Contents
Cover
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Praise for Written in the Stars
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
There was only so much chafing a girl could handle, and Elle Jones had reached her limit. Dodging strollers in front of Macy’s splashy holiday window displays and hustling to make it to the restaurant on time had caused the creep of her lace to quicken until her brand-spankin’-new underwear functioned more like a belt than the boy shorts they were. She could practically taste her spring-fresh laundry detergent.
Tugging through her dress had been futile. Shimmying certainly hadn’t done shit. Neither had casually leaning against the crosswalk pole and . . . gyrating? There was some hip action, but less trying to grind this pole to bring home the bacon and more bear in the woods with an insidious itch. Shoving her hand up her skirt had been a last resort, one with the unintended consequence of making it look like she was getting frisky with herself in front of Starbucks. The streets of Seattle had seen stranger things, but apparently not the dude leering from the passenger window of the mud-splattered Prius.
It was all because she’d chosen to wear this underwear, new underwear, sexier underwear than anything else wadded up in her dresser drawer. Not that she was expecting Brendon’s sister to see her underwear, but what if the date went well?
What if? Wasn’t that the million-dollar question, the spark of hope that kept her coming back for more time and time—and time—again? The butterflies in her stomach were a balm, each flutter of their wings soothing the sting of all those previous rejections and brush-offs until she could barely remember what it felt like when her phone didn’t ring. When the spark just wasn’t there.
First-date jitters? No, this feeling was magic, like glitter rushing through her veins. Maybe this dinner would go well. Maybe they’d hit it off. Maybe there would be a second date and a third and a fourth and—maybe this would be it, her last first date. Boom. End game. A lifetime of butterflies.
Wedgie-free, Elle stopped in front of the restaurant and breathed deep. Sweat darkened the powder blue cotton of her dress as she swiped her palms against her skirt, drying off her hands before reaching for the silver handle. She tugged and . . . the glass door barely budged, opening a fraction of an inch.
This restaurant was four-little-dollar-signs expensive, which begged the question: Were rich people seriously doing enough manual labor to have the muscle mass required to pry open these doors? Or were they ripped thanks to the personal trainers and private Pilates lessons they could afford? Elle pulled harder. Was there an access code? A buzzer she needed to press? Was she supposed to wave her credit card—with its admittedly dismal limit—in front of the door?
A hand with perfectly polished nails in the most boring shade of blush fluttered in front of her face through the glass. She straightened and—oh sweet Saturn. No wonder this place was so popular, prices and impossible doors be damned. With long, copper-colored curls and even longer legs, the hostess was the sort of unfairly gorgeous that graced the covers of magazines, pretty to the point it made her eyes hurt. Of course, it didn’t help that the glass reflected Elle’s own slightly blurry face. Her dishwater-blond bangs had separated and her liner had smudged around her eyes, making her look less smoky-eye sexy and more sweaty raccoon. Talk about a smack to the self-esteem.
“You’re supposed to push.” The hostess’s brown eyes darted down to the handle.
Elle pressed her palm to the glass. Featherlight, the door glided open smooth as butter. Despite the cool November air, her cheeks prickled with heat. Great going. At least her gaffe was only witnessed by herself and the hostess and not Brendon’s sister. Now that would’ve been a difficult impression to come back from.
“Thanks. They should really consider putting up a sign. Or, you know, not putting a handle on a push door.” She laughed and—okay, so it wasn’t funny, but the hostess could’ve done the decent thing and pretended. Elle wasn’t even asking for an enthusiastic chuckle, just the kind of under-your-breath puff of laughter that was polite because Elle totally had a point.
But no. The hostess gave her a tight smile, eyes scanning Elle’s face before she glanced down at her phone and sighed.
So far, the service sucked.
Rather than push her luck and make a bigger fool out of herself in front of the gorgeous hostess who’d rather futz around on her phone than do her job, Elle scanned the restaurant for someone who could be related to Brendon.
