Till Checkout Do Us Part

A Sapphic Second Chance Destination Wedding Romance
by Riley Kendra

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: FF (Sapphic)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Second Chance, Exes Reunited, Destination Wedding, Adjoining Rooms, Forced Proximity, Fling With an Expiry Date, Secret Relationship, Hotel Romance, Vacation Romance, Lesbian × Bisexual, Secret Notes, Praise, Strap-On, Romantic Comedy

Two exes. Two deadbolts. One week that ends at checkout.

Nearly three years ago, Erin Mallory booked a cabin at Cannon Beach for her birthday and zipped a ring into her jacket pocket. Joelle Sutton said she’d probably make it. She didn’t.

Now Erin’s best friend is marrying Joelle’s best friend on the Spanish coast. Erin is the maid of honor. Joelle is the best woman. And the bride’s mother, a woman who laminates itineraries and owns a fax machine, has put them in adjoining rooms. Three-twelve and three-fourteen. One connecting door. A deadbolt on each side.

It only opens if both of them unlock it.

Erin has a good life: a client list she built herself, Thursday nights on the climbing wall, a blue door on Hawthorne. She’s fine. Her body did not get the memo. Joelle is back from four years of being everybody’s emergency contact, and she still turns her phone face-down when she wants to be present, and picks it back up when she’s scared.

So they write terms. One week. The brides don’t find out. No promises, no talk of Portland. It ends Monday at eleven a.m., at the front desk.

Then the door gets unlocked. The shower gets shared. A tour boat chugs past a hidden cove at exactly the wrong moment. And somewhere between the rehearsal dinner and the ceremony under the olive trees, Erin asks for a Saturday, and Joelle says the one word Erin swore she’d never take again.

Till Checkout Do Us Part is a high-heat, standalone sapphic second-chance romance with exes reunited, a destination wedding, adjoining rooms, a fling with an expiry date, alternating dual POV, no cheating, and an HEA guaranteed. Explicit content. 18+.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ Exes in adjoining hotel rooms with a deadbolt on each side
✅ A maid of honor and a best woman fixing everybody’s wedding but their own
✅ Terms for a fling that ends at checkout, and four rules broken one by one
✅ A laminated 23-activity itinerary, a German cycling club and a friend who keeps calling them SO mature
✅ Pinned wrists, edging, “Eyes open,” and a wedding night where the giver finally asks to receive
✅ A ring hidden in a sock drawer for almost three years
✅ “Probably” versus a real plan, with a time
✅ No cheating, no villains, 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ heat and an HEA guaranteed

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains extremely explicit sexual content (graphic FF scenes throughout, including oral, fingering, mutual masturbation through a locked door, shower sex, semi-public sex in a sea cove, a vibrator with edging and wrist-pinning, a strap-on, 69, face-sitting, tribbing, and sex on a kitchen island), strong language, and alcohol. Also includes a parent’s past stroke and ongoing family caregiving, a painful past breakup, and family friction. No cheating between the leads. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read all of Chapter One right here.

Chapter One: Erin

Natalie’s text arrived somewhere between the Barcelona ring road and the first flash of sea.

Do not kill her. Love you. Bring sunscreen.

Erin Mallory looked at it for a full kilometer of pine trees before she answered.

Sunscreen is in the bag. The other thing is negotiable.

ERIN.

I’m going to be so polite you’ll check me for a pulse.

That’s what I’m afraid of. You get polite right before you get lethal.

Then you should’ve put us on different continents.

Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Erin watched them with the grim interest of a woman minding a pot she knew would boil over.

I love you. I’m getting married. Be nice to Joelle. She’s been weird all week.

Erin turned the phone face-down on her thigh, realized whose habit that was, and flipped it back over out of spite.

The taxi driver had the radio on low, a man singing in Catalan about something he was clearly not over. Outside, the coast unrolled in a long blue argument with the cliffs. Erin had been awake for twenty-two hours. She’d flown Portland to Amsterdam, Amsterdam to Barcelona, and somewhere over Greenland she had rehearsed polite until it was smooth as a river stone.

Hi. You look well. How’s the library?

