“Thank you,” Rose said. “For what you did earlier. With Daisy.”
“It was—”
“Don’t tell me it was for the cameras.”
“I wasn’t going to.” Lizanne guided them through the turn. “The instinct just... hit me. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who was good with children. I don’t go looking for those situations. But she went down and I was moving before I could think.”
“The instinct was always there,” Rose said. “Whether you noticed it or not.”
They danced, and as the lines between the performance and the reality started to blur, Lizanne realized she was losing her place in the story.
By eleven-thirty, the last guests had gone.
Rose and Lizanne drove back home, accompanied by Loraine, the producer, and John, the cameraman who’d been assigned to get the closing beat footage—the two brides, alone,the day done. Another team, consisting of Ben and Klaus, was focused on Quinn and Kayla as well as, on occasion, Marigold.
They made their way into the kitchen, getting into position, a glass of wine in each of their hands.
“We just need a few shots,” Loraine said. “You read the suggestions we sent?”
“Yeah,” Lizanne replied. For certain scenes, the network liked to give them prepared lines to use or improvise on. And apparently, they’d had something specific in mind here.
The lines were adequate. Lizanne started her delivery, but somewhere in the middle of the third sentence, she just stopped. Adequate wasn’t enough anymore, not with Rose standing there in ivory lace with her hair falling out of its pins.
She threw away the script. She talked about how walking down that aisle had felt like something she hadn’t prepared for. She talked about seeing Rose come toward her, how she’d felt. That skipped heartbeat. That tingle that had covered her skin. Her voice even cracked as she spoke.
The camera guys traded a look. The sound tech adjusted his levels. Nobody stopped them.
When the crew finally cleared out and the room went dead silent, Rose turned to her.
“Those weren’t the lines.”
“No.”
“Lizanne.”
“The true version was better television.” She didn’t look away. “It was also better than lying when I didn’t have to. Youlooked... you looked extraordinary today, Rose. I actually had butterflies. I don’t remember the last time that happened.”
“Lizanne,” Rose said again, her voice dropping an octave.
“Rose.”
Rose kissed her.
It was Rose who moved first, which caught Lizanne by surprise for about half a second before the surprise turned into a different kind of heat. Rose’s hands were in her hair and Lizanne’s were at her waist and the world just... ended at the kitchen walls.
The room was dark. They were still in their dresses. Lizanne’s hands found the buttons on Rose’s spine, and Rose pulled back just long enough to breathe out a “yes.” The silk fell away.
They made it to the marble kitchen island in a mess of mouths and hands. Lizanne’s dress was a logistical nightmare as much as Rose’s had been. Once they were out of the silk, Lizanne hoisted Rose onto the cold marble. Rose made a sharp, caught sound at the temperature of the stone, and Lizanne felt it in her own spine.
She pulled back to look. Rose was a mess—hair undone, lipstick smeared, wearing nothing but her gold earrings.
Lizanne put her mouth to Rose’s collarbone. She moved lower, to her breast, taking a nipple between her lips and drawing on it with a slow, agonizing pull. Rose’s hand came up, pressing into the back of Lizanne’s head. Lizanne took her time, her tongue circling until Rose’s hips shifted on the marble and she let out a low, wrecked sound. Lizanne moved to the otherside, relentless, until Rose was whispering her name in a voice that had no composure left.
Lizanne moved down. She kissed Rose’s stomach, the soft skin of her belly. Rose’s breathing was a frantic, shallow thing now. When Lizanne pressed her lips to Rose’s inner thigh, Rose shivered. Lizanne stayed there, her mouth against the heat, purposefully avoiding the one place Rose wanted her. Rose made a frustrated sound that Lizanne found incredibly satisfying.
She moved to the other thigh. The same slow, teasing pressure. Rose’s fingers tightened in her hair.
“Lizanne.”
