A soft hiss—"tss"—made her stop and turn. "What is it?"
Oakley's brows pinched. "Too soft. Can't get up."
She lifted her slender arms toward Grace, wrists bare to the morning light. "Come pull me up? Please~"
There was no reasonable way to refuse. Grace stepped in and took her pretty hand. With the smallest pull, Oakley rose in a gentle wobble from the mattress.
In that first, breathless moment of rising, Grace's gaze snagged on her mouth—plump and flushed—and something inside her quivered.
Sunlight laid itself over Oakley's pale shoulders and the length of her toned legs, refining her figure to precise curves. She was soft. And she smelled faintly of soap and skin. She looked like someone made to be cradled. Grace's mind betrayed her: a flicker of last night—Oakley's breath against her ear; that small, hushed "uncomfortable"; the way she had answered every kiss.
Which kind of "uncomfortable" had that been? Just wanting more of a mouth on hers—or…
What was wrong with her? Her head felt stuffed with loose, crackling static. She wasn't quite herself.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" Oakley asked, clearer now, puzzled.
"Nothing." Grace let go, slipped her hands into her pockets, and tipped her chin at the door. "Wash up. I'll be downstairs."
"Okay~." Oakley stretched like a cat, slow and shallow, the hem of the slip sliding a fraction higher. "Hey, did we sleep together last night?"
The question stiffened Grace's shoulders. Her right hand curled slightly behind her back. "Yes. It was late. The driver and I brought you straight here."
"Oh…" Oakley nodded and rubbed an arm. "I didn't do anything weird, did I?"
Grace lifted a brow. "Define weird."
Like seducing me?
Oakley laughed softly. "Rolling around in my sleep. Kicking. That sort of thing."
Awake, she wouldn't. Asleep—who knew.
Grace eased her hand open. "No. You were… pretty good."
"Oh." Oakley smiled. "That's a relief."
Grace didn't look back. She took the stairs down. On the last step she glanced upward again.
No fluster. No embarrassment. Oakley seemed perfectly ordinary, as if last night hadn't left so much as a thumbprint on her thoughts.
So she really didn't remember when she drank.
Grace exhaled. At the table she set her phone beside the plates and scrolled while she waited. She answered what needed answering, then noticed a red dot on her apptalk feed and flicked through it out of habit.
As she backed out, a message blinked in from Sabrina Myers: "Grace, you off today? Free tonight?"
Grace typed: "I am. What's up?"
Sabrina: "Thinking hot springs. If you're free, come with?"
Grace considered, fingers hovering. "Today's day two of the registration."
Sabrina: "And?"
Grace: "She's my wife now. Disappearing on day two feels a little… off. I'm going to ask if she wants to come. If she's up for it, you won't mind one more, right?"
They were in this together—daily life would braid whether they liked it or not. Respect was the floor. Bringing her into the circle mattered; otherwise the marriage would be a house without a foundation, the first storm shaking it loose.
Sabrina: "Why would I mind? Bring her. But…"
Grace: "?"
Sabrina: "You're way too responsible. If you ever married for love you'd probably turn into the most hopelessly devoted, henpecked husband type."
Grace: "It's a marriage of convenience. Let's not build castles out of what-ifs."
Sabrina: "Tch. Fine. But tell me—have you thought about this: what if you…"
Grace: "?"
Sabrina: "What if you actually fall for her? Then what?"
Grace stared at the line for a long beat. Last night flashed up like a match strike. She typed: "Same answer. Let's not create hypotheticals out of thin air."
Sabrina: "…Fine. Dinner at 5:30 at the Henley Hotel, then hot springs?"
"Works." Grace set the phone aside and pinched the bridge of her nose.
She was still a little scrambled. Truly scrambled. Thoughts like loose beads rolling in a drawer.
Footsteps sounded at the stairs.
Grace looked up to find Oakley coming down in her slip.
She was still a bit floaty, a little soft at the edges, which only made her look more delicate—slender willow in a breeze.
At the table, Oakley pulled out the chair opposite Grace and eased into it. She glanced at the plate and arched a brow, kneading her shoulder. "So healthy. I knew it—following your lead really is fuss-free."
Grace laughed. "Of course."
"I'm trying this." Oakley took a slice layered with scallion cream cheese, bit delicately, and then her brows pinched again.
"What is it?" Grace asked. "Not your taste?"
Oakley shook her head, palm cupping her jaw, fine brows still knit, worry slipping across her face. "No. It's that I suddenly realized…"
Grace set her fork down and looked up, waiting—patient, attentive—for the rest.
Oakley swallowed the small piece of bread she'd been worrying, opened her mouth, then said, "My jaw feels a little sore. No idea why. Did I… sleepwalk and gnaw on a ham bone or something?"
Perplexity swam in those clear eyes. She tested the ache again, curious. It wasn't much—barely there—but because it wasn't usual, she noticed.
Grace lifted a hand and covered a cough—two small, betraying sounds.
Oakley blinked back to her. "You okay?"