Three sentences. A hug if a hug was offered, brief, the kind you gave a coworker at a retirement party. Then she would go to her room, shower off the plane, put on the green dress, and stand beside Natalie for eight days like a woman with a full and satisfying life, because she was one.

She had a client list she’d built herself, with a waiting list. She had Thursday nights at the climbing gym with Priya, who yelled encouragement like threats. She had a third-floor apartment on Hawthorne with a blue door and a fern that had survived two winters out of sheer stubbornness. Last spring she’d gone to Lisbon alone and eaten custard tarts on a stone wall for an entire afternoon without asking anyone if they wanted to leave. She’d dated. Some of it had even been good.

She was fine.

The taxi crested a hill and there it was: Hotel Mirador Azul, whitewashed and blue-shuttered, stacked down the headland in terraces like someone had spilled a box of sugar cubes toward the water. Bougainvillea climbed one entire wall in a shade of pink that should have been illegal. Below, a cove of green-clear water curved into the rocks.

“Muy bonito,” the driver said, as if he took personal credit.

“Yeah,” Erin said. “It’s a nice place to do something stupid.”

He laughed without understanding a word. She tipped him too much.

The lobby was cool tile and white plaster and the smell of oranges. A ceiling fan turned with the patience of something that had never been in a hurry in its life. Erin wheeled her suitcase over the threshold and walked straight into thirty men in Lycra.

They were everywhere. Cycling shoes clacked on the tile like a tap recital. Someone was distributing electrolyte tablets from a Tupperware. A broad, sunburned man with a clipboard was addressing the group in rapid German, and every few seconds the group nodded together, a field of helmets in a breeze.

Erin edged around a man doing calf stretches against a pillar.

And there, at the front desk, with her back to the room, was Joelle Sutton.

It was the neck that did it.

Erin had prepared for a face. She had prepared for the voice, for the hands, for the specific way Joelle stood with her weight on one hip when she was waiting for something. She had not prepared for the back of Joelle’s neck, bare because her dark curls were piled up and pinned with a pencil, a few loose spirals stuck to her skin in the heat. Deep brown skin, damp at the nape. The collar of a white linen shirt that had given up on being crisp somewhere over the Atlantic. Sleeves shoved to the elbows. Those forearms, braced on the marble counter.

Erin’s body, which had apparently not been informed that this was a polite occasion, went hot from the sternum down.

No, she told it. Absolutely not. We discussed this.

Her body did not care what they’d discussed. Her body remembered that exact strip of skin under her mouth on a Sunday morning with the blinds half-open. It remembered the sound Joelle made when Erin bit there, low and surprised every time, like she never saw it coming.

Three years. Three years and an ocean, and one patch of neck had undone eleven hours of rehearsal.

Joelle turned.

She was holding a pen and a key-card envelope, and when she saw Erin her face did something fast and unguarded before she arranged it. Her eyes went wide; her lips parted. Then the calm slid over everything like a hand smoothing a sheet.

She looked good. That was the problem with Joelle; she always looked good in a way that seemed unfair to the rest of the population. Tall, broad through the shoulders, long-limbed, a single thin gold chain at her throat that caught the light when she breathed. No makeup except something on her lips that made them look bitten. There was a little more gray at her temples than there used to be, two silver threads in the curls. It suited her. Erin hated that it suited her.

“Erin,” Joelle said.

The voice. Low and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world and planned to spend it on you.

“Joelle.”

They stood there while a German man walked between them holding a bike pump like a baby.

Then Joelle stepped forward, and it was clearly going to be a hug, and Erin had planned for a hug. Brief. Collegial. Retirement party.

Joelle’s arms went around her shoulders. Erin’s went around Joelle’s waist because that was where they went; there was no other place on Joelle’s body her arms had ever learned. Her cheek landed against linen and collarbone. Joelle smelled different. Not the grapefruit soap from the duplex. Something with cedar in it, something warm and dry and new, and the newness hit Erin harder than the familiarity would have. It meant there had been a store, a day, a decision. A whole life of small choices Erin hadn’t been there for.

One second. Two. That was a hug.

Three.

On the third second Joelle’s hand flattened between her shoulder blades, just for an instant, a press she didn’t seem to know she was doing. Erin felt it all the way down her spine.

