” Lola asks, looking around me like she expects her to be right at my side.

I see an opportunity to pull her into this for some amity, something I think she’d appreciate and also something that could genuinely get me out of here faster. I lean in, lowering my voice.

“She bailed, and I’m about to follow her.” Lola gets my drift immediately. Her smile is bright and easy.

“I’m glad you’re letting her in, Cade. With how you met her and everything,” she says, not saying the why of it out loud. I’m grateful she doesn’t, but a small part of me tugs toward her, wanting to spill my feelings. Wanting the connection I never valued before.

“I’m scared,” I whisper, giving in to the moment even though it’s just as scary as anything else happening. Her eyes shine, and she grips me by the hand.

“Good,” she says. “That means you care.” I watch as her attention shifts behind me and then her eyes widen pointedly. Moira and the rest of the crew must be edging closer. She pulls me to the side and whispers, “Go” and “Good luck,” and I bolt without looking back.

Whatever they all think is happening, I do expect that Lola will be able to deter them.

She’s always been clever, and it’s likely that skill has only improved over time.

I shoot out through the exit of the tent and into the cool night air.

It hits my skin with a burst, drawing goose bumps to the skin.

I yank on my jacket and search the space for the hot blonde of my dreams.

I catch sight of her across the cobblestone, standing in the light of one of the firelit torches.

Wind catches her hair. Her skin glows a warm gold.

I’m tugged toward her as if the string tying our souls is being reeled in to draw us together.

She catches me with her eyes, turning her body my way.

A smile cuts her features, awakening the butterflies in my stomach.

She likes me.

She wants me.

“Hey,” she says, her voice dropping into a low, raspy tone.

“Hey,” I say, unable to contain my grin.

Feeling happiness because of another person isn’t something I’ve experienced in a long time. I’m surprised by how it lets light into the darkened corners, airing out those shadows, warming up the confusion that comes from walking all alone for so long.

I reach out for her hand, and she fits her fingers in between mine, pressing our palms together. Without a word, we walk away from the crowd.

?The overhead light above our hotel room doorway has drawn some little brown moths to the glow. As we near the door, she leans over, pressing a kiss to my cheek. I turn my head to capture her lips with mine, cupping her chin in the palm of my free hand. She smiles against my mouth.

“Where’s your room key?” she asks, and I take the break in our kiss to inhale the scent of her skin.

“Back pocket,” I say, tasting her neck with my teeth. She giggles, a light, airy sound, before reaching around to the pocket of my jeans and fitting her hand inside for the key.

With a swipe, we fall into the room together, our lips breaking apart for a moment while I fuss around with the light switch on the back wall.

The jangle of metal tags reminds us of the Chicken in the room.

He stands up, looking bleary with sleep, and stretches.

His long pink tongue curls out as he yawns.

“He probably needs a bathroom break,” she says, her eyes drifting to the puppy pad sitting unused next to his bed. She turns, gripping me by the waistband to peck another kiss on my lips. “Wait.”

With a smile, she grabs Chicken’s leash and hooks him up to take him outside. The door slides closed, leaving me alone in the room for a beat.

My thoughts swirl. This isn’t somewhere I ever expected to be.

Not after I ran so far away from anything that could lead me to this path.

In all my resistance to my destiny, I never once entertained the idea that meeting a person in the foyer of Kismet could ever make me feel like coming back home.

But not to the home I had to leave because it was never mine, never really safe for me.

To a home where I belong. To someone, with someone.

The door swings open, and Chicken is the first one through it, his little waddle from the arthritis in his hips making him almost bob across the threshold. Sydney follows, praising him for doing his business. He runs over to me, licking my hand a few times before circling back around to his bed.

I walk over to the sink to wash my hands of spit and whatever grime I’ve carried inside with me from axe throwing. In the mirror, I see Sydney’s reflection as she tucks Chicken into his bed, covering him over with a blanket and placing his stuffed drumstick toy in beside him.

She exhales a sigh. Crossing to stand beside me at the sink.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. Maybe because I can’t imagine a reality where this girl actually wants me and isn’t already rethinking this whole thing.

She turns to face me.

“If you want consent…” she says, not a full sentence.

She lets it dangle. Her hand raises to my hair.

In a slowly deliberate move she brushes the strands off my shoulder.

