AMBROSIA REYNOLDS.

It takes a while adjusting to Phillip’s schedule. Even before moving in with him, Ambrosia knew that his schedule was erratic and unsteady, but that he valued his occupation so she learned to value it as well. But now that they lived together she started to resent just how absent he was. The phone calls and occasional text messages – on the rare occasions that he could receive service – were insufficient and she found herself between a rock and a hard place.

Nights were the hardest; those quiet hours between eight and eleven when she debates sleep or another re-run of Friends, wanting to be near him, those hours when her work concludes and her books are put aside and she wants to talk to him, rest her head on his shoulder as they nestle together on the couch, card her hands through his blond hair.

Going to bed is a whole other matter. She locks every door, secures every window, and turns on the alarm system – she’s religious about turning it on before bed. It’s supposed to alert her in the event of forced entry, sending off alarms throughout the entire apartment building.

The house quiets and it frightens her. She puts on the television on low volume and crawls into bed. His side of the mattress is cold and vacant but his pillows hold a hint of his cologne and she curls into them, holding them to her chest.

She is imagining putting on Funny Girl as she brushes her teeth one night. Barbra Streisand before bed is always a good decision, after all. She spits into the sink and skips toward the en suite bedroom. Standing in the middle of the room, her slippers insulating her footfalls, she hears a creak in the floorboard coming from outside the bedroom. Did apartments settle? She paused, standing ramrod straight, waiting for another noise to crop up. She could hear only her tightened breath and the sound of her pulse leaping. After a few moments of hardly breathing, television remote in hand, she climbs into bed.

Did she turn on the security system? She did. She knows she did – she checked it twice.

She lays her head on the pillow and turns on the television. Low volume. She can barely hear it beneath the erratic drum of her heartbeat. The whizz of the fan.

She stuffs her head into the pillow and tries to maintain control of her breathing.

Stop being such a scaredy-cat.

It was nothing.

It was Machiavelli.

She glanced down at Machiavelli’s bed of blankets in the corner of the room. He was sleeping soundly – too deep in his trance to purr or kick his little leg out.

She felt her eyes water with fear. Was someone in their flat?

This couldn’t be happening. Not now.

The bed dipped and, with her head stuffed into the pillow, she repressed the urge to shout out. Her hands clenched into the comforter. She nearly wheezed with fear. She could see her whole life flash before her eyes – a sad vignette of studying, limited experiences, and acute Daddy Issues. This couldn’t be happening – not now.

Ambrosia sharply lifted her head from the pillow and her hand involuntarily darted out, slapping the cheek of the shadow that was slowly nudging closer to her.

Phillip let out a hiss and Ambrosia gasped as she made out his features in the darkness. The scent of his cologne diffused through the room and she could tell it was her fiancé instantly, with only the television lending a dim source of light to his chiseled face. She whipped her head around and turned on the bedside lamp.

“Phillip!?”

“Ambrosia!”

“Oh my word, Phillip!” The dams had been let loose and tears flowed down her cheek. She lunged toward him and propelled herself into his chest; curling up in his soft, downy sweater. “Phillip! You oaf. You could’ve told me you were coming home tonight.”

Phillip’s brows knitted. What just happened? Was his fiancée a madwoman? He didn’t have to ponder that long. His hand reached out and patted her back – instinctively. Roughly at first, but as he felt tears leak against his skin he comforted her with a tender touch and held her against his chest. “I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought you would be asleep by now. I didn’t anticipate the possibility of being assaulted for it.”

“I was so afraid,” She hiccupped. Her body heaved against his. “I thought…”

“What were you afraid of?” When she said nothing, he wrapped both arms around her and kissed the top of her head. His nose became lost in a cascade of red curls. Vanilla, chamomile, Ambrosia. She fit perfectly in the cocoon of his arms, small enough that there was breathing room to boot. “It’s all right. I’m here now. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

She laid her cheek flat against his chest as her hands made for his hair. “My knight in shining sweater.”

-

Phillip rolled over across the empty bed. She left little items, tiny reminders of Ambrosia in her wake. A bobby pin between the sheets, her slippers on the other side of the floor – she was everywhere, especially her strands of red hair and the occasional clipping from a Broadway magazine.

