“You sound like Darcy.” Brendon’s smile went sly as he leaned in, dropping his voice. “Until she finally spilled and told me all about your off-the-charts chemistry.”
Not a misunderstanding, then. At least not one between Darcy and Brendon.
Torn between righteous indignation—because, ha, there were sparks, she knew it—and heavyhearted melancholy—because the confirmation of those sparks meant zilch—Elle chuckled nervously over the rim of her macchiato. “What can I say?”
Brendon, who continued to look a touch too smug, as if his matchmaking skills were out of this world, looked at her expectantly, clearly waiting for her to finish her statement, but . . . what could she say? Darcy had put her in a pickle, a no-win situation.
Fortunately, the waiter swooped in, saving the moment from becoming too awkward when he dropped off their food. Regardless of how rude it was with Brendon still standing there, Elle promptly stuffed a forkful of crepe into her mouth. The cinnamon sugar melted on her tongue, not like butter, but like ash.
Blue eyes bright and smile poorly restrained, Mom looked inordinately pleased by this turn of events. Elle swallowed, wincing as her bite of crepe made a slow, dry descent, sticking thickly in her esophagus.
Brendon ran a hand through his hair. “Well, I should leave you two to your breakfast, but be on the lookout for a text from Darcy, okay? She said she’ll be in touch.”
For a moment, Elle’s chest swelled with a strange surge of something that felt suspiciously like hope. Had she read the situation wrong? Maybe—
No.
There was no way. It just wasn’t possible.
That didn’t mean Elle didn’t have questions. Darcy had some explaining to do. She owed Elle that much.
Elle pasted on a smile. “Not if I text her first.”
Chapter Four
Steam wafted off the top of Darcy’s mug, tickling her nose as she brought the ceramic to her lips. Her eyes shut as she sipped then let out a contented sigh, her body sinking deeper into the couch cushion.
Bliss. Her apartment was silent, her coffee just this side of scalding, and she had nowhere she needed to be for the entire weekend. Two whole days where she could do what she wanted, when she wanted. No pointless dates or Brendon complaining she was behaving like a homebody.
Darcy cracked open an eye and glared at the coffee table. At her phone, which was dancing its way across the surface of her coffee table, vibrating noisily.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:24 A.M.): you have some explaining to do
Darcy wrinkled her nose and swiped at the screen, quickly tapping in her passcode with her thumb.
DARCY (11:26 A.M.): I think you have the wrong number.
After pressing send, Darcy spared a moment to consider what sort of explaining this person who was certainly not her had to do and to whom. Was it a lovers’ spat? Some kid about to get a stern talking-to from a parent? Darcy set her phone down beside her. Not her problem.
Against her hip, her phone buzzed, the screen lighting up.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:29 A.M.): do i darcy?
What the hell? Darcy sat up, swiping at the screen.
DARCY (11:31 A.M.): Who is this?
She stared, watching those three little dots dance. In the meantime, she performed a quick mental inventory of who it could possibly be.
Brendon was saved into her phone alongside a truly awful photo of his sixteen-year-old self, crashed out on the couch, drooling, pizza sauce smeared on his chin. Her parents were saved, filed under their respective first names. She had Annie’s number, and her boss never texted. Never. Then there was . . . well, that was it. Mostly. Aside from acquaintances who may or may not have had her number. Her texting sphere was small, selective. Curated. Darcy’s lips tightened at the edges. Of course, there was always the chance it was— No. She’d blocked Natasha’s number a long time ago.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:36 A.M.): your worst nightmare
Her grip tightened, fingers accidentally smashing the volume button on the side of her phone making the thing beep loudly in her fist. Darcy’s pulse mimicked the surge, leaping in her throat. What the actual fuck?
Thumb trembling as it hovered over the keyboard, Darcy spared an instinctive glance at the front door, double-checking that it was locked. The dead bolt was bolted, the chain was latched, and she was apparently testing the limits of her ability to overreact. Between last night’s door-pounding debacle with Brendon and this, she needed to get a grip, even if that text was creepy as hell.
