By the time Sunday rolled around, Willow was a nervous wreck. Of course, it didn't help that she had switched back to regular coffee after an unsuccessful stab at drinking decaf. So here she was, a nervous, jittery mess. Twice in as many days, she had snapped at Xander for some imagined infraction. Then, last night, she had grounded Whitney for not studying before sending her on patrol, telling the young Slayer that she was shirking her chosen duty. The teenager had responded only with a roll of her eyes and a snide, "Somebody's PMSing," before flouncing out of the house. Some Watcher she was turning out to be. Hell, Cordelia could have done a better job.

Massaging her temples, Willow stared at the telephone, trying to get up the nerve to call Buffy. She had called late the night before, speaking to Xander, but Willow had waved her hands and shook her head in desperation when he had tried to give the phone to her. Finally, with a scowl, Xander had told Buffy that Willow had went to bed with a headache and he would have her call in the morning.

And, here she was, staring at the telephone as if it were about to grow three heads and bite her fingers off. Which wasn't too farfetched, seeing as how she lived on the Hellmouth. Laying her hand on the cool, white plastic, Willow sighed.

"How hard can it be, Will? You just pick up the receiver and dial her number and say hi, would you like to go to lunch, oh, and by the by, your ex is in town!" Willow snatched her hand back and glared at the offending appliance. "Oh, yeah! That's the thing to say! 'Hey, Buffy, Angel broke your heart into a million tiny pieces and now he's back in Sunnydale to finish the job!' Real tactful, Harris. I mean, Rosenberg-Harris. Oh, no, I don't. I wrote Mrs. Willow Harris in too damned many notebooks in junior high to go back on it now. . . "

"That's what I love about you, Will. You even babble when you talk to yourself," spoke an amused voice from the back door behind her.

With a squeak of surprise, Willow spun around and gaped at the lovely blonde standing in the doorway.

"Buffy!"

Cordelia Chase stepped out of the limousine and shielded her eyes against the brilliant Southern California sun. She offered a silent thank you to herself for remembering to put on sunblock. Spending the last few years in New York City had paled her skin and she certainly didn't want to begin her six-month stay in Sunnydale with a sunburn.

After tipping the driver, she walked into the Grant Street Inn, a quaint and lovely hotel that had been around since the twenties. The desk clerk looked up as she breezed in. He smiled at the beautiful brunette.

"Welcome to Grant Street Inn. May I help you?"

Cordelia placed her Chanel purse on the ornate mahogany desk and smiled. "I believe you have a reservation for Cordelia Chase."

His demeanor shifted subtly, becoming much more deferential. "Yes, of course, Miss Chase. We've been expecting you. Mr. McKellan left detailed instructions for your stay with us." He turned away for a moment, taking a key and an envelope from a cubbyhole in the wall behind him.

The limo driver had finished bringing in Cordelia's extensive set of matching Louis Vuittan luggage. The desk clerk, whose nametag read 'Kevin', placed a registration form in front of her. "If you would be so kind as to fill this out--just the gray shaded areas--I'll call for a porter."

"Miss Chase? Will there be anything else?"

She turned to the driver. "No, thank you, Darrell. I believe I'll be renting a car during my hopefully short stay here in Sunnydale. I don't suppose. . . ?"

"I'd be happy to arrange it, Miss Chase. What kind of car would you prefer?"

"A Mercedes. Convertible. Red. And, Darrell?" Cordelia pressed a fifty in the driver's hand. "Thank you."

He smiled at her. "Anytime, Miss Chase. Anytime at all."

"Well, thank you for waiting, Miss Chase. Andrew here will escort you to the Rose Suite. And, Mr. McKellan left this message for you," Kevin said as he returned to the desk.

"Thank you." Cordelia took the envelope, recognizing Angel's smooth, curving script on the outside.

"And, may I say, Miss Chase, it is an honor to have a designer of your repute here in our lovely town. If I'm not mistaken, you grew up here in Sunnydale?"

"Yes, I did. It seems like a long time ago," Cordelia said as she watched the porter load her luggage onto a rolling cart.

"It couldn't have been very long ago; you don't look a day over eighteen."

Cordelia leveled her most intimidating gaze on the clerk and his flirtatious smile faded. He nodded briskly and returned to his post. "If there's anything I can do for you. . . ?"

"I'll let you know, Kevin. Thank you very much."

"My pleasure."

It was all Cordelia could do not to gag as she followed the porter to the elevator. Ass kissing got real old, real quick.

Just once, she'd like to hear Xander tell her to get off her ass and do something useful, instead of bitching and whining.

She missed the old days.

"Well, I'm here. I hope you're satisfied."

Angel lay back against the sofa cushions, chuckling at the rancor in Cordelia's voice. "Did you get settled in okay? Are the accommodations to your satisfaction?"

He could almost hear her soften over the phone. "Yes. As usual, you've thought of everything. I did decide to rent a car, though. The limo is a little. . . well. . . obvious."

"I'll reimburse you. I can count it as a business expense."

Cordelia laughed. "Angel, you have so much money hidden so damn well, why would you even want to pay income tax?"

"It's the right thing to do, Cordy."

"Of course it is. Give all your millions to the government so they can spend it on five-hundred dollar toilet seats."