But it was just Machiavelli and he, his faithless companion curled at the foot of the bed. Ambrosia was away visiting her mother for her birthday on Martha’s Vineyard. She wouldn’t be back until Sunday. His work precluded him from traveling with her, but they promised that they would keep in touch. They’d done a shit job at keeping that promise, although.

He laid flat on his back and threw his arm across his forehead. He counted sheep, counted the minutes. 9.30. 9.32. 9.45. Moments blurred together until they were no longer seconds but blurbs of time; waiting, breath caught between his teeth, the chime of Machiavelli’s collar as he scratched an itch behind his head, the sound of the refrigerator crushing ice.

Then his phone buzzed. He flipped onto his side and accepted the FaceTime call. Ambrosia’s face lit up on the screen, showing her laying in bed – her hair pulled back with a brightly colored headband, blobs of moisturizer on her cheeks, and wearing the brightest smile he’d seen in weeks. “Hi, baby!”

“Hey, sweetheart,” he slurred, his voice gravelly and full of the sleep that wouldn’t come to him without her near.

He could hear her mother’s familiar accent in the background. “Ambrosia! I’m trying to sleep.”

“Oh, sorry – shh! Goodnight. See you in the morning. Love you.” Lucija said something Phillip could not fully grasp before the door shut and Ambrosia’s eyes returned to the screen.

“Mom said to tell you hi. And to give you a big kiss.”

“Did she now?”

“Yes. I told her not to threaten you with a good time.” She paused and glanced around, “is Mac there?”

Phillip nodded. “He’s sleeping near my legs. I think he likes the warmth.”

“Tell him I miss him,” she frowned.

“Tell him yourself,” he said, positioning the camera so that she could tell Machiavelli goodnight.

-

Propped against the headboard, Phillip absent mindedly skimmed through a pamphlet of missing cases. New tasks, new faces, leads that had run dry or trailed to a hotbed of crime. Facades, peeled away to reveal a cartel; business transactions concealing a trade of weaponry, nukes, or women. Moguls, pimps, or politicians – none of them were exempt from the FBI and the CIA’s watchful surveillance.

Ambrosia was lying on her stomach next to him, a copy of Anna Karenina cracked open in her hands, as he mused his fingers through her hair – silken strands of scarlet falling through his fingertips. She purred contently, her lips pursed and eyes narrowed in concentration. It comforted him to have her near, though of course his work made him particularly anxious about keeping her safe.

When his eyes began to sting and he could no longer focus on the printed words held in his hand, he reached over and turned off the bedside lamp. Ambrosia lifted her face up from her novel and furrowed her brow. “What was that for?”

“I’m going to call it a night,” he said with a shrug.

She bookmarked her page and set the novel aside. Rising on her knees, she shifted closer to Phillip and held his chin between her thumb and forefinger. She pried off his glasses with her free hand and lent down to press a soft kiss to his mouth. He could lose himself in her, her soft caresses, and gentle ministrations – so different from his rough approach. He buried one hand in her hair and the other found perch on her slim waist.

“You’re going to bed?”

Phillip drew away, and cupped her cheek. Their blue eyes met and traced every freckle, every crease, and every detail. She could draw his features by memory and she was sure he could do the same. He didn’t realize that as she peered at him that she was making sure he was okay. She’d caught a glimpse of his pamphlets and wanted to comfort him in a way that wouldn’t intrude.

But in the next instant Phillip used the hand on her waist to flip her over so that she was on her back and he was hovering above her. She cried out, “Oof!”

He turned off the lamp on her side of the bed and dipped closer to Ambrosia, kissing her – his movements charged with strength.

“I think I can spare a few minutes with my wife.”

-

“But I’m not actually tired at all.” Ambrosia’s hands mused with Phillip’s tie. She was trying to loosen it, or rip it off entirely, but her hands were fidgeting and her mind was addled by–well, she didn’t want to admit just how many shots she’d taken. She told Phillip one, but by the way she was stumbling he figured that number could be multiplied by five. “We don’t have to go to bed. We should do it. My god, everyone was staring at you when you walked in.”

“Mhm. Later. Promise,” He lied suavely. Getting Ambrosia into bed was his priority right now, but she was making it a little difficult with her drunken antics. “Let’s get you in your pajamas, sweetheart.”

