Despite Bryn having expected Vivian to be annoyed that she’d been gone all day, she seemed more worried about whether Bryn had eaten. Bryn couldn’t stop the flutter in her silly gut while she applied a little mascara so her pale lashes were visible.
Bryn’s inward smile turned into an immediate groan. She wasn’t kidding anyone, and most unfortunately, even she wasn’t buying it.
It wasn’t the steamy acting that had her stomach doing gymnastics. It was the steak. Well, notthe steak, that had been delicious. It was the way Vivian had looked standing by the sliding glass door, like a castle undefended.
It was the fact that Vivian del Castillo, a woman who probably slept in a freaking cryogenic chamber to shut the world out, had waited up. Waited up for Bryn. It was the way Vivian had looked at her over the rim of her wineglass, eyes dark and searching and saying something Bryn couldn’t understand but she could feel.
The realization was more potent than Vivian’s tea. A buzzing, effervescent hum right under her skin, like she’d swallowed a handful of Pop Rocks. It was the undeniable, electricknowingthat beneath all that intimidating polish and prickly defense mechanisms, Vivian was soft. And funny. And maybe, just maybe, a little lonely in a way that matched Bryn’s own emptiness.
The heat on her skin sunk into her belly, roiling and churning like blown glass before it had a shape. Before it knew whether it was going to be coveted artwork or tourist-trap knickknack. Before she could identify if she had a harmless crush or misguided feelings.
When the electric kettle beeped, Bryn tucked the tea tin under her arm, grabbed the two mugs off the drying rack, and raced outside. She set it all down on the patio table, where they’d only just had dinner, and darted back inside. A banana and a bunch of kiwis wasn’t exactly Iris-level breakfast, but it was something.
Bryn was debating whether to peel the kiwis when Vivian stepped outside. If last night Vivian had been a castle undefended, this morning she was a fortress with the drawbridge up, the gator-filled moat flooded, and archers with flaming arrows posted at every window.
In a sharp navy jumpsuit that was going to make the hot booth unbearable, Vivian was dressed for a funeral. Huge, dark sunglasses covered half her face, and her hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it made Bryn’s scalp ache empathetically. There was no trace of the woman who had laughed over dinner and had done a terrible job of chopping vegetables.
“Good morning,” Bryn said, aiming for cheerful but landing closer to uncertain.
Vivian lowered herself into her chair with the careful precision of someone whose brain was pounding its way out of her skull. “Morning.”
The single word landed like a gavel. Conversation closed.
Bryn bit back her smile. Vivian looked like she was irate at her own body for having the audacity to feel like crap. “Feeling okay?”
“Fine.”
“Does your stomach tea do something for hangovers, or is it only for?—”
“I don’t get hangovers,” Vivian insisted, and Bryn might have believed her if she hadn’t also flinched.
“Uh huh.” She knocked the table with her foot, and Vivian flinched at the sound. “Definitely not.” She looked at the outrageously healthy fair and shook her head. “You’re gonna need something greasy to soak up?—”
“God, no,” Vivian said, like she might actually turn green. “I just need to hydrate. I’m fine. I took a couple of pills for my head.”
“For the head that definitely doesn’t hurt because you have a hang?—”
“Finish that sentence and you’re going to be recording from the pool.”
Bryn laughed. “It’s 7:30 and already hot as hell. The pool actually sounds amazing. Do you want to see how the cool water helps your hang—your non-wine-related headache?”
Vivian made a sound in her elegant throat and reached for a banana before her lip curled at the prospect of ingesting it. She put it back.
“Let’s start with tea, huh?” Bryn looked down at the table. “Dang, I forgot the honey. I’ll just run in and grab some.” She started for the glass door to the main house to see how far Vivian would let her get.
“There’s honey in the guesthouse.”
Bryn hadn’t gotten a foot away. She laughed.
“Of course,” Bryn replied with exaggerated innocence. “I forgot.”
Another throat sound, but this one was followed by the faintest twitch of Vivian’s perfect lips.
When Bryn returned with the bottle of honey in hand, Vivian was already steeping the tea for both of them. Bryn tried not to read into it but she made a mark in the crush column and handed Vivian the honey.
After eating a kiwi, Bryn reached for the tea closest to her and hesitated. It was the wrong mug. The heavy, slate-grey one. The one Vivian always used.
Vivian took the mug Bryn had been using all week and wrapped her hands around it like they were in the Alps in winter rather than Miami in late summer. Without facing Bryn, she inhaled the steam. “That one is thermal ceramic. It holds heat longer.”