He hadn’t said much about his sister. Upon overhearing Elle discuss the perils of dating not only as a woman, but a woman who liked other women, Brendon had gotten this adorable, wide-eyed, puppy-dog look of excitement and said, You’re gay? So’s my sister, Darcy. Bisexual, but yeah, Elle was all ears. His smile had gone crooked, dimples deepening as his eyes sparkled with mischief. You know what? I think you two would really hit it off.
And who was she to say no when she’d been ranting to Margot about her shoddy luck in the love department? Saying no would’ve been silly.
All Brendon had told her was that Darcy would meet her at Wild Ginger at seven o’clock and, not to worry, he’d take care of their reservations. Maybe she was waiting at the bar. There was a petite blonde sipping a pink martini and chatting with the bartender. It could be her, but Brendon was tall and had broad shoulders. Perhaps it was the—
“Excuse me.”
She spun, facing the hostess who was no longer staring at her phone but instead looking at Elle, brows raised expectantly. “Uh-huh?”
God, pretty people made her stupid.
The hostess cleared her throat. “Are you meeting someone?”
At least now she wouldn’t have to do the awkward thing and approach every lone woman in the joint. “Yeah, I am. Last name on the reservation should be Lowell.”
Enviably full lips pursed as the woman’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Elle?”
Hold on. “No, Darcy. Unless Brendon put my name on the reservation? With her last name? That’s a little presumptuous, but okay.” She snorted. “I’ve been on plenty of first dates and I’ve never had one go that well if you catch my drift.”
“No, I mean you are Elle,” the hostess spoke slowly. “I am Darcy.”
Elle’s heart thudded, skipping over one beat and quickening on the next. “Darcy . . . is you? You are Darcy?” So . . . not the hostess.
She nodded.
Of course this was Brendon’s sister. This was just Elle’s luck, and now that she knew, the resemblance was quite obvious. They were both tall and slender and unfairly attractive. Granted, Brendon’s hair was darker, but it was definitely red, and they both had freckles. So many freckles it was like Darcy’s skin was a peachy-cream sky covered in pale brown stars begging to be mapped out, connected into constellations. They spilled over her jaw and dotted her throat, disappearing under the collar of her green swing dress, leaving their path to Elle’s vivid imagination.
H
er toes curled, face flushing when Darcy’s eyes dipped, mirroring her own unapologetic perusal. She bit back a grin. Maybe it was a good thing she’d worn this underwear after all.
“You’re late.”
Oof. Or not. “I am, and I’m really sorry about that. But there was—”
Darcy held up a hand, forcing Elle to swallow her excuse. “It’s fine. I’ve had a long day and I already settled my tab at the bar.” She pointed over Elle’s shoulder toward the door. “I was calling a Lyft.”
“What? No.” She was late, yeah, but only by a few minutes. Okay, fifteen, but that wasn’t her fault. “I really am sorry. I wanted to text you, but my phone died and it was like mommy roller derby in front of Macy’s. And let me tell you, those women are vicious with their strollers when there are sales at stake. Vicious. I swear to God, you’d think it was Black Friday. Can you believe they’ve already got Christmas decorations up? I’ve still got cobwebs and Jon Bone Jovi hanging in my apartment.” Her face flamed at Darcy’s puzzled frown. “He’s, um, my apartment skeleton. We thought it’d be humerus. Because . . . anyway.” She squared her shoulders and gave Darcy her most heartfelt smile. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight ever since your brother mentioned he thought we might hit it off. Let me buy you another drink?”
She held her breath as Darcy deliberated, fingers pressed to the space between her brows as if she was staving off a headache.
After an excruciating moment of silence where Elle struggled not to squirm, Darcy dropped her hand and offered a ghost of a smile. “One drink.”
Once more with feeling. Elle bit the inside of her cheek and smiled. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Lack of enthusiasm aside, this was good. Promising. There was still a chance to make this right. She could do this. She could totally rally.
