Written in the Stars

by Alexandria Bellefleur

  Elle sucked the dregs of her cocktail through the straw as Darcy gripped the pencil in her hand, teeth sunk into her bottom lip.

  “The 1999 Emmy for Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series went to Susan Lucci for playing what character on the ABC daytime drama All My Children?”

  Several things happened in quick succession.

  The bar fell silent, save for several exasperated groans filtering through the crowd.

  Standing so fast he knocked his chair over, Brendon dropped to one knee and pointed at Darcy.

  All eyes in the bar on her, Darcy froze. “Get up,” she hissed. A pink, mottled flush crept up her neck.

  Brendon tilted his head, gaze narrowing. “Darcy.”

  She shut her eyes, mumbled something beneath her breath, then scribbled something on the paper before flinging it at Brendon, their designated runner who flailed his way to the front of the bar, panting as he reached the bewildered emcee.

  They were the only team to submit an answer, the question stumping everyone.

  Everyone except Darcy, who stared down at the table, lips pinched and face red, wringing her hands together anxiously atop the table.

  The emcee shook his head and brought the microphone to his mouth. “Erica Kane was correct. Table three for the win!”

  It took a split second for Elle to realize the exultant scream was coming from her own mouth. Darcy Lowell, gorgeous tight-ass with a head for numbers and no room for Elle’s frivolity, watched soap operas?

  Elle’s feet moved disconnected from her brain. Before she knew it, she had rounded the table and was throwing her arms around Darcy’s neck, wrapping her up in an eager hug that pressed their bodies together.

  Darcy tensed in Elle’s arms, body rigid as a board. Elle held her breath and was primed to let go, when Darcy finally returned Elle’s embrace. For all that her wit was cutting, her tongue barbed, and her jaw a pretty knife’s-edge cliff, hugging Darcy was anything but sharp. From the lavender-scented silk of her hair against Elle’s cheek to the swell of her breasts pressed against Elle, Darcy’s hug was all softness and the last thing Elle wanted was to let go.

  Houston, she had a problem.

  Chapter Eight

  Don’t think about it became Darcy’s mantra as she followed her brother out of the pub and onto the sidewalk, Elle floating along at her side. Every other step, Elle would sway into Darcy, arms bumping, the backs of their hands, their fingers, brushing.

  Don’t think about it.

  It could’ve gone worse, this double date. Sure, Elle had delighted in watching Darcy squirm with each pet name uttered, but there’d been no giant blowup. No fights or spilled wine or ruined silk dresses or sudden disappearances that made Darcy’s chest ache. They’d managed to set aside their differences, their distinctly different ways of looking at the world, in order to come together and solve the puzzle, winning the escape room. Brendon was right. Teamwork really had made the dream work even if she had, at first, been reluctant to trust something as imprecise as Elle’s gut.

  They’d escaped the room, won trivia, and as far as Darcy could tell, Brendon was none the wiser that this thing with Elle was all an act. All in all, the night had been a success.

  Save for the part where Elle’s bright, twinkling laughter made Darcy dizzy. Or how the look of unadulterated joy on Elle’s face when those balloons and that annoying confetti had rained down on them made Darcy feel like someone had punched her in the gut, then chopped her off at the knees.

  But she wasn’t thinking about that. No. She wasn’t going to think about how smooth Elle’s skin, her thigh, had felt beneath that table, how she’d wanted to stay hidden by the tablecloth. She wasn’t going to think about how Elle’s breath had tickled her neck during that hug or how Elle’s lip had brushed her jaw as she lowered back down from where she’d risen up on her tippy-toes and flung her arms around Darcy’s neck.

  No, Darcy wasn’t going to give oxygen to that . . . that spark. If she breathed life into it, it would grow and that—

  Darcy curled her toes inside her boots, nails biting into the palms of her hands. She definitely wasn’t going to think about what might transpire if she let that happen because it was pointless. Elle was technicolor chaos and the feelings she inspired in Darcy were a hazard straight out of Pandora’s box. Treacherous and confusing and better kept under lock and key. Darcy didn’t need disorder in her life.

  Elle stopped walking and jerked her chin to the right. “Hey, so, I’m this way.”

  She opened her mouth to say good night, when Brendon frowned and shook his head. “Where’s your place?”