Her head swayed against his shoulder. “Thank you for picking me up. I forgot how to hail a cab.” She hiccupped. “And I couldn’t find the–the Uber app on my phone. Uber.” She laughed at the name. “I uber love you, Phillip. You’re an uberbabe.” She added ruefully, “I have no idea why you’re with me.”

She wiped the back of her hand against her eyes tiredly. In doing this she dragged a streak of mascara and jet-black eyeliner down her cheeks. The dark color against her porcelain skin caused Phillip to chuckle at his fiancée. He dipped his head down and kissed the apples of her cheeks. “I love you, too.”

He pulled out a drawer. Underwear. Lingerie. God. He sighed an oath and held Ambrosia against his chest, pinching the bridge of his nose. She was stumbling everywhere and he couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t bang her little head against the cupboard.

Second drawer – pajamas. Thank God. “Here, sweetheart. Put these on.”

“No.”

Phillip groaned, “please? For me?”

“You promised.”

“And we will. But you have to put these on first, and I’ll get the Advil you will – inevitably – need tomorrow. And then we will. Okay?”

“Okay.” She laughed, her nose wrinkling in a way that would have been adorable were he not slightly irritated, “You’re hot when you’re demanding.”

“Great.”

Phillip padded across the apartment and filled a glass of water and rummaged through the cupboards for two Aspirins. Items in hand, he walked back to the bedroom and found Ambrosia resting against the headboard, thankfully dressed in her pajamas. “You’re all right?”

She nodded, slowly turning her face toward him. “I think I drank because I was upset.”

“Upset?” He sat on the edge of the bed. Ambrosia remained in the center of the bed, with an unusual berth of space between them.

She nodded.

“Tell me.”

“They always say stuff–stupid shit. I don’t know. About you. Us. That you’re so good looking and I– I don’t know. I think I’m drunk.”

Phillip leaned toward her, crawling up in the bed so that his body hovered over hers. He could smell the liquor on her tongue, despite having brushed her teeth. Drunk or not, seeing Ambrosia upset was never a pleasant sight for him. He kissed her cheek and brushed his nose against hers. “I love you. And you’re incredibly gorgeous. And you looked so pretty tonight.”

Ambrosia pushed his face away and groaned. He kissed her again, this time slower. “Still upset?”

“Eight.”

Her fingers curled into the velvety, cool sheets.

Phillip’s head dipped into the crook of his neck and his tongue darted out to flick against a freckle. She shivered. “And now?”

“Six.”

He drew her skin beneath his teeth; a mark that would leave a bruise, a sign of ownership.

“Four.”

-

Ambrosia brushed her hand along her husband’s tanned skin. His skin was smooth under her touch, the muscles of his biceps rippling as she tickled him softly. She kissed the small, rounded scar on his shoulder, and pulled the white linen sheets up his body ever so slightly so that he wouldn’t be cold. His nose twitched slightly and she had to suppress a chuckle.

He had the body of Adonis, something Michelangelo would marvel at, but with his hair sticking up in every direction and his mouth partly open, Ambrosia could only think about how lucky she was to love a man that loved her. She bit her bottom lip as he began to stir, every movement heralded by the farmhouse’s bed that squeaked under his weight.

“Would you quit staring at me?” He blinked awake. He threw his arm across the bed and yawned, “I’m trying to sleep.”

“How long have you been up?”

“Long enough.” He pried one eye open and glanced at her, “are you cold?”

She shook her head, but her body shivered involuntarily and he pulled her closer, nestled against his bare chest. He was warm and his arm wrapped around her protectively. Her head rested in the crook of his neck as she ran her nails down his arm soothingly. “I wasn’t staring, for the record.”

“I didn’t know that you slept with your eyes open.”

“I was making sure you weren’t cold. Remind me not to bother next time.”

He drew her face up and kissed her roughly, “don’t tell me you were unimpressed with Aunt Lily’s baby-blanket.”

Ambrosia instinctively glanced at the foot of the bed, where Phillip’s aunt’s “baby blanket” was thrown haphazardly. It was supposedly intended to aid in…

Ambrosia shivered. There was no way they would ever sleep with that near them! It was idiotic! Besides, they didn’t even want children. Ambrosia learned quickly that, like Rosie and Barbara, the Cunningham’s were meddlers by default.