Darcy’s shoes, a pair of towering red-soled pumps, click-clacked with every perfectly paced step across the restaurant. Elle followed, fluffing her fringe with her fingers, quick and inconspicuous. Her first impression might’ve been lackluster, but that meant the only direction things could go was up.
“What are you drinking?” Elle plucked the drink menu off the table and— Oh sweet Saturn. Her wallet curled up into the fetal position.
“The Francois Carillon Chardonnay.” Darcy flagged down a waiter with a twist of her wrist.
The Francois . . . Elle brought the menu closer to her face and nearly choked. Fifty-six dollars for a glass of wine? That couldn’t be right. It had to be a typo, a misplaced decimal, maybe some trick of the candlelight playing off the gold gilded font. She double-checked to make sure she hadn’t confused the price of a glass for a bottle, maybe a case, and . . . nope.
“What can I get you?” the waiter asked, and when Darcy finished relaying her order, he turned to Elle. “And you, miss?”
“Erm.” She scanned the page, struggling not to cringe. Didn’t this place believe in happy hour? Or hell, happiness? Making your rent? Shoot, her rent. That was due on Monday. “The Domaine De Pellehaut Merlot Blend?”
Not only did she butcher the pronunciation, she hated merlot. But nine dollars was plenty more palatable than fifty-six.
The waiter nodded and disappeared.
Salvage this date. A seemingly simple goal, only, all her wonderful, sparkling witticisms caught in her throat like a swallowed wad of gum when Darcy just stared at her. Candlelight transformed Darcy’s light brown eyes into butterscotch and when Darcy glanced down at her phone, the light danced off the darkest, thickest lashes Elle had ever seen and—
“What mascara do you use?” Elle blurted.
Darcy flipped her phone over, screen side down, and looked up, brows furrowing as she met Elle’s eyes. “My mascara? YSL.”
“They’re really pretty. Your eyes, I mean.”
The crests of Darcy’s cheeks turned an alluring shade of pink. “Thank you?”
Elle bit her lip and smoothed the napkin on her lap, smothering her grin at having taken Darcy by surprise. Only when she was no longer in danger of beaming like a loon did she lift her eyes and . . . Darcy was back to staring across the table, only this time there was something more than polite interest in her gaze.
For a moment, Elle couldn’t breathe. All she could do was watch as Darcy’s blush deepened, pink cheeks turning crimson.
The smooth column of Darcy’s throat jerked as she swallowed. Her tongue darted out to wet her full bottom lip, drawing Elle’s eye to a crescent-shaped freckle at her lip line, and dear God, she hadn’t had anything to drink yet and already she was dizzy, though that might’ve had something to do with how her lungs refused to cooperate.
Magnetic. Elle couldn’t look away because this was champagne bubbles on her tongue, the first plunge into a swimming pool on a scorcher of a day, that moment right before the bass drops in a killer song. Sparks, chemistry, whatever it was, this was the sort of it’s there or it’s not connection she’d been chasing.
Before she could find her voice, the waiter returned, tray in hand. First, he filled Darcy’s glass from a miniature carafe, then poured a splash of red into Elle’s. He waited, clearing his throat gently.
Was she seriously supposed to . . . sniff it? Sample it? And say what? God, just last week she and Margot had finished off a box of Franzia rosé. She’d guzzled the dregs from the wine bladder while Margot squeezed the bag. Elle’s tastes weren’t exactly what she’d call discerning.
She took a whiff, sipped, and hummed thoughtfully. Yuck. “Yep. That is definitely merlot. Thanks.”
The waiter’s lips twitched as he filled her glass with the rest of the wine. “I’ll be back to take your order shortly.”
Elle tucked her hair behind her ear, finger snagging on her hoop. Darcy’s blush had mostly dissipated, but she gulped her wine, eyes looking everywhere but at Elle. That was fine; Darcy wouldn’t be acting that way unless the moment had affected her, too.