They let go at the same time, too fast, like they’d touched a stove.

“You look—” Joelle started.

“It’s hot,” Erin said at the same time.

“It is,” Joelle agreed gravely. “It’s very hot.”

“There’s a cycling club.”

“I noticed the cycling club.”

“Hard to miss the cycling club.”

“They had a meeting about hydration,” Joelle said. “In the courtyard. Forty minutes. There was a whiteboard.”

“You watched the whole thing.”

“I didn’t have anything else to do. My phone was dying and I’d read all the signs in the lobby twice.” Joelle tilted her head. “Did you know breakfast is served until eleven?”

“I did not know that.”

“Now you do. I’m a resource.”

The corner of Erin’s mouth went up before she could stop it. Joelle saw it happen. Her own mouth did the same thing, slower, and for a second they were just two people smiling at each other in a lobby full of bike shorts, which was unacceptable.

Erin cleared her throat. “How’s the library?”

“Underfunded. Haunted by a printer on the second floor that only jams for men named Gary.” Joelle’s eyes moved over her, quick, then away, as though she’d been caught reading someone else’s mail. “Your hair’s shorter.”

“It’s the same length.”

“It’s shorter at the back.”

It was. Half an inch. She’d had it cut a week ago and the stylist had gotten aggressive with the clippers. Nobody had noticed. Natalie hadn’t noticed.

“You’re tanned,” Joelle said, quieter.

“I’ve been climbing outside. Smith Rock.”

“Since when do you climb outside?”

“Since about two years ago.”

Something passed over Joelle’s face and was gone. “That’s great,” she said, and meant it, which was somehow worse.

“Señora Mallory?”

Erin turned toward the desk, grateful for anyone who wasn’t the woman in front of her.

The woman behind the counter was in her late thirties, with a sleek dark bob, a navy linen dress, and the expression of someone who had personally survived every possible wedding disaster and found them all mildly tedious. Her name badge read TESS MORGAN — EVENTS.

“Welcome to Mirador Azul,” Tess said, in an English accent with Spanish worn into the edges. “You’re with the Price-Wells wedding. Maid of honor.”

“Guilty.”

“And Señora Sutton, best woman.” Tess slid two key-card envelopes across the marble, side by side, like a dealer laying down a pair. “You’re both in our sea-view wing. Rooms three-twelve and three-fourteen.”

Erin looked at the numbers. Something cold and practical in her chest began doing math.

“Those are next to each other,” she said.

“They are adjoining,” Tess said.

Joelle went very still beside her.

“Adjoining,” Erin repeated, “like there’s a wall between them.”

“Like there is a connecting door between them.” Tess said it the way someone else might say there’s a minibar. “Mrs. Denise Price prepared the rooming list for the wedding party. She was very thorough. She sent it as a spreadsheet, a PDF, and a fax.”

“Denise has a fax?”

“She found one,” Tess said darkly.

Erin put both hands flat on the counter. “Is there any chance one of us could move? Any room. A broom closet. I’m not proud.”

“I’m sorry. We are fully committed this week.” Tess nodded at the lobby, where the cycling club had begun a group stretch that involved a great deal of synchronized groaning. “The wedding has thirty-four rooms. The Radsportverein Bielefeld has the rest.”

“All of them?”

“They are very serious about cycling.”

Joelle spoke for the first time since the numbers. “It’s fine.”

Erin looked at her.

“It’s fine,” Joelle said again, mostly to Tess, in her calm-the-room voice, the one she used on frightened patrons and sobbing interns and anyone whose computer had eaten their dissertation. “We’re adults. It’s a door.”

“Each side has its own deadbolt,” Tess said. “The door only opens if both guests unlock it.”

There was a short, terrible silence.

“Good,” Erin said. “Great. Love a deadbolt.”

“Breakfast is until eleven,” Tess said.

“So I’ve heard.”

The elevator was the size of a confessional. They got in with both suitcases and stood shoulder to shoulder facing the doors while it hauled itself upward with the reluctance of an old dog going up stairs. Joelle’s arm was a quarter inch from hers. Erin could feel the heat of it, which was ridiculous; the elevator was ninety degrees and everything was hot.

“Denise,” Joelle said to the doors.