Primed to block the number and move on with her life, another message appeared before she could pull the trigger.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:39 A.M.): ok that sounded kinda serial killer-ish
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:39 A.M.): which im not
Because that’s not exactly what some psycho with a butcher’s knife would say.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:40 A.M.): which is totally what a serial killer would say
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:40 A.M.): oops
At least they were a self-aware psycho.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:41 A.M.): it was supposed to be like im pissed at you and demand answers but not like im mouth breathing over your shoulder and wearing a hickey mask
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:41 A.M.): *hockey
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:42 A.M.): none of this is helping huh?
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:42 A.M.): nvm
Darcy lifted her hand, resting her fingers along the notch at the base of her throat. Never mind? No, not never mind. This stranger thought Darcy had some explaining to do?
Staring blankly at the absurd conversation, it took the preinstalled wind chime ringtone to snap her out of her daze. Unknown Number was calling. Darcy’s pulse sped. Should she answer or let it go to voice mail? She hated talking on the phone, even to Brendon. But could she really settle for a voice mail? What if they didn’t leave one? On the third ring, the burn of curiosity bested her nerves. “Hello?”
Silence.
“Hello?” A spike of irritation made Darcy sit up straighter, her spine steeling. “Who is this?”
Hopefully, the cut to the chase was implied.
“Right. Hi. It’s Elle. Jones. Elle Jones. We had drinks last night—”
“I know who you are.” Darcy shut her eyes, and an image of Elle’s pretty face appeared behind Darcy’s lids. She wasn’t easily forgotten.
Elle chuckled, but it lacked spirit, sounded stilted. “Right. I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m calling. Aside from, you know, wanting to make sure you didn’t think I was actually a serial killer.”
Worst nightmare wasn’t farfetched. Brendon truly knew how to pick them.
“Look, can you spare me the runaround and tell me what you want? I’m rather busy at the moment.”
Her coffee was getting cold and microwaving it would be a cardinal sin. The sooner they wrapped this up, the sooner Darcy’s life could return to business as usual.
A pause, followed by rustling loud enough for Darcy to yank the phone from her ear followed. “—because you’ll never guess who I ran into this morning.”
Darcy pinched the bridge of her nose. “Who?”
Elle chuckled dryly. “Your brother, and boy did he have some interesting things to say to me.”
Elle had run into Brendon, big deal. It wasn’t like—
The dots connected, the implication of this run-in clear. Disastrously clear.
“Fuck,” she muttered.
“And this”—Elle gave a dramatic pause—“is where you have some explaining to do.”
* * *
Darcy twisted the simple, platinum band around the middle finger of her right hand and stared at the front door.
What was supposed to be a peaceful, productive, bra-off morning was now inching its way into a stressful, inefficacious, bra-on afternoon. Any minute now, Elle would arrive, all because Brendon couldn’t keep his big mouth shut.
Granted, somewhere buried in there, Darcy owned a bit of culpability in this, but it was Brendon who’d messed wi
th her otherwise perfect plan for at least a month without meddling. She’d told him not to say anything to Elle, to not screw this up for her, but he’d outplayed her. Now, she’d have to explain this entire convoluted situation to Elle. Worst part was, she had no road map for this conversation, no game plan; what she’d say depended on what Brendon had said, how much Brendon had said, and how Elle had reacted.
All Darcy had going in her favor was that Brendon had yet to blow up her phone or come pounding down her door. Best-case scenario, this would be a brief, relatively painless conversation after which she and Elle could, once again, go their separate ways. With the caveat that Elle couldn’t say anything to Brendon. Not yet, anyway. Worst-case scenario . . .
Darcy cracked her knuckles. Painless might be easier said than done. Already a headache bloomed between her eyes.
A rhythmic, five-note knock sounded against the front door. Darcy’s heart tripped, stuttering out the couplet response. Game time. She stood, smoothing the wrinkles from her heather-blue lounge pants, and padded over to the door on bare feet. She took a deep breath and flipped the lock, yanking the door open like ripping off a Band-Aid.
Slouched against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, Elle glared up at Darcy with a withering stare. A stare made all the more disconcerting when Elle performed another one of those head-to-toe perusals of Darcy’s body. Darcy went dizzy with the ferocity and speed of blood rising to the surface of her skin, her blush a beacon that no amount of affectation could conceal.