  Elle shoved her hands in the pockets of her crazy dress, the navy color complementing her skin—the rest of her, too—perfectly. She practically glowed. “It’s just up Second to Union till it turns to Pike and then up to Belmont.” A breeze blew past, ruffling Elle’s bangs and making her shiver. “Not far.”

  Darcy hadn’t lived in the city for long, but she knew it was a trek to Capitol Hill, over a mile. It was after eleven, dark, and the temperatures were dropping, not quite below freezing but enough to make her breath fog. Elle wasn’t even wearing a jacket. Walking—and by herself no less—wasn’t smart.

  “We’ll split an Uber,” she suggested, thankful when Brendon nodded.

  Elle didn’t look sold. “Isn’t that out of the way? You’re in Queen Anne and Brendon’s over on the Eastside so—”

  “I drove.” Brendon tucked his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I left my car in Darcy’s parking garage and took advantage of the guest space. Free parking.”

  Elle appeared a bit more convinced, the frown between her brows softening. “Okay. Thanks.”

  Within five minutes, their Uber arrived, a blue Prius with a back seat nowhere near big enough for the three of them, so Brendon called shotgun, as if they’d have chosen any other configuration.

  Wrinkling her nose at the smell of old takeout and musty gym clothes, Darcy slipped inside the back seat, shuffling over to make room. Elle sat, hands tucking around the back of her skirt as she swung her legs inside the vehicle, those strange, sparkling combat boots catching the streetlight and turning the black patent leather into an oil slick against Elle’s pale skin. Skin bare all the way to where the hem of Elle’s dress brushed against her thighs.

  Don’t think about it.

  Face prickling with heat, Darcy tore her eyes away and stared resolutely out the window. The lights from bars and late-night eateries blurred past, stoplights reflecting off puddles on the ground and turning the city into a neon nightscape, still nowhere near as colorful as the girl sitting beside her.

  Techno-pop blasted through the speakers and beneath her, the electric engine purred, the combined beat rumbling through her body and sinking into her bones, making her aware of her heartbeat. It was beating too fast, faster even when the driver made a right at the light and the tire rolled over the curb, jostling them until Darcy, once again, nearly had a lapful of Elle.

  Elle steadied herself with a hand on Darcy’s thigh. Don’t think about it didn’t do shit when those fingers with their chipped blue polish relaxed enough to slide down to where Darcy’s hand was gripping her own knee, knuckles white.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

  All Darcy could do was think about it. About how Elle’s hand was soft, the spaces between her fingers warm as she wiggled them between Darcy’s until they were holding hands in the back of the dark car while Brendon sat in the front, unable to even see them.

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.

  Darcy stared at their hands, her fingers longer, making Elle’s hand look tiny. Elle was a force, a larger-than-life hurricane of a human; her hands were too small, too delicate for someone who’d come crashing her way into Darcy’s life with all the finesse of a wrecking ball.

  The car braked a touch too fast and Darcy’s stomach swooped as if she’d rocketed down Space Mountain.


  Darcy wasn’t a thrill seeker and she didn’t like roller coasters. The probability of being injured on one had been estimated at one in twenty-four million. Slim, but certainly higher than sitting home and reading a book. Growing up, she’d tolerated them, mostly for Brendon’s sake.

  Surprisingly, what she disliked wasn’t the drop, but the moments before, when the rickety boxcar would creep up the metal track, higher and higher, her heart crawling into her throat as she gripped the bar in front of her for dear life. As if clutching a silly metal rod would spare her in the event of an emergency, total disaster. Those anxious moments right before the plunge, when all those worst-case scenarios would flit through her head, but getting off the ride wasn’t an option. Stuck, knowing what would come next, dreading it and being able to do nothing, Darcy hated being out of control, at the mercy of chance.

  That’s what this moment, blazing through yellow lights past a blur of people stumbling from bars, and holding on to Elle’s hand felt like. Darcy had gotten on this ride and now she couldn’t climb off. Not yet.

  The car stopped at the curb of a dingy, but not-unsafe-looking building, and Darcy’s anxiety continued to mount, her palms starting to sweat. Elle squeezed Darcy’s fingers and it felt like she had a stranglehold on Darcy’s pounding heart. “This is me.”