“Denise,” Erin agreed.

“Do you think she knew?”

“Denise knows everything and nothing. She knows the birthday of every person Natalie went to kindergarten with. She has never once known when to stop talking.” Erin watched the floor numbers. “She thought it was efficient. Both of us on one hallway. She could deliver itinerary updates in a single trip.”

“She’s going to deliver itinerary updates?”

“Oh, Jo.” It slipped out. The old nickname, the old pity, warm as a hand. “You have no idea.”

Joelle turned her head. Erin kept her eyes on the doors and felt the look on the side of her face like sun.

The elevator dinged. Third floor. A white hallway with blue tile underfoot, a window at the end full of sea. Three-twelve was first. Three-fourteen was the next door down, maybe eleven feet away.

They stopped at their doors at the same time.

“Well,” Joelle said.

“Well.”

“Welcome drinks at eight.”

“I’m aware of welcome drinks.”

“I’m just saying. Eight.” Joelle tapped her key card against her palm. “On the terrace.”

“Is this your being-a-resource thing?”

“It’s my standing-in-a-hallway-with-nothing-to-say thing.”

Erin laughed. A real one, short and surprised, and she shoved her key into the slot before it could turn into anything else.

Room 312 was beautiful in the specific way that made you feel underdressed. White walls, a dark wooden bed made up so tight it looked laminated, blue shutters folded open onto a little balcony that hung over the water. The sea filled the doorway like a painting someone had overpriced. A ceramic bowl of lemons sat on the desk. There was a card welcoming her, in Denise’s handwriting, with a hand-drawn sun.

And on the left wall, between the wardrobe and a framed watercolor of a fishing boat, was the door.

It was an ordinary door. Painted white, brass handle, a brass deadbolt above it with a thumb-turn. In any other room it would have been unremarkable. In this one it looked like a loaded gun someone had left on the coffee table.

Erin parked her suitcase, crossed the room, and put her thumb on the bolt.

It was already locked. She turned it the half inch anyway, and it clicked solidly home.

On the other side, at the exact same moment, she heard a second click.

She froze.

Joelle had done the same thing. Same second. Eleven feet down a hallway and one door apart, they had both crossed their rooms and checked the lock.

Neither of them moved. Erin could hear nothing through the wood, not breathing, not footsteps. But she knew, with total physical certainty, that Joelle was standing on the other side with her hand still on her bolt, knowing that Erin had heard her, knowing that Erin knew.

Erin took her thumb off the brass very slowly, as if a sudden movement would be audible.

Then she walked to the balcony and stood in the sun with her face burning, and it was not the sun.

She unpacked like a woman defusing something. Dresses on hangers. Sandals in a row. Toiletries lined up on the bathroom shelf in order of use. The green dress she hung last, on the back of the wardrobe door, where it caught the breeze and swayed.

She’d bought it in April. She’d told herself it was for the wedding. It was a deep bottle green, silk, cut on the bias, with thin straps and a back that dipped low enough to be a decision. She had stood in the dressing room at the store and looked at herself over her shoulder and thought, with great clarity and no shame at all, She’s going to hate this.

Hate it in the good way. The way where you couldn’t stop looking.

Erin sat on the bed. She took off her sandals. She was trying to decide whether a nap would ruin her for jet lag or save her life when she heard the water come on next door.

The pipes ran along the shared wall. The sound came through clear as rain on a roof: the hiss and the knock of old plumbing warming up, then the steadier drum of a shower running at full pressure.

Erin stared at the wall.

She had no reason to know which wall Joelle’s shower was on. And yet the sound came from just behind the headboard, low and close, and she understood that the bathrooms were mirror images, that Joelle was standing maybe four feet from her pillow behind a few inches of plaster and tile, naked.

Do not.

Then, faintly, under the water, Joelle started to hum.

It was the same song. Of course it was the same song. The Nina Simone one she had hummed in the duplex shower every single morning, the one with the brass and the swagger, and she was still flat in exactly the same three places, still dropped the long note halfway like she’d lost confidence in it. Erin used to lie in bed and listen and wait for the flat notes, the way you’d wait for a train you could set your watch by.

