Page 46 of The Sun and the Moon

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.

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 the invites 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 of magician doing a trick here. 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 pair of 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.”

Wait, what? I step back. A dent forms between her brows.

“Your dad is the con artist?”

“What happened at the winery?” Her lips kick into the tiniest smirk. “You wanna go first?”

“I think maybe you should,” I say. She nods, agreeing with reluctance. She paces to the bed and sits, but I am too restless to follow. I turn to face her, noticing as I do that Chicken has lain back down in his bed, his eyes already closing again.

“Where the hell do I start?” she asks, but it’s directed more to the room. Or even the Universe, God forbid.

She flips her hair into a deep side part and runs her fingers down the length.

“He brought up all this old stuff like he wanted to get a bunch of new revelations off his chest. I felt like he was building to something, but then Pam’s horse went bananas and we had to cut the ride short.

” As she talks, she’s looking away, not right in my eyes.

I don’t think it’s dishonesty keeping her from settling her gaze.

It feels more like nerves. The energy of which shoots from her like electricity in a live, frayed wire.

“I mean, that’s a good thing, right?” I ask, holding my other thought back so she can finish her story. He might have been trying to tell her about the wedding, in which case, she may not feel this as such a massive blow.

Moira had me on location and still didn’t spill. It shouldn’t sting as much as it does.

“If I hadn’t then overheard Dad talking to Greg about digging out of a hole and how this thing—which I can only assume is the engagement to Moira—is part of what’s helping him get out.”

It’s like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.

“He’s getting something from her, you mean?” I ask, my vocal cords constricted with the chill that’s setting in. Am I that out of touch with my own intuition that I couldn’t see the signs?

“The documents at the bank with Kismet’s name on them,” Sydney says, connecting the dots in my head out loud. “They could be refinancing the property to get the equity out. Moira might know Dad needs financial help—”

“And if she doesn’t?” I ask her. Sydney doesn’t say what we’re both thinking.

She will hand over the money because she’s in love with him. Moira is cunning; it’s hard to imagine she isn’t at least aware of his need for cash. I can’t imagine she’d go along with him without her own ulterior motive.

“We have to tell her.” Her eyes sheen; the barely contained wobble in her voice threatens to break out. I move to the bed and sit beside her. I can’t quite bring myself to reach out, take her hand, even though I want to. Too much is spinning in my head, but just being near her helps.

Hopefully the feeling is mutual.

“We have to do it now,” I say, dreading the addition of my newly gleaned knowledge. It adds a whole new layer of tension to the situation, especially since we don’t know the whole story. “Because the engagement party isn’t an engagement party.”

She whirls, gripping my hands. The contact slices through my anguish; it’s a rudder on my drifting boat. “You mean Lola was right about her theory?” This revelation rattles her despair momentarily.

“I saw an invitation—that they will probably deliver to guests this afternoon at that wine and cheese tasting. It didn’t outright say they were getting hitched, but there’s no other way to interpret it.”

“This is a wedding, and my dad didn’t tell me.” It’s a blow, possibly even bigger than learning Rick may be conning my mother.

“He might have been planning to,” I say.

The urge to smooth out this uncomfortable situation is strong.

Big emotions—especially from other people—twist me up inside myself.

I feel like it’s on me to settle everything down, remain calm, even when no one else is.

A great skill out in the wild but a sucky way to actually live your life.

Sydney’s fuming. I can tell by the set of her jaw, the flare of her nostrils.

She shoots to her feet like she’s spring-loaded.

“That doesn’t fucking matter now. He didn’t tell me, not about any of this.” Her eyes drop to me still stuck to the bed like glue. “I think we need to ambush them.”

Confrontation is not my favorite pastime. But at least we have each other’s backs.