"Fine. Wrong pipe." Grace took a sip of milk and deftly avoided the question that followed her cough. Last night she'd been… uncharacteristic. What could she say now?
Oakley let that thread drop and picked up another. "Right, and I didn't do anything ridiculous after I got drunk, did I? Like confess my love to the trash can?"
People were ridiculous like that. Part of her had begged Grace never to tell her what she did drunk. The other part, perverse and human, still wanted to know exactly how ridiculous she'd been.
Grace raised her eyes, gaze shading toward thoughtful.
A chill crept down Oakley's spine. A bad premonition.
But Grace shook her head. "No."
Oakley pressed a hand to her chest and exhaled, relieved. "Good. Evolution achieved."
Grace watched her without answering. No, there'd been no declarations to a trash can. What Oakley had said had been so much more. Heart laid bare. If she remembered any of it, she might very well want to dig a hole and climb in.
After a few quiet bites, Grace remembered Sabrina Myers's invitation. "By the way, Sabrina asked me to hit the hot springs tonight. I said yes. Do you want to come?"
"Hot springs?" Oakley brightened. "Yes. Absolutely. Been wanting to go. Carpe diem."
"Great." Grace lifted her phone, thumb moving. "I'll tell her we'll both join."
"Mm."
Oakley forked a piece of roasted sausage into her mouth, then, as she chewed, let her gaze travel. Grace's hands—slender, precise. The clean line of collarbones, the long neck. Finally, Oakley's eyes landed on Grace's mouth.
When she swallowed, a reel of images unfurled—herself and Grace kissing. In those flashes Grace kissed her until breathing felt optional, until her knees had nearly given way.
Dream, or something that had actually happened?
It felt real. Too real. The soft pressure. The quick, dizzy climb in her chest as if the ceiling had cracked to sky.
But when she'd probed a minute ago, Grace had offered nothing, as if the night had been unremarkable.
So—just a dream?
Then why was her mouth dry even now, why did her body go a little weak when she looked at Grace? Oakley rubbed her temple and drank her milk in silence.
After breakfast they worked side by side: hauling everything into place, finding homes for the homeless things. Oakley claimed a room upstairs and made the bed; Grace flattened every cardboard box and stacked them neatly. Order returned. Grace's shoulders loosened.
By evening Oakley changed; the two of them headed out to meet Sabrina.
In Skylark, daylight was pulling back early now. A little after five and the sky already wore a veil of gray-blue, lending the street a weary, blurred outline; the shadows of trees and buildings nearly melted into each other.
Traffic was light. In under half an hour they rolled up to the hotel.
The doorperson reached for the handle. As Grace stepped down, a familiar voice carried across the forecourt. "Grace!"
Both women turned. Sabrina stood beneath the awning, face all careless charm and fine-cut lines.
"What timing—we arrived together." Grace tipped her head toward Oakley as they walked over. "This is my wife, Oakley Ponciano. Oakley, this is my friend, Sabrina Myers."
Oakley smiled, easy and faint, and offered her hand. "Nice to meet you."
"You too." Sabrina shook it politely, then leaned toward Grace's ear. "A bit too pretty, isn't she?"
Even lovelier than her photos; a new standard entirely.
Grace smiled. "She is."
Sabrina cleared her throat and gestured inside. "Shall we?"
"Let's," Oakley said, bright and composed.
They had just started forward when Sabrina stopped short and angled her chin toward the trees. "Hey—look."
"What?" Grace and Oakley were both momentarily lost.
Sabrina pointed under the canopy of a sidewalk maple. "That couple. No sense of audience, right?"
Grace and Oakley looked. Sure enough—two figures stitched together in shadow, a man and a woman, arms looped, mouths fastened, reluctant to separate.
Oakley was unmoved, almost amused. "Overcome, probably. When I traveled abroad, it was a daily sight. You get used to it."
"True," Sabrina nodded, then tilted her head. Curiosity rose. "But tell me—what's the appeal? People act like it's thunder kissing lightning. I've honestly never understood."
Oakley laughed. "Who knows?"
Grace said nothing. She turned her head away and quietly knotted her hands behind her back.
Sabrina sighed, then nudged her. "Well? What's the mechanism? Where's the fun? Do two people actually… trigger some chemical reaction when they kiss?"
A headache started behind Grace's eyes.
Oakley rescued her with an airy smile. "Don't torture her. Or me. We're both rookies in that department. No experience, no expertise—how would we know, right?"
"Fair point," Sabrina conceded.
Grace coughed into her fist.
Oakley looked over again. In the dusk her neck seemed even longer and paler, her profile sharp as a sketch; she looked almost unreal. But her expression wasn't entirely natural.
Oakley's mouth tipped. She stepped closer, slipped her fingers lightly around Grace's forearm, and tilted her head, a teasing glint in her eyes. "Or is it that you've already… had a taste?"
Grace's head snapped toward her. Oakley, all velvet and mischief, looked up at her with bright, dark eyes—a little witch in a slip of a body—and for a beat Grace forgot how to breathe.