She had not heard that song in nearly three years. She had changed the station in a grocery store once when it came on, because she’d been holding a bag of oranges and suddenly could not breathe.

Erin lay back on the bed and put her forearm over her eyes.

She was not going to think about it. She was going to lie here, and listen to the ceiling fan, and think about her Thursday client, the medical-device company with the onboarding modules that read like hostage notes.

She thought about water on Joelle’s back.

Not abstractly. Specifically. The way it ran in a sheet down that long valley between her shoulder blades, over the dip of her lower spine where she had two small dimples Erin had once named, privately, after the moons of Mars. The way Joelle tipped her head back under the spray and her throat worked and her curls went heavy and dark and stuck to her shoulders. The way, if you stepped in behind her, she’d say cold, cold, you’re cold and lean back into you anyway.

The way Erin used to put her mouth on the top of her spine and taste soap and salt.

Erin’s thighs pressed together on their own. The sheets were cool under her calves and she was not cool anywhere. Want sat low and insistent, a tight ache that was nothing but memory and jet lag and twenty-two hours without sleep, she told herself. A biological response to a sound. Pavlov’s ex.

Next door, Joelle hit the second flat note.

Erin made a noise into her own arm that she would never admit to.

She thought about the onboarding modules. She thought about compliance training. She thought about the cycling club doing hamstring stretches in a row. She thought about Denise’s fax machine.

The water shut off.

Silence. Then the soft thud of a towel, a drawer, bare feet on tile. Footsteps crossing the room on the other side of the wall, moving toward the door between them, pausing.

Erin held her breath.

The footsteps moved on.

She let the breath out slowly, stared at the ceiling, and said out loud to no one, “Eight days.”

The ceiling fan turned. The sea went on being blue. Down on the terrace, someone dropped a tray of glasses and swore beautifully in Spanish.

At five minutes past seven, someone knocked on the connecting door.

Erin was in front of the bathroom mirror in her bra and a towel wrapped around her hips, halfway through the left eye of the liner she reserved for weddings and client pitches. She stopped with the pencil in midair. The knock came again: three knuckles, measured, polite. A knock that had read the room.

“It’s me,” Joelle said through the wood. “I’m not opening it.”

Erin set the pencil down. She walked to the door, then stopped a foot from it, as if it might lunge.

“Okay,” she said.

“I just want to be clear. I’m not unlocking anything. I’m a voice.”

“You’re a voice,” Erin agreed.

“Natalie says you have a copy of Denise’s itinerary.”

“Natalie forwarded it to me in May. With the subject line Help.“

“She forwarded it to me in May with the subject line Is this normal.” A pause. “Is it normal?”

Erin went to the desk, woke her laptop, and opened the PDF. Twenty-three pages. Every one of them had a header in a cheerful script font and a clip-art border of seashells.

“How much do you want to know?” Erin asked.

“Give me the first day.”

“Today,” Erin read, carrying the laptop back to stand near the door, “is Arrival and Welcome. Welcome drinks on the Garden Terrace, eight p.m. Dress code, quote, Mediterranean Elegant, exclamation point.”

“What does that mean?”

“I think it means linen with an attitude.”

A soft sound through the door. A laugh she was trying to hold in. Erin knew that laugh. It lived low in the throat, right under where the gold chain sat.

“Tomorrow,” Erin went on, scrolling. “Eight a.m., Group Breakfast, everyone welcome, exclamation point. Nine thirty, Coastal Boat Excursion, optional—”

“Exclamation point.”

“Two exclamation points. She’s escalating.”

“How many activities total?”

Erin scrolled to the summary page, where Denise had tallied them in a table. “Twenty-three.”

“Over eight days.”

“Over six. Seven is Lingering, in quotes. Eight is departure.”

“She scheduled lingering?”

“Ten to noon on Sunday. Lingering by the Pool, optional.” Erin squinted. “There’s a little drawing of a cocktail.”

The laugh broke through this time, a real one, helpless, and Erin found herself leaning a shoulder against the wall right beside the door frame, grinning at nothing. It was so easy. That was the thing she hadn’t braced for. Not the attraction—she’d known that would be there, the way you know your knee will ache when it rains. But this. The rhythm. Joelle tossing a line and Erin catching it without looking, as if nearly three years of silence had been a long weekend.