“Brendon mentioned you work in . . . insurance? Is that right?”
Darcy swallowed and dipped her chin. “I’m an actuary.”
“That sounds . . . interesting?”
Darcy actually chuckled. “I know, it sounds astonishingly dull, doesn’t it?”
Leaning back in her chair, Elle grinned. “I’m not sure I even know what an actuary does.”
“I help to establish accurate and fair pricing for insurance premiums by analyzing variables and trends in historical data. It’s calculus, mostly.” Darcy shrugged and set her wineglass on the table. “I enjoy it.”
The word calculus gave Elle a violent flashback to undergrad. Math was not something that usually got her hot under the collar, even if she was decent at it. But if Darcy wanted to spend the evening discussing differentials and limits, Elle would happily listen to the smooth cadence of Darcy’s voice.
“That’s what’s important.” Elle crossed her legs beneath the table, her ankle brushing Darcy’s briefly. “Life’s too short to waste on something you don’t enjoy. It’s the best of both worlds when what you love also pays your bills.”
Darcy smiled and a teensy dimple formed beside her mouth like a parenthesis for that special freckle. “What do you do?”
“Oh, Brendon didn’t say?” For being the brains behind a dating app, Brendon was missing a few of the critical points of matchmaking. “I’m an astrologer. Margot—that’s my roommate—and I, we’re the voices behind Oh My Stars.”
Darcy cocked her head, copper curls spilling over her shoulder.
“You know, the horoscope Twitter and Instagram account? We have a book coming out in six months, too.”
Darcy shook her head. “I don’t really do Twitter. Or Instagram. Social media at all for that matter.”
Who didn’t do social media? It was one thing to steer clear of Facebook, which had been infiltrated by older relatives, sure, but Twitter? Instagram?
“Well, we tweet advice interspersed with the occasional meme and joke. OTP wants us to consult on adding a birth chart element to the match system. It would allow users
to evaluate compatibility, not only based on the fun elements OTP’s already known for like their BuzzFeed-style personality quizzes and favorite ships and whatnot, but also the most pertinent planetary positions at the time of your birth.” She pointed to Darcy’s cell. “If you let me borrow your phone, I can pull up your chart really quick. All I need is your date, time, and location of birth.”
Darcy’s lips twitched. “I’m good.”
“Do you not know your time of birth? Because most of the planets are slow moving enough that—well, I couldn’t tell you about your ascendant or your houses, and your Moon could potentially be tricky, but we could still look at a few factors.” Unless—oh crap, had she overstepped? Elle was so used to doing readings, not only for a living, but also analyzing the birth charts of friends and family, that asking was second nature. “If that’s too personal, I completely understand.”
Darcy plucked her glass by the stem and swirled her wine. “Sorry, I don’t really believe in that stuff.”
Elle frowned. “Stuff?”
Teeth sunk into her lower lip, Darcy looked like she was trying not to laugh. “The supposed link between astronomical phenomena and human behavior. Blaming your personality on the planets sounds a bit like a cop-out.”
She’d heard this argument before. “It’s not about blaming your personality on the planets; it’s about understanding yourself and becoming aware of why you might be prone to certain behaviors and patterns. What people choose to do with that knowledge is up to them.”
Darcy took a delicate swig of wine and set her glass aside. “Agree to disagree.”
Elle bit the inside of her cheek. That was fine. She believed in it, and her five hundred thousand Twitter followers believed in it, too.
It was a bit of a bummer that she and Darcy weren’t on the same page, but it was one topic. Granted, it was a topic near and dear to her heart, but it wasn’t as if they came down on opposite ends of the political spectrum. She wouldn’t press the issue . . . not on the first date. “At any rate, Margot and I are super excited to be a part of, hopefully, helping people find their soul mates.”
Darcy snorted and not in that I agree, or God, you’re so funny kind of way. It was a sardonic little puff, condescending when paired with the roll of her eyes. “You sound like my brother.”
Written in the Stars Page 1