“Just a smidge.”

He laughed and his breath fanned against her shoulders. She propped herself up on her elbow and began to flutter kisses along his neck. His skin was scorching beneath her mouth, tanned and smooth, his incipient scruff tickling her nose. As she moved down his chest, the door swung open, and Barbara, Rosie, and Aunt Lily stepped in all wearing gleaming grins. “We brought coffee!”

Using all the strength she could muster, Ambrosia pulled Phillip on his side so that his back was shielding her. She poked her head up above his shoulder and smiled warily at Barbara. Barbara had just recently allowed them to sleep in the same room together (luckily, since they were married…) and she wasn’t about to risk that by putting their early-morning affection on display.

Phillip groaned and she could feel the sound rumble through his chest.

“Hi Barb, hi Rosie,” Ambrosia said cheerily, “Did something happen to your knuckles that you weren’t able to knock?”

“We were trying to surprise you!” Rosie cried, “I’m starting to regret that now!”

-

Ambrosia strapped the baby carrier to her chest, doing what she could in the dark and with Diane kicking and babbling at her. Taxis were speeding by, one after the other, and flashes of yellow Medallions passing her by. Diane was just enraptured with all this excitement and movement. Her mother less so.

“One moment, Di, just let mommy fasten this,” she pleaded, but her eight-month old baby was having none of it and her pleas fell on deaf ears. Diane tugged at Ambrosia’s red hair and nearly brought a clump of it to her mouth before Ambrosia tied the carrier in record time and Diane’s head nestled against her mother’s chest. Her little hands curled into Amb’s blouse.

“There we go.” She glanced down at her daughter, “are you excited to see Daddy?”

Diane babbled some more. Ambrosia assumed that she was.

She hauled their luggage behind her and hailed a cab. Sliding into the backseat, she felt – after a three hour-long flight – that she could finally relax.  She breathed a sigh of relief and made sure Diane had everything she needed before throwing her head back.

She was finally home from a girl’s weekend at her mother’s home on the Cape. It was a lovely trip, don’t get her wrong, and she jumped at the chance of a weekend getaway, but she was dog-tired. No one truly knew how exhausting it was to travel with a baby by one’s self. But her baby was a hit among her aunts and cousins and Ambrosia couldn’t be prouder of the little girl in her arms. She was her pride and joy and everyone knew it.

She wrapped both arms around her daughter and watched as D.C. whizzed behind her. Diane pointed out the lights and tall buildings before she succumbed to sleep in Ambrosia’s arms. They were home within the hour, and she hung her keys up on the door, folded Diane’s coat, and made her way through the darkened house with Diane hanging from her chest.

Fast asleep and completely adorable.

Phillip left a few lights on, but she turned them off as she made her way upstairs and into their bedroom. Her husband was still up, brushing his teeth in front of the sink, and she sat at the foot of the bed as she waited.

He stepped out in plaid sweats and his face lit up when he saw her and his daughter. Diane was in the land of Nod but Ambrosia immediately rose and padded toward him. “Ambrosia? I wasn’t supposed to pick you up until tomorrow.”

“I couldn’t wait.” She rose on her heels and gave him a quick peck. “I wanted to see you and get Diane home.”

“How was the flight? And how’s my little one?” Phillip cooed, his hand brushing against Diane’s fuzzy head.

“Exhausted, probably. The flight was terrible and I can’t wait to hit the hay.”

Phillip frowned and carefully picked Diane up from her carrier. He kissed her cheek and re-buttoned her baby-pink onesie, holding her with all the delicacy in the world. Ambrosia’s heart swelled, feeling impossibly full. Phillip was the most perfect father in the world and Diane instantly latched on to him, murmuring into his collarbone – as if knowing the bond they shared even whilst asleep.

“She’s already eaten and been changed so you can put her to bed if you like,” Amb noted, wriggling free of the carrier at long last.

He positioned Diane on his shoulder and bent down to press a kiss to Ambrosia’s forehead. “I’m glad you two are home.”

“Me too.”

“I’ll put her to bed.”

“Okay,” She whispered. Her eyes flashed with adoration. “Hurry. I’ve missed you.”