“Do the Wells family know about the itinerary?” Joelle asked.

“Amara hasn’t said?”

“Amara said, and I quote, My mother has received the document.“

“That’s ominous.”

“That’s how Helen Wells declares war. She receives the document.” A thoughtful pause. “If Denise schedules twenty-three things, Helen will attend one of them. Silently. In a large hat.”

“So we’ve got one family who’ll show up to everything and one who’ll show up to nothing.”

“And two brides in the middle who’d like to get married without anyone crying in a cabana.”

“Someone always cries in a cabana,” Erin said. “It’s a law of destination weddings.”

“Who do you think it’ll be?”

“Owen.”

“Owen’s here?”

“Owen is here,” Erin said grimly. “I saw his name on the rooming list. Room two-oh-nine. Right under Victor.”

“Poor Victor.”

“Victor will be fine. Victor will be handed a task by his wife and he’ll be the happiest man in Spain.” Erin pushed off the wall and set the laptop on the desk. “I’ll send you the PDF.”

“You don’t have my number.”

Erin stopped.

She did have Joelle’s number. She had never deleted it. She’d changed the contact name the week it ended, at two in the morning on the duplex kitchen floor, from Jo to Joelle Sutton, like adding the last name might put some distance between them. Like a formal title on a door. She had looked at it maybe six times since. Maybe twelve.

“I have your number,” she said.

Silence on the other side. Not a nothing silence. A full one.

“Okay,” Joelle said quietly.

Erin opened her email instead and forwarded the PDF to Joelle’s address, which she also had, which she was choosing not to think about. Next door, faintly, she heard Joelle’s phone chime.

“Got it,” Joelle said. “Twenty-three pages.”

“Godspeed.”

“What color’s your room?”

Erin blinked at the door. “What?”

“The walls.”

“White.”

“Mine too.” A beat. “Thank God.”

It took Erin a second, and then she laughed so suddenly she had to put a hand over her mouth. Seasick Mint. Their bedroom in the duplex. Two full weekends, three test patches, one screaming fight in the paint aisle of a Home Depot, and in the end a color so aggressively pale-green that their friends had stopped coming over in daylight. Natalie had stood in the doorway the first time and said, Oh, it’s like being inside a mouthwash.

“No mint,” Erin managed.

“Not a drop.”

“You’d have checked out.”

“I’d have slept in the lobby with the Germans.”

Erin was smiling so hard her face hurt. She made herself stop. She looked at the white door with the brass bolt and thought: This is the problem. Not the neck. Not the shower. Four minutes through a locked door, and it was easy again.

“I need to finish getting ready,” she said.

“Of course.” Joelle’s voice shifted, came from lower down, like she’d moved closer to the wood. Or like she’d leaned her forehead on it.

Erin did not lean her forehead on it.

“Erin?”

“Yeah.”

A pause long enough to feel.

“It’s good to hear you,” Joelle said. Softer than anything she’d said all day. “I mean that. It’s really good to hear you.”

Erin stood with her hand flat on her own chest, a foot from the door, and found she had nothing in her mouth at all. No line. No dry little landing. Every answer she reached for was either a lie or a door she wasn’t willing to open, and so she said nothing, and the nothing stretched until it became its own answer.

On the other side, after a while, footsteps moved away.

Erin went back to the bathroom and finished the left eye. Her hand was almost steady. She did the right. She stepped out of the towel and into the green dress and felt the silk slide down over her hips, cool as water, the low back leaving her skin bare to the breeze from the balcony. She put on the gold sandals. She looked at herself in the long mirror on the wardrobe door and turned to see the back over her shoulder.

She’s going to hate this, she thought again.

Good.

At 7:58 she stepped out into the hallway. The door to 314 was closed. She walked past it without slowing, heels sharp on the blue tile, and took the stairs, all three flights, so she’d have something to do with the adrenaline.

Down on the terrace, under strings of lights and the first purple of evening, a woman in a wide sun hat was standing very still beside a woman holding a stack of laminated pages, and Natalie was waving at her across the crowd with both arms like someone flagging a rescue helicopter.

Erin lifted a hand, squared her bare shoulders, and walked into it.

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