Page 148 of Suite 7

She pretends to think. “What do you want?”

You. Forever. Everything.

“This,” I say instead, pulling her closer. And I kiss her, deep and claiming, both of us knowing what comes after.

She melts into me, hands in my hair, mouth on mine, and I get lost in it.

Lost enough that I don’t register the sound at first.

“Kane? Where are you?”

My head jerks up. Vera’s eyes go wide with horror.

We both freeze.

“James wasn’t at the desk — George sent me up.”

Footsteps. Coming closer.

No time. No time to think.

“I brought cardamom rolls but I have to hurry otherwise Vera will⁠—”

Sloane rounds the corner into the kitchen with cardamom rolls in hand. Her eyes move across the scene. Vera on my counter. My t-shirt. Her legs around my waist. My hands on her bare thighs.

Sloane’s keys slip from her fingers and clatter on the hardwood.

The bag goes next, and the rolls scatter across the floor between us, and none of us move to stop them.

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Sloane—” Vera scrambles off the counter. My hand finds her waist automatically, steadies her without thinking, and I watch my sister’s eyes track the movement. The hand. The way Vera leans into me. The way I let her.

The way it looks like what it is.

“What...” Sloane’s voice cracks down the middle. “What is this?”

Vera’s mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. No words arrive.

I step forward. “Sloane, we were going to tell you⁠—”

“Tell me what?” She hasn’t moved. She’s still standing exactly where she stopped, rolls scattered around her feet, and something about that stillness is worse than if she’d screamed. “Tell me what, Kane?”

27 Vera

Sloane stares at us. Back and forth.

“How long?”

Kane and I exchange a glance.

“How. Long.” Her voice cracks.

“Six weeks,” Kane says.

“Six—” Sloane’s face goes white. “Six weeks?”

“Oh my god.” She takes a step back. “Tuesday.”