-

London is still cold in April–much colder than it ought to be–and the days don’t become any less grey as the world segues into spring time and yet England waits behind. It should be pretty, and yet England’s capital is dreary and wet, and she supposes she’ll have to wait until May to see the flowers blossom and for the sun to make a reappearance. After all, the world was waiting with baited breath to see the royal wedding–they could wait a few weeks more for balmy weather.

One thing happens in April that will cause her to remember this particular month, albeit. On April fourteenth, Margaery Tyrell strolls into Lebowitz’s law-firm. She is seated in the meeting hall, sipping a coffee (two cream, two sugars; which Ambrosia thinks is an excessive amount but she assumes she simply has a sweet tooth), bouncing a pen against the mahogany oak table. Her hair is blonde, long, curled around her shoulders, and it tapers down to her smart black jacket and neat pencil skirt. Ambrosia merely sees her in passing, smiles and lowers her head as she carries a stack of manilla folders toward Lebowitz’s office, and she doesn’t see or hear from her again until April twenty-first, when she meets Margaery at a charity function held by Mr and Mrs Claremont of Audley Street.

After that, Margaery is seen more frequently: she is accompanied by Renly Baratheon, a notorious client of Lebowitz’s, and more eminently Margaery’s fiance. Ambrosia is intrigued by the blonde woman for reasons she cannot place, despite never having spoken a word to her. She speaks to Renly only briefly, who she would describe as being both eloquent and detached. She is instructed to make a good impression on him. Margaery, on the other hand, is a force of nature. She breezes into the lobby, presses her briefcase onto the receptionist, and doles out reams upon reams of paper in the meeting hall with a well-modulated tone of authority. Her eyes occasionally lift to where Ambrosia is sitting behind Lebowitz, and Ambrosia notes that they are nearly identical in colour to her own cerulean irises. Charming.

She thinks, after a while, her fascination turns to dread and simmers into hatred. She is jealous of Margaery, the way she commands a room, the way she levies power over Baratheon and Lebowitz both. She is green with envy and hopes whatever business she’s conducting with Lebowitz draws to a close soon enough. On the contrary, Margaery seldom seems to take note of her, and continues to drink her coffee with an occasional quip coming from between her teeth as Ambrosia jots down the gist of the meeting–half tempted to write down some of Margaery’s jokes.

“I’m not particularly familiar with American politics but I wager with the recent tumult there, you’d rather be any place but here right about now.”

Ambrosia is scanning documents on the printing machine–rather fruitlessly–when Margaery approaches her. Dauntlessly, effortlessly, like a lioness lying in wait in the tall grass. Her heels clink against the marble floor.

“There seems to be tumult everywhere I go,” Ambrosia remarks genially, “it makes no difference if I’m here or there.”

“Ah, yes. Politics is every man’s spectator sport.” The blonde woman offers her hand. “I don’t believe I made an introduction. Lebowitz has lost his touch, it seems. Margaery Tyrell.”

“‘Lost’ implies it was ever present to begin with.” She places her hand in Margaery’s and feels a jolt of unsurety soar through her marrow. “I kid–promise. Ambrosia Reynolds. It’s a pleasure to–finally–make your acquaintance, Ms. Tyrell.”

“Yes, our introduction at Langham was disappointingly brief. Delighted to meet you, Ms. Reynolds. I have to say, I was surprised to hear that Lebowitz hired an American. I have known Alexander for quite some time now, personally and now recently professionally, but none of his interns have been quite so… young–nor as charming.”

Ambrosia swallowed. Now was not the time to make the connection; her father was Reginald Reynolds, proudly British. Connections endless. She was Ambrosia Reynolds, American heiress. She assumed Margaery wouldn’t make the connection with them being an ocean apart.

She slipped her hand out of Margaery’s grasp and employed it to brush a strand of hair out of her face.

“Mid-life crisis. That seems to be the only explanation.”

-

Summer in the city is just as she’s imagined it. Hot, not a drop of rain, gloriously sunny. She basks in the warmth after nearly six months in London, sitting on her balcony with a cup of Bohea tea in one hand and the Boston Globe in the other. Her phone chimes and she dives for it a moment later, Margaery’s name flashing on the screen.