Angel was staring into the fireplace, now filled with red-orange flames. "Have you made dinner plans?"

"No. Well, I had a banana out of the fruit basket, if that counts."

"I'll pick you up at eight-thirty. There's a nice seafood place down by the wharf now," Angel said. "Then, if you'd like, we can stop by the warehouse. The contractor start tomorrow."

"Sounds great. So, have you seen her yet?"

Angel winced. The very thought of Buffy was like pouring holy water onto his skin. "No. I think she must've been out of town. She does definitely own Angelica's, though. One of the contractors is married to the florist next door."

"That's Sunnydale for you. Small Town, USA. With an evil twist."

"I'll see you later, Cordy."

"Bye, Angel."

The expression of terror on Willow's face was almost comical. She looked at Buffy with wide, hazel eyes, wringing her hands together like a nervous bride. "Will, are you okay?"

"Um. . . yeah! Yeah, just peachy, you know me. . . "

Buffy Summers, the only Vampire Slayer to live long enough to retire, smiled indulgently at her best friend. She closed the door behind her and shrugged out of her thin sweater.

"Nice dress, Buff. Is it new?" Willow winced inwardly as she heard her high-pitched, trembling voice.

She's gonna know something's wrong, Harris!

Taking a deep breath even as she flushed crimson under Buffy's suspicious gaze, Willow forced herself to relax. She plastered a smile on her face and walked over to the coffeepot. "Can I get you some coffee?"

Buffy sat down at the kitchen table and shook her head. "No and I don't think you need any either. Come sit down."

She must not have heard what I was saying when I was talking to myself, Willow thought and she relaxed with the knowledge that she still was in control of the situation.

Willow joined her, smoothing her damp palms over the legs of her denim shorts. "So, how was LA? Did you see your dad?"

Buffy grimaced. "Yeah. I don't know, Will, it seems like the longer we go between visits, the more strained they become. He was all mushy-eyed over Britney, though."

"Oh, his new wife. What's she like?"

"Young. Like, our age. She's nice enough, I guess, but it's still weird to know that my 50-year-old father is sleeping with someone who was in kindergarten the same year I was."

Willow smiled, visibly calming. "Has your mom spoken to him since they got married?"

"Are you joking? She's convinced he's going through male menopause or something. I'm just glad she's got Giles. At least, he's in the same age bracket."

As Buffy reached up to tuck a stray hair behind her ear, Willow's gaze fell on the modest diamond twinkling on her left hand. "You got your ring back from the jeweler's!" she exclaimed.

"Yeah. Ben picked it up for me. Which reminds me, I found a dress!"

As Buffy picked up her purse and began to rummage through it, Willow felt the familiar butterflies in her stomach return and she felt almost nauseous.

Pulling out some pages torn from a magazine, Buffy smoothed them flat on the tabletop. The top picture was of an ornately beaded wedding dress.

"Do you like? I found it at this little shop in the Valley. Vivienne's Bridal and Formalwear," Buffy pushed the picture over to Willow with a nudge of her fingertips.

Willow stared at the gown and, although it was gorgeous, it didn't really look like something Buffy would've picked out. "I-it's. . . pretty. Really! It's. . . bedecked. . . you know. . . with jewels," she stammered.

Buffy's smile faded and Willow could've kicked herself into next week. "Oh! Buffy! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult your choice, really, I didn't! It's beautiful! You'll be absolutely beautiful in it."

"Ben's mom, well, she really liked it. She has a certain vision of how she wants the wedding to look. . . " Buffy said, running her fingertips over the glossy page.

Willow reached over and covered Buffy's hand with her own. "But, Buffy, it's your wedding. Yours and Ben's. How do you want it to look?"

A wistful look softened Buffy's green eyes and Willow didn't need to be psychic to know just who it was she was picturing in her head and it wasn't Ben Davidson. "I always wanted a nighttime wedding, with lots and lots of candles, or maybe on the beach, during the full moon."

Willow smiled. She had heard this fantasy years ago. "Oz couldn't have come," she said, referring to her old boyfriend, who had happened to be a werewolf.

Buffy smiled. "We'd just have to put him on a leash."

"But, he'd be howling at the moon."

"Wasn't it in that old Dracula movie where Bela Lugosi said, 'the children of the night, what music they make'?" Buffy asked. "Oz would be our orchestra. Instead, we're having a twenty-piece string section at the reception."

"Buffy, you just need to tell her. . . "

"Will, you don't tell Gloria Davidson anything. She does what she wants, when she wants, how she wants. That's what money can buy."

"You need to tell Ben. . . "

Getting to her feet, Buffy stuffed the picture of the wedding dress back into her purse. "I know. I will. Look, I'm going to run over to the shop, I'll call later, okay?"

Willow started to panic again, realizing her opportunity to tell Buffy about Angel was slipping away. She jumped to her feet, sending the chair sliding across the tile floor. "But, Buffy! I thought we'd have lunch!"

"Maybe tomorrow. I have a lot to do and I still want to stop by the library and see Giles. Tomorrow, promise?"

Willow was still protesting weakly as Buffy gave her a quick hug, then left.

"Well, fuck!" Willow whispered to herself.