Elle’s blue eyes swept back up Darcy’s body and lingered on her face, stare penetrating. “You’re shorter without your heels on.”
Darcy sniffed. “That is how it works, yes.”
Elle snorted and pressed off the door with her shoulder. Without waiting for an invitation, she slipped past Darcy through the doorway, their arms brushing.
Elle wore a soft, chunky blue cardigan that fell haphazardly from one shoulder, revealing a wide expanse of creamy skin and the jut of her collarbone. Darcy tore her eyes away and made herself focus on the imperfections, the way Elle’s jeans were frayed and rain-soaked at the bottom and her Converse were scuffed and sure to leave tracks on the carpet.
“Could you—” Darcy’s voice teetered on the verge of cracking. She cleared her throat and lifted her chin to stare down her nose. “Could you take your shoes off?”
Elle’s brows lurched upward before she shrugged. “Fine. Figured you’d want me in and out, but yeah, I can get comfy.”
Darcy rolled her eyes. Whether Elle was comfy wasn’t her concern. “I don’t want you making a mess of my carpet.”
Elle’s tongue poked against the inside of her cheek, her expression souring. Rather than argue, she bent at the waist and slipped her fingers behind the heel of one shoe, then the other, straightening to then step out of them. The move caused her sweater to slide farther down her arm, revealing more soft-looking skin and the subtle swell of her breasts. The chances of her wearing something under that sweater were looking slimmer by the second.
Leaving her shoes smack-dab in the center of the foyer, Elle traipsed farther into Darcy’s apartment, brazenly surveying her surroundings. She studied the art on the wall with a curious tilt of her chin before moving on to finger the spines of the books on Darcy’s shelf. Every so often, her whole face scrunched, occasionally accompanied by a stuck-out tongue that was not adorable.
Hanging back, Darcy swallowed down the lump of discomfort growing in her throat. Elle was a bright splash of color against the clean canvas of Darcy’s apartment. Cobalt sweater, bleach-splattered jeans, and mismatched socks, one neon green and the other a soft periwinkle, with a pink chevron at her toes and a hole near the ankle.
Darcy tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “By all means, make yourself at home.”
Elle spun on her holey-sock-covered heel and narrowed her eyes. “Don’t mind if I do,” she said, before taking a seat and drawing both knees up to her chest, feet on Darcy’s pristine sofa.
Darcy stayed standing, arms crossed, and chin raised.
“Nice place.” Elle’s eyes roved around the room, lingering on the neat stack of Darcy’s FSA study guides before darting over to the fern—Darcy’s singular pop of color—in the corner. Her brows furrowed. “Did you just move in?”
Darcy curled her tongue behind her teeth. “No.”
“Huh.” The fact that she was able to pack so much judgment into such a tiny word would’ve been impressive had Darcy not been one, slightly offended, and two, ready to get this conversation over with.
“You have questions.” Darcy didn’t bother asking. For all that Elle had sprawled herself lazily across Darcy’s sectional in an illusion of relaxation, her fingers twitched against her thighs, her feet shifting, toes curling and uncurling as her gaze bounced from one surface to another.
Elle wrapped her arms around her shins. “We’re through with the small talk?”
“In the interest of time.” Darcy dipped her chin. “Like I said, I’m busy.”
Elle’s too perceptive gaze darted from the lone, now-cold cup of coffee to Darcy, her eyes lingering on Darcy’s lounge pants, then her hastily braided hair. “Right. Then in the interest of time, I’ll get straight to it.” Elle lifted her hips, wiggling her phone free from her back pocket. She made several swipes against the screen before clearing her throat. “Question one, what the fuck?”
Darcy shut her eyes and breathed deep for a count of four, held it for a count of seven, and exhaled for a count of eight. She’d have repeated the process had Elle’s stare not been palpable, making the skin between Darcy’s shoulder blades itch. “Can I expect question two to be more specific?”
Elle harrumphed and glanced down at the phone in her hand. “I don’t know, let’s see. Question two, how dare you?”