“Good morning, love, I hope you aren’t doing anything important.” Margaery’s voice is aristocratically charming as she picks up.

Ambrosia scrambles to set her newspaper aside and sits Indian style on the lawn chair. She gives the other her full attention, excitedly so. “Oh, you know… sorting through love letters and marriage proposals. A typical Sunday. What’s up?”

“Very funny.” A pause, “There’s a lovely little French bistro on the outskirts of town. Reservations typically take up to a year, but I pulled some strings and need someone to go with. What do you say?”

She blushes fiercely. They’d been seeing each other more frequently of late–lunch dates, ‘business’ meetings, late night calls usually with Margaery talking about the incompetence of her male peers and Ambrosia agreeing wholeheartedly–but it never failed to surprise her that Margaery wanted to see her again.

She rose a brow instinctively and carved patterns in her knee with a fingertip. “Renly isn’t able to go?”

Margaery’s voice flattened. “No, he’s a non issue. He’s in Dubai for the month.”

“Someone is living the life of Riley!”

“It’s for business,” Margaery assures–a little too quickly. “So, can you be ready in thirty minutes?”

Ambrosia plaits her hair into an orderly braid, applies a coat of mascara to her eyelashes, and slips on a floral-printed sundress to meet Margaery in the lobby of her apartment building. Margaery, naturally, is business casual in slacks and a navy blouse–Ambrosia thinks it suits her, and she wants to tell her that she looks pretty, but she doesn’t of course. Margaery kisses both her cheeks in the French style before they speed through the city and Ambrosia is left with a blush that will not subside and fingertips clasped behind her spine.

-

Summer comes and goes and it rains again soon enough. Having sampled a taste of summer only causes her to yearn for it that much more acutely. But autumn is a completely different beast than April, and she finds herself staying inside more often, reading more frequently, and perhaps overfeeding her cat. Margaery has been gone recently, jetting off with Renly to Paris, or Rome, until a quarrel causes her to return prematurely and she reaches out to Ambrosia for a much needed ‘girls night.’ Ambrosia happily obliges.

Ambrosia notices that September brought what she liked to call ‘clockwork’ rain. At five thirty exactly, occasionally on the dot, the clouds hovering over London’s perimeters loosened in cold, grey rain, which fell upon the city in a bitter fog descending from the skyline and wafting over the river. This rain accompanied Ambrosia on her way home–only this time, Margaery trekked the commute with her. She had paperwork to assess and Margaery was all too willing to put her signature on it and frank it before the night was up.

The two women were nearly arm-in-arm as Margaery propped open an umbrella and they darted under it, escaping the cold pellets of rain falling like razors from the sky. It was then that a gilded town car sped down the street, racing over a pothole in the road and from this collision a puddle of water rushed up from the streets. If not for Margaery’s quick thinking, as she pulled herself and Ambrosia into a deserted alleyway, they would’ve been drenched in filthy street water. Ambrosia clutched onto Margaery’s dark coat for dear life as her back collided against the wet cobblestone wall, and her head fell backward with laughter.

They were both suddenly ripping apart at the seams with laughter, Ambrosia’s belly searing with pain as she at last came to. Her breath steadied and her heart leapt as she took note of Margaery’s proximity. She could count every freckle, every eyelash, if she wanted to. She watched as Margaery’s eyes raked across her mouth. Amb moistened her bottom lip with a swipe of her tongue and shivered in the cold.

In a moment of boldness Ambrosia leans forward and Margaery captured her mouth in a sweet caress. They seem to stand in that cul-de-sac for hours, tasting at each other’s mouth, Margaery’s tongue dipping between Ambrosia’s lips and stoking her own tongue with deliberate brushes. She captured Ambrosia’s mouth oh so gently, softly, and kissed her tenderly as her hands buried in Ambrosia’s red curls and Ambrosia’s hands found perch on Margaery’s slim waist.

“We’ll miss the train,” Ambrosia said breathlessly, her body mounted against the cold stonewall. Her hair was mused and her cheeks were aflamed.

“Like that would matter,” Margaery noted, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “I could have twenty towncars here in the next five minutes.”

