The storm dragged on for the whole day.

And the next day.

And the next.

They fell into a routine. During the day, Harper would look over seating charts and try to do any wedding prep she could without WiFi, signal, or power. Lawson read, and then rummaged in the pantry with a flashlight — which, to Harper's amusement, he called a "torch" — and sourced food. Rice cakes and nut butter for lunch. Crackers, canned tuna and apples for dinner. They roasted marshmallows over the fire, dunking them in chocolate pudding cups.

In the evening, they played board games. Chess. Scategories. A dusty game of Pictionary. Harper usually won, although Lawson took the victory for anything involving drawing ("It's nice to finally win," he told her. "Usually, Paige wins and then doesn't let us forget about it for weeks.").

A part of Harper was aware that she should be getting nervous. There was a cocktail party on Thursday, followed by the wedding on Saturday. Half the wedding prep had yet to be sorted, and none of the guests had arrived. She hadn't even been able to reach Diana on the phone with the signal out.

And yet.

For the first time in ages, Harper felt almost...

Resigned?

Relaxed?

She glanced at Lawson, who was carefully measuring two fingers of whisky into each of their glasses. He was dressed in a white shirt this evening, his dark hair sticking up, as if he'd been combing his fingers through it. He rubbed absently at his jaw, his fingers brushing three-day-old stubble.

"Let's play poker," she said.

Lawson glanced up. "No offense, but you'd make a terrible poker player."

"Why?"

"Because," Lawson said, passing her a glass, "I can read every thought going through your head."

Their fingers brushed, and Harper shivered. "You'd be surprised." She turned back to the table, shuffling a deck of cards. "There need to be stakes."

Lawson made a noise of amusement. "Besides our pride?"

"Do you have cash?"

He took a sip. "Who carries money around anymore?"

"Coins?"

"That's the same thing," Lawson said, settling into his usual armchair. He shook a packet of chocolate-covered almonds — their last packet, Harper realized in dismay. "Why don't we play for chocolate?"

She paused her shuffling to give him a look. "No, I mean actual stakes. Things that mean something to you."

Lawson pressed a hand to his chest. "I can assure you that chocolate means a great deal to me."

"I know." Harper clicked her fingers. "Let's play strip poker."

It was a brilliant idea. She'd been dying to get Lawson back for accidentally walking in on her the other day; what better way to even the playing field? But with the look on Lawson's face right now, Harper thought, you'd think she'd suggested they coat their hands in whisky and stick them in the fire.

Lawson shook his head. "No. Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

She arched an eyebrow. "Is this the part where you tell me you secretly have a tail?"

"Why don't we play for the truth?" Lawson leaned forward, his eyes the bright green of summer hills. "Instead of taking off a piece of clothing, you answer a question. Any question of the other person's choosing."

She smiled. "Why don't we play for both?"

"Ohio..."

"I dare you," she said.

Lawson groaned. It had become a running joke between them over the past three days. I dare you to slide down the bannister. I dare you to eat this mouldy-looking cracker. I dare you to stand outside in the storm for fifteen seconds. Neither of them had backed down from a challenge.

Lawson seemed to realize it.

He took a sip of whisky, studying her. Harper tried not to fidget. She had no idea what Lawson was going to say, but that was half the fun of it; she'd never met someone so unpredictable. Never liked being around someone so unpredictable.

"You're going to regret this," Lawson said finally.

Harper very much doubted it. She took a cursory glance at herself — eight clothing items, including socks — and then at Lawson. He was wearing five clothing items. At a push. The odds were very much stacked in her favour.

She smiled sweetly. "Let's deal."

It turned out that Lawson was right; Harper lost the first three hands (casualties: socks and cardigan) and Lawson lost the fourth (casualties: one sock).

Their questions ranged from the nosy to the benign. "What's your most embarrassing childhood memory?" or "What's the weirdest food combination that you like?" The hours slipped by, melting away with the candle wax.

Now, Harper watched as Lawson leaned forward, examining the cards on the table. He was dressed only in grey sweatpants, the hard ridges of his stomach flexing as he moved. Harper averted her gaze.

