Page 52 of Windlass (Seal Cove #3)

“Wait.” Angie froze in the hall. Stevie froze beside her, following her gaze. They could see the door to the balcony from where they stood. Night had fallen while they were in their room, and they stood in darkness while Ivy and Lilian were silhouetted by the rising moon.

As they watched, Ivy reached into a pocket.

“Oh my god,” Stevie whispered, taking Angie’s hand. “She didn’t do it yet. She’s doing it now. Holy shit, she’s doing it right now. If she drops to one knee—”

“What—”Angie began, but did not finish her sentence as Ivy did, in fact, drop to one knee, her dress notwithstanding. Angie’s tightening hold on Stevie’s hand suggested she understood what she was seeing.

Lilian, who wore loose, flowing trousers and a close-fitting top, looked as if she’d been poleaxed.

Her hands flew to her mouth. The dark blue sky wrapped her with stars.

Ivy said something. Stevie held her breath.

Beside her, Angie did not breathe either, and her fingers tightened around Stevie’s.

The incredibly private scene they’d walked in on hung as suspended as the moon, and she was afraid if they tried to move to give Ivy and Lilian privacy, they’d be seen and the moment would shatter.

Better to hold as still as the walls around them, counting on the darkness of the hallway to maintain their sanctum.

They’d duck out of sight as soon as it was over.

Still, guilt aside, she swelled with anticipated joy.

Lilian spoke from behind her hands, shaking her head. Fear burst the joy, and Stevie was about to wish they’d stayed back on the mainland when Lilian said loud enough for them to hear, “You asshole. You absolutely gorgeous asshole, yes. Yes, of course I’ll marry you.”

Stevie nearly bolted for the balcony, privacy be damned.

Ivy rose too quickly, stumbling against the railing and looking for a moment like she might topple over it, but Lilian caught her and wrapped her in an embrace so tight it appeared seamless from where Stevie stood, except for the sliver of light glimpsed briefly between their throats.

Her own happiness guttered like a candle, the gust of pain sudden and cruel. It wasn’t enough to date Angie. She wanted that . She wanted forever.

The feeling passed, but it left behind the taste of envy. Silently, she and Angie crept toward the stairs.

“About time,” Stormy said affectionately, rounding the kitchen door with a stack of plates. “Mind setting the table? Cocktail hour’s over, but I can make you both a drink. Angie, love, you’re stunning.”

Stormy didn’t look so bad herself in a black sheath dress with a deep V neck and a nipped waist that accentuated her curvy figure.

“Smack your girl,” Stormy said to Angie. “My eyes are up here, Ward.”

“Listen, your tits are right there, and I’m short!

I’m trying not to look!” Stevie turned to Angie for support, but she was laughing, the sound light and so full of the same energy burning up in Stevie that she would have kissed her again right there if Stormy hadn’t thrust a stack of plates into her hands.

“Set the table.”

“Yes ma’am.” Stevie whistled a catcall as Stormy walked away.

“Dibs on the chandelier.” Angie snatched up the lighter from a sideboard and reached for the first candle.

It flared to life, illuminating her face and shimmering over her dress, the silk flickering like candlelight.

Stevie put the plates down one by one without paying attention, utterly transfixed.

Was this what a religious experience felt like?

Because Angie looked transcendent, her skin glowing against the white dress.

Ivy’s words slid between her ribs with the precision of an assassin’s blade.

“Imagine proposing to someone. Have you ever felt strongly enough about someone you’ve considered it?”

Yeah. She’d considered it, and even if she hadn’t before, she certainly was now.

Stevie wasn’t sure where she stood on the institution of marriage.

But she was absolutely sure she understood what Ivy meant about watching Lilian walk down the aisle.

If Angie walked toward her in that dress, as she was doing now, Stevie would drop to her knees in prayer— or to lift Angie’s dress high enough to kiss her thighs, propriety be damned.

The memory of Angie in this dress would haunt her for years.

She welcomed it.

Angie lit the rest of the candles, passing her as they circled the table in opposite directions. Stevie watched until Angie looked up and blushed. She wondered what expression was on her face and whether it was too much, too soon—as if she could control it.

“What?” Angie asked.

“You forgot a candle,” said Stevie, trying to modulate her voice.

“No, I didn’t.”

Stevie licked her fingers and pinched the wick of the nearest taper. It sizzled out. “This one right here.”

Angie laughed that low, devastating laugh she reserved exclusively for torturing Stevie and came around the table to stand before her, flicking on the lighter in the scant space between them.

Stevie felt its heat on her cheeks. Angie’s eyes glittered above her bruised lips, giving her an almost fey quality.

Angie’s hair didn’t slide between her fingers as easily as it had done prior to Stevie thoroughly tangling it, but Stevie cupped her face and kissed her gently.

Angie returned the kiss with equal gentleness, none of it chaste.

Her mouth gave beneath Stevie’s, pliant and nearly feverishly warm.

Stevie pulled barely far enough away to lean her forehead against Angie’s.

“You are so fucking gorgeous, Angie,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “It kills me.”

Angie’s hand slid beneath her vest to rest on the plane of her stomach. “Try not to die yet.”

“But I want you.” Stevie stroked Angie’s cheek with a thumb. “Again.”

“You can have me again after dinner.” Angie brushed her lips against Stevie’s lightly, then nipped her lower lip. Stevie stifled a moan. They were, after all, in public.

“Not enough.”

“You can have me whenever you want.”

“No more two times a week?” Stevie asked. Angie pulled slowly away, though her hand lingered on Stevie’s stomach.

“You mean the rule we followed, like, twice?” Angie lit the extinguished candle as she spoke.

“I tried. It’s not my fault.”

“Yes, you’re totally innocent.” Glancing over Stevie’s shoulder, presumably to see if anyone was about to enter the room, she smiled. “Stormy.”

Stormy was wiping her hands on a tea towel with a rather terrifying rabbit detailed in toxic shades of pink when Stevie turned around.

“Yes, love?”

Leaning into Stevie to talk over her shoulder, the movement both intimate and casual, Angie said, “Could you please make my girlfriend a drink?”