-

Things were inevitably changed after the first kiss. She found herself in closets, bathroom stalls, hell, even in Lebowitz’s own office, with Margaery’s hands all over her. Sleepovers and girls nights were no longer the same, and she wouldn’t revert back for all the tea in China. Neither, it seemed, would Margaery. Margaery tells her about her arrangement with Renly and Loras, and so long as they’re discreet they wouldn’t be breaking any unspoken rules of agreement. But that was easier said than done and Ambrosia could hardly remember the days in which she truly despised the blonde haired woman who had changed her world so completely.

“Are you in any way in love with him?” Ambrosia would ask, raking her hands through Margaery’s fair head of hair as they sat on the rug before the fireplace.

“Who?” She replied with her lips pressed softly to her neck.

“Renly. The man you’re engaged to.”

“Not at all. It’s not like that. Besides, Renly isn’t interested in the female anatomy last I checked.”

Ambrosia shuddered as Margaery’s tongue flicked across a stretch of her sensitive skin. “You don’t mind being in a loveless engagement?”

“I love my brother. I’m essentially doing it for him. Loveless matches are a commonplace in the circles I run in, love, so I learned to compensate in different ways.”

“Different ways? Which are?”

She grinned, kissing Ambrosia just below her ear. “I seduced a little redhead at a charity function and started dating her instead.”

-

“Margaery!”

Ambrosia stood in the cold torrent of water as the shower head poured down on her. She shivered, fruitlessly twisting at a knob to warm the stream, but failed miserably. The travertine below her was slick as she moved backward and Margaery opened the door leading into her bathroom. She paused in the doorway and crossed the gap, widening the shower door. “Yes?”

Ambrosia placed a hand over her breasts securely, cocking her chin toward the knob. “It won’t turn.” She was painfully aware of her state of undress–Margaery had been incredibly patient with her, and her relative inexperience, but she knew it was only a matter of time before….

“–Ah.” After a moment, Margaery’s brows rose into her hairline and she gave the knob a hard slap. “It gets stuck sometimes. There, all better.”

“Thank you–I, um, will only be a second.” Her eyes flash with ideas–ideas that include Margaery’s impossibly long legs and her adept hands. But she pushes them into a drawer and tosses the keys.

“Take your time, love.”

Ambrosia nodded and stepped into the now tepid spray.

“Oh, and, Ambrosia?” She lifted her head upward. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about around me.”

-

Ambrosia had a feeling when Margaery invited her for a weekend getaway in the Hamptons that it wouldn’t be a simple visit. Just the two of them–a week away from Renly, work, and social obligations… she was as apprehensive as she was excited. The estate was illustrious, and the ocean was mesmerising as they arrived and unloaded their suitcases into drawers and closets and decided to order in food. They were suitably exhausted and collapsed onto the couch as soon as they could.

Ambrosia climbed over the sofa cushions and curled next to her girlfriend. Her red hair formed a canopy around Margaery as she leaned down to brush her mouth against hers. “The fridge is stocked, you know. We could try to cook something.”

“Do you know how to cook?”

“Basic things,” she lied with grace. “Want to try?”

Ambrosia knew how to cook–or rather, she knew how to microwave. She could perhaps fry an egg, but that wasn’t exactly dinner cuisine. Her upbringing had not included culinary lessons, but it couldn’t be so hard with the internet at her disposal and Margaery at her side, right? Wrong. Margaery was as helpless as she was.

Margaery comes behind her as she stands in front of the kitchen island, flipping through a cooking book. Her arms wound around Ambrosia’s waist as she placed her head on her girlfriend’s shoulder. “Is it supposed to look like that?” She gestures to the bowl of poorly mixed ingredients.

“I… I don’t know. I presume so?”

Ambrosia heaved a sigh.

“Don’t be disappointed, love, the Thai food is still on its way.”

“I know. But I didn’t imagine it would fail this spectacularly. And I wanted to make something for you.”

“I don’t care what we eat.”

Ambrosia spins around in her girlfriend’s arms and kisses her passionately. “I’m sure the yellow curry will be delicious, anyway.”

She leans against the French doors leading onto the balcony overlooking the beach. Her eyes are lost in thought as Margaery sleeps soundly in the bed next to her. A breeze slips through the windows and her skin prickles with goose bumps. Margaery stirs and blinks herself awake, reaching out to feel Ambrosia amid the sheets but finding the bed cold she rolls onto her back. “Amb?”