"Royal flush," Lawson announced.

She let out a huff. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"This is rigged." Harper lay down her cards. "You win. Again."

She glanced down at herself, considering her options: underwear, grey tank top, and a bra. With a sigh, Harper slipped off her bra, threading it through the sleeve of her tank top. Lawson let out a low whistle.

"Impressive," he said.

"Summer camp," Harper explained. "It's so cold that you learn to get changed in your sleeping bag in the morning. And keep as many layers on as possible." She leaned back. "It's your question, then."

"Right." Lawson seemed to be working very hard to keep his eyes on her face. "Did I knock over a water glass the other night?"

Harper blinked. "That's seriously your question?"

"Yes."

"Yeah. You did."

"I was having a nightmare," Lawson said, rubbing at his jaw. "I get them sometimes. Why didn't you tell me?"

"That's another question," Harper pointed out. Lawson kept silent, his eyes unusually serious, and she sighed. "I didn't want to... I didn't think you'd want me to see you like that." She swirled her whisky around the glass. "Not that it's anything to be ashamed of. Everyone has nightmares."

A pulse jumped in his throat. "Not like mine."

"How so?"

"Because," Lawson said lightly, "I can't wake up from my nightmares."

Harper frowned. Lawson began to deal out the cards, his movements fluid and easy. She felt there was something she ought to say, but she couldn't work out what. Whisky made her thoughts pleasantly fuzzy.

Lawson lost the next round.

"Go on, then," he said, draining his whisky. "Ask me."

"What?"

"What my nightmares are about," Lawson said. "That's what you want to know, isn't it?"

His green eyes reflected the firelight. There was something hungry in them, Harper thought, shivering. Something raw and sharp that didn't look quite human. When she spoke, she chose her words carefully.

"Griffin told me that something happened two years ago. An incident."

His gaze was intent. "That's not a question."

"I know." Harper traced a groove in the table with her finger. "I'm not going to ask you like this. Not during a game. And anyway, it's none of my business."

Lawson looked away, his jaw working. The fire cast odd shadows across his face, carving out dark hollows beneath his eyes. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Was he relieved? Disappointed? Indifferent?

"It's still your turn," Lawson said.

"Do you think about it sometimes?" The words tumbled out before Harper had a chance to stop them. "What happened at the garden party?"

Lawson went still. "Harper..."

"That's my question."

His voice was rough. "You don't want me to answer that."

"Do you?" she repeated.

For a moment, Harper wasn't sure that he'd answer. Lawson ran a long finger around the rim of his whisky glass, the movement lazy and elegant. Artist's hands, Harper observed, although Lawson used them for cricket instead of painting. He paused, his finger balancing on the lip of the glass.

"When I went home that night," Lawson said, his voice low, "I couldn't get your perfume off my clothes. It was on my pillows. On my skin. And no matter how many times I tried to wash it off, I couldn't seem to get rid of it. So yes, I think about it." His hand curled into a fist. "I think about that kiss all the damn time. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Blood roared in her ears.

Harper tried to speak, but no words came out. She tried again. Her throat felt dry, and the silence ticked on, a living, breathing creature. Lawson laughed, although there was no humour in it.

"Ah," he said. "I think your silence says it all, really."

Lawson rose, setting the glass down on the table. There was something hollow about him, Harper observed; a curve to his spine, as if Lawson was bracing himself for whatever she said next. For whatever blow she might land.

But Harper didn't want to hurt him.

She never had.

She raised her chin. "Kiss me."

Lawson's green eyes turned wary. "Harper..."

"Please," she whispered. "Just this once."

"This is a bad idea," he murmured.

"It could help," Harper said, rising to her feet. "Just to... I don't know. Get it out of our systems."

Even as she said it, Harper wasn't sure if that was true. Kissing Lawson was like that first sip of whisky; it only left her wanting more. Lawson took a step forward. Slowly — carefully — he cupped her face, as if he half-expected her to flinch away.

"Just this once," Lawson echoed.

She held his gaze. "Exactly."