Her fingers graze the skin of my neck. She leans in, pressing her lips there, light and closed, little nips of contact as she moves up toward my ear.

She opens her lips against my skin and breathes, “You have it.”

I turn, gripping her at the waist and pulling her into my body until every gap closes between us. Our lips lock and our tongues twist. She pulls her mouth away, the absence dragging a groan from my throat.

“I need to wash my hands,” she says, and then tosses a glance over toward the bed. “Go sit.” I have never been one to do as I’m told, but I’d take orders from Sydney any day. I break my grip on her and walk over to the bed, dropping down on the edge.

From my vantage point, I have a perfect view of her hourglass shape.

She’s still wearing her jeans and sweater; her hair is down, lightly waving from the effect of the braid she had it drying in earlier.

The mirror light is glowing softly, the only light we have on in the room.

Her ass is plump, a perfect peach at the top of her curvy thighs.

When she reaches up to dry her hands, her eyes catch sight of me watching her in the mirror.

“You’re staring,” she says.

“I won’t apologize for it,” I reply. She turns, leaning against the counter.

Her face is momentarily in shadow. “I’ve seen the view from the top of Pikes Peak.

On a clear day you can see five states from the summit.

” I let my gaze drift over her curves as if they are mountaintops. “You may be more beautiful.”

She steps out of the shadow cast by the light at her back. Her expression is misty, surprise and desire mixing in her face. Cheeks flushed.

I almost gasp. “Definitely more beautiful.”

“Does that mean you want to fuck me?” The word, fuck , slices through me. I press my thighs together to ease the ache between them. “Because I want to fuck you.” Her eyes drop to my legs. “I want you screaming my name.”

The power in her voice is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

She walks toward me, taking slow and deliberate steps as she removes her sweater. Her bra is a dark purple with lavender flowers, the cups barely holding in her ample breasts. Her cleavage mounds, a perfect crease that blossoms from the lace edging. I want to bury my face in her cleavage.

“You’re having all sorts of thoughts,” she says. “I can practically see your mind spinning.”

“Your body is a lot for me to process.” She’s closer now, I could almost touch her.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” It’s a gently firm order.

Her jeans hit right at her waist, the button dipping into a small V where her navel peeks out in a crescent at the top. Her generous hips and tits accentuate her waist’s smallness.

“I was thinking I want to lick your cleavage and bury my face in your breasts.” Heat rushes to my cheeks, the ache in my pleasure palpable.

But now that she’s closer, there’s such a flood of desire, thoughts and feelings and longings, it’s almost overwhelming.

“I want to grab your ass, one cheek in each hand, get a mouthful of your breast and take tiny bites out of your stomach.”

I have to force my eyes up to her face; I’m a little scared to see her reaction.

Her lips have dropped open, and her eyes are dark with a look of pure lust.

She bends down so her breasts are right in my face and takes my left hand in hers. Slowly, she lifts it to her ass. I wait, happy to let her lead. She places the other hand on the other cheek. “Go. Ahead.”

Her breath pounds against my forehead.

I grab a handful, yanking her onto my lap.

Her breasts are right below my chin. Just out of reach of my mouth.

Her eyes and mine are level, and I focus on the deep rim of navy outlining the cerulean.

She wraps her arms around my shoulders, her legs around my hips.

Her breasts push against me, and I’m wishing I didn’t have a shirt on anymore.

I’m wishing there was nothing standing between her and me becoming us .

In every way possible.

“Hey.” She brushes my lips with her thumb. “Where’d you go?”

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s awfully loud in my head.”

She presses her forehead to mine. I run my hands up the length of her back, savoring the feel of her skin under my hands. Her lips touch mine tenderly.

“I’m terrified,” she says. “I haven’t felt like this—” She cuts herself off. “I was going to say in a long time , but that’s just swagger.” She presses another gentle kiss to my lips. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt like this before.”

It takes some of the sting out of my own inner turmoil to hear her say she’s scared, too. Scared because she feels so much, just like me. Scared to feel as much as she does, because it’s foreign, so unknown.

“At least we can be terrified together,” I say.

Our eyes connect, and I’m struck by how I’ve never thought about it before. How true it is when they say that the eyes are the window to the soul. And if that string is tied from her soul right to mine, I wonder: If I looked in her eyes long enough, would I be able to see it?

And I realize: It wouldn’t matter.

Soulmate, not soulmate.

Sydney is who I want.