“Here,” Ambrosia says softly.

“Come here.”

She obliges and leans a knee against the bed. “Good morning. Sleep well?”

“Good morning love.”

Ambrosia crawls toward her, chuckling at her sleep-drenched and honeyed words. Margaery allows her to curl up next to her but she places her head on her chest instead and glances up at her–adoringly. Margaery’s breathing thrums beneath her ear as the seagulls caw just outside. She picks her head up as Margaery comes to, and drops a series of kisses against her soft skin. Her camisole is nearly translucent, and allows Ambrosia to work her way around Margaery’s body with ease. “Mhm,” Margaery murmurs, burying her hands in Ambrosia’s hair. “I wouldn’t start what you can’t finish, love.”

“Can’t finish?” She drops a kiss against her mouth; slow, languid, and wet as a soft moan escapes her. “I want you. Now.”

“Are you always this demanding?”

“You already know the answer to that.” Ambrosia sat up and peeled her jacket off, revealing her bare shoulders and a thin, lace camisole beneath. Her breasts had hardened and she felt an overwhelming desire course through her entire body, kindling a pool of warmth in her abdomen. Margaery’s eyes narrowed as she too sat up, and leaned toward Ambrosia. Her mouth was warm against her throat as she ripped a groan from it. Ambrosia was powerless, and her small assumption of authority was forgotten as Margaery took centre stage and pressed her against the cool comforter. Her fingertips delved between her thighs as Ambrosia’s hand moved down to her back, giving her ass an appreciative squeeze.

A breeze blows through the windows, the scent of brine and ocean spray overpowering. Ambrosia’s hand curls into the sheets. Between their breathing, and the sound of the waves crashing against the sand, she could focus on nothing but her girlfriend and their entangled legs. Their fragile hearts.

Margaery’s mouth brushed against her collarbone. “Do you want my mouth or my fingers, love?”

“Please,” she mewled. It was all she had to say.

-

“Where did you say you were from again?”

Loras’ voice was passive as he passed Renly the salad bowl and glanced at his partner.

“New England,” Ambrosia replied, her voice impressively clear even with Margaery’s hand on her knee. She exchanged a look with her girlfriend and shot her a disapproving leer. “Boston, actually. But I live in New York full time now.”

“Ah, it’s a wonder you and Margaery haven’t crossed paths before.”

“It’s not like New York has a population of eight million people or anything,” Ambrosia jested.

“Really, Loras,” Margaery chuckled.

Ambrosia pointed before lifting her flute to her mouth, “Though the odds were equally as against us in London, weren’t they? It must’ve been kismet.”

“Kismet indeed, love.”

A smile emerged on Loras’ face and told Margaery all she needed to know–her girlfriend had won the heart of her brother, or, in any event, was dangerously close to it.  He’d been dangling the carrot the whole night and while Renly and Ambrosia had already been acquainted, it was important to Margaery that her brother–arguably her closest companion–approve of her relationship, though she wasn’t by any means nervous.

“Another glass of chardonnay, anyone?”

-

It was strange–staying at Renly’s New York apartment, sharing a bed with Margaery, who was Renly’s fiancé, while Renly was sleeping in a bed with Loras, who was Margaery’s brother. The arrangement was strange and convoluted but it fascinated Ambrosia and, if anything, it worked into the intimacy of their relationship. Margaery and she lay side by side, their cheeks illuminated by the moonlight, their mouths mused and numb. Ambrosia nipped at Margaery’s bottom lip, softly and teasingly. “If only I told Loras all the things you’ve said about Renly in the past hour alone.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Margaery groans, drawing Ambrosia nearer to her. Their bodies flush. “I promised that I would be engaged to him–publicly, at least–not that I wouldn’t criticize his poor decisions. Spoiled boys do not good businessmen make.”

“Because the contrary would be so out of character?”

Margaery laughs softly. “Don’t,” she murmurs.

Ambrosia throws a leg over her girlfriend, hovering over her and peppering kisses against her cheek. “I love you.”

Margaery cups her face–and her eyes light up in the way they always do when they are affectionate. “I love you, too.”

“Kiss me.”

“Renly and Loras are in the next room.”