Darcy abandoned her yoga breathing and cut to the chase. “I’m sorry. Okay?”
Best to issue a broad-stroke apology because Darcy wasn’t entirely sure what Brendon had said, only that Elle’s reaction wasn’t positive.
Elle’s hand flopped down against the couch, her phone bouncing gently. “You’re sorry. Sorry for what exactly?”
“For whatever has you all”—she waved her hand in Elle’s general direction—“vexed.”
Elle’s shoulders shook with slow-building laughter. She leaned forward and dropped her head into her hands before letting out an aggrieved, muffled shriek. “Vexed.” She lifted her head, face flushed pink. “God. Do you insert that stick up your ass every morning, or is it more like an IUD that lasts you five years?”
Her jaw dropped. “You know what—”
“No.” Elle stood and sidestepped the coffee table, stalking toward Darcy. “I’m not finished. You want to know what has me all vexed? Let’s see, maybe you’re sorry for being rude last night? Poo-pooing what matters to me like my job? Ordering a fifty-six-dollar glass of wine? Talking smack about me to whoever the hell it was on the phone when you don’t know me?” Elle took another step forward, fingers lifted as she aired her grievances. “Or maybe lying to your brother, huh? Telling him we hit it off when we obviously didn’t? You put me in the position of having to choose between going along with your lie, a lie I can’t for the life of me understand, or owning up to last night’s disaster all on my own. So I don’t know. Take your pick, Darcy.”
Heat flooded Darcy’s veins, creeping up her chest and neck, shame making her dizzy. Contradictory and ill-timed, a tendril of heat spread lower, settling beneath Darcy’s belly button because anger turned the blue of Elle’s irises into something fierce like a sea during a storm. Color settled high on her cheeks and her messy bun had come undone, strands of hair framing her heart-shaped face. For a moment, Darcy wondered what Elle would look like, sweat dripping down that bare expanse of neck, her back bowing against Darcy’s sheets. The temperature in Darcy’s apartment climbed, her shirt sticking to sweat dotting the small of her back.
“I’m sorry.” Darcy met Elle’s glare, the
ferocity of which was softened by a glossy dampness that replaced her urge to see Elle tangled up in sheets with the desire to wrap her up in something soft, a blanket, or Darcy’s favorite duvet. How . . . utterly bizarre. Darcy cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean— It wasn’t my intention to be rude.” Or upset her.
Elle sniffed loudly and crossed her arms, gaze sharpening once more. “Yeah. Well, you were, so . . .”
Her voice trailed off. An unspoken question. Why?
This was the part Darcy had been dreading down to her bones: explaining herself. Her behavior on the date. Why she’d led Brendon to believe she had any intention of seeing Elle again.
Part of Darcy was tempted not to bother. Wasn’t an apology, a sincere one, enough?
Except if Darcy had any hope of salvaging her plan to get Brendon off her back, she’d have to share with Elle. Without an explanation, Elle had no reason not to go directly to Brendon and blab. Or at the very least, inadvertently contradict the carefully crafted picture Darcy had painted.
“Look.” Darcy took a step closer and uncrossed her arms, posture relaxing from the defensive stance she’d adopted during Elle’s outburst. “My brother is— I love him. But when he gets an idea in his head, he’s like a dog with a bone. And he has this idea, misconstrued as it is, that I should be looking for love. That”—Darcy puffed out her cheeks, weighing the best words, the one’s with the lowest probability of raising Elle’s hackles—“I need to find my special someone. When a serious relationship is not on my radar. At the moment.”
When it would be on her radar, if, Darcy wasn’t sure.
Elle cocked her head, brow furrowing. “Why not?”
Something in her gut said Elle wouldn’t be appeased with a simple because. Darcy sighed. “I’m busy? I’m studying for my final FSA exam. Once I pass, I’ll have reached the highest designation awarded to actuaries by the governing body. The exams are rigorous and the pass rate is only forty percent. Studying takes up my scant amount of free time.”
“So you’re too busy right now? Tell him that.”
As if she hadn’t? “Brendon believes I should have a better work-life balance and he acts like it’s his calling in life to make sure I do.”
Written in the Stars Page 5