Lawson ran his thumb over her jaw. There was something heavy about his gaze, something oddly vacant, as if Lawson was dreaming while awake. He smelled of woodfire and lemon soap as he leaned in, and Harper shivered as their lips brushed.

It was the whisper of a kiss. An echo of one.

"I have thought of this," Lawson murmured, his forehead resting against her own, "so many times. You have no idea."

She swallowed. "So have I."

"Harper..."

"Again," she whispered. "Please."

Lawson made a noise that could have been a groan. Harper wasn't sure; she was already stretching up on her toes, a sunflower seeking light. The kiss was not gentle this time; it was a fierce, demanding thing. Lawson kissed her back with equal fervor, his hands sliding down to grip her hips. The pressure left her dizzy.

And still, Harper wanted more.

She tangled her hand in his hair, pulling him closer. It was soft — so much softer than she remembered — and warm from the fire. Lawson lifted her and deposited her somewhere. A table? It didn't matter. They were face-to-face now, nose-to-nose. Both giving and taking in equal measure.

Lawson's mouth burned a path down her jaw. Her neck. Her throat. She tilted her head back, giving him access. The firelight caught in his hair, but it didn't illuminate bits of red or gold, Harper observed dizzily; Lawson's hair was the colour of bottled ink, dark and fathomless. Much like him, really.

Then he was kissing her again, and Harper forgot how to think.

Liquid heat pooled in her stomach. She wrapped her bare legs around his waist, arching her body against his, and Lawson groaned something that could have been her name; Harper wasn't sure. Everything was heat and friction and bare skin. She ran her hands over his chest, his muscles warm from the fire, and he shuddered.

"Upstairs," she managed to say. "Now."

"Are you sure?" Lawson's voice was low. Rough. "We don't have to—"

"Lawson," Harper said. "I'm sure."

That was all the invitation Lawson needed.

He picked her up, and they staggered up the stairs, an odd, four-legged creature. Lawson found the room — how, Harper didn't know, since everything was dark shadows and corners — and deposited her onto the bed. For a moment, Lawson merely observed her, his green eyes luminous in the darkness.

"You," he said softly, "are really goddamn beautiful."

She smiled. "Lawson?"

"Yes?"

"Kiss me," she said.

His mouth quirked. "Just once?"

"Well," Harper said, tugging him towards her, "maybe more than once, this time."

Lawson laughed. He said something against her skin — a private joke, maybe — but Harper didn't stop to ask him what it was. An unbearable ache had begun within her, a throbbing tension that demanded release. She wrapped her legs around him, drawing him closer. Lawson went willingly.

Neither one of them let go.

Not as the storm grew quiet. Not as the stars blinked out. Not even as Harper sank into the soft pillows, limbs liquid, wishing that she could trap this moment in an empty whisky bottle and hold on to it forever.

Harper woke to light.

Blazing sunshine streamed through the window, bathing the room in buttery gold. The previous night came back to her in flashes. The strip poker. Kissing by the fire. Tumbling into bed together, a blur of mouth and limbs.

Oh, god.

Harper sat up, her heart racing. They'd had sex, hadn't they? And Lawson would regret it this morning. Once he thought of Griffin — once he realized what they'd actually done... She twisted in the bed, half-expecting to find it empty.

Relief filled her.

Lawson was sleeping next to her, one arm cushioning his head. His face was flushed with sleep, his inky lashes casting shadows across his cheekbones. Dust motes haloed his head like a crown. He looked like a fairytale prince, Harper thought, bewitched to sleep for a thousand years.

Harper raised a hand to his cheek.

"Morning," she murmured.

Lawson made a little noise, nestling into her hand. Harper smiled. Coffee. That's what they both needed — then they could discuss what they'd done. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, scanning the room for her dressing gown.

And screamed.

Somebody was standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. Somebody blond and tall and looking very pissed off.

"What," Alisdair said tightly, "the actual hell is going on?"

A/N: Hello lovely readers!

I'd say I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but you know how much I love them ;)

Question of the Day: what's your favourite board game? I love a game of Scrabble, although I'm also partial to a good game of "Wits and Wagers" every once in a while...

Affectionately,

J.K.