  “Right.” Darcy tried to smile in case Brendon was watching. “Good night.”

  A cough came from the front seat. Brendon was watching, one brow quirked.

  Darcy rolled her eyes. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  The car idled at the curb as Elle finally let go of Darcy’s hand so they could climb out of the back seat. Without Elle’s fingers twined with hers, Darcy didn’t know what to do with her hands and she was suddenly absurdly aware of them, of all her limbs and where they existed in space. Tuck them in her pockets? No, her jeans were too tight, her pockets tiny. She settled on crossing her arms, fingers gripping her biceps as she followed Elle up the steps to the entrance of her building.

  Elle reached behind her neck, freeing the clasp of her necklace. From inside the neckline of her dress she withdrew two keys, both hanging from a simple silver chain.

  Don’t think about it.

  “I was thinking.” Elle tapped the spiky silver teeth of one of those keys against her bottom lip. The metal had to be warm from resting against her skin all night.

  “Oh, no,” Darcy joked, trying to regain her footing.

  Elle kicked Darcy’s shin lightly, and the corners of her eyes crinkled. “I had fun tonight.”

  So had Darcy, only the words, a simple so did I stuck in her throat when the light from the streetlamp hit Elle’s eyes. Her eyes weren’t just blue, but gray, too, silvery striations winding out from a storm cloud center that hugged her pupils.

  “We should kiss,” Darcy blurted.

  Elle’s eyes doubled in size.

  Darcy knew better, knew that kissing Elle was a terrible idea. It couldn’t lead to anything, Darcy wouldn’t let it lead to anything. And yet something inside her, some tiny, illogical part of her rebelled at the idea of never getting a taste of Elle. Even though that’s all it would be. One taste.

  The overwhelmingly rational part of her needed to explain, to justify this, apply logic to an altogether illogical desire. “My brother’s probably watching.”

  Elle wrinkled her nose. “Is that supposed to make me want to kiss you?”

  No, but that made this less dangerous. The odds of getting injured on a roller coaster were slim. They were well-designed, tested. There were seat belts and safety precautions in place. As far as risks went, it was safe. This was a safe risk because if this was all fake, there was no chance of Darcy falling.

  She laughed, the sound warbling in her throat. “I mean, he’s probably expecting it.”

  Elle dropped her eyes to the ground, to the small bit of space between them. Her tongue darted out, wetting her already shiny bottom lip, licking off some of her gloss. Darcy was dying to taste her. “Right. Sure. You should—” Elle cleared her throat and lifted her head, eyes sparkling under the amber glow of the streetlight. “You should really sell it then.”

  Darcy stopped thinking about Brendon and stepped closer to Elle, erasing the distance between them. She lifted a hand, commanding it not to shake as she set it on the dip of Elle’s waist, drawing her in until their knees knocked gently.

  Don’t think.

  If she were lucky, the kiss would be terrible and she’d never want to do it again. The unsettling burning in her chest would fizzle out and all would be restored to normal, the world righted, back on its axis.

  Leaning in, she brushed her lips against Elle’s and it was like striking a match, that spark she’d refused to acknowledge catching flame with the slightest friction of lips on lips.

  It was mutual, it had to be, because Elle gasped, lips parting and turning what was supposed to be a fucking stage kiss into a frenetic exploration, wild and charged. Suddenly Elle’s fingers, those fingers that had touched the spines of all of Darcy’s books and left smudge marks on her coffee table, were buried in Darcy’s hair, pulling her closer and keeping her there.

  Darcy stumbled, vertigo making her head spin, and backed Elle into the wall beside the building’s door. Had it not been for Elle’s hands in her hair and the snug press of their bodies, Darcy might’ve crumbled at the hot, wet drag of Elle’s tongue against the edge of her bottom lip. Still, a shiver skittered down Darcy’s spine, her knees weakening.

  Darcy tilted her hips into Elle, triggering an intense pulse inside her. Something snapped, want overriding everything else. She pressed Elle firmly against the wall and tasted the blunt edges of Elle’s teeth, dipped her tongue deeper, traced the roof of Elle’s mouth and dropped her hands, palming Elle’s hips when Elle shivered and melted. Sweet, Elle’s lips tasted like strawberries and her tongue like peppermint. Darcy wanted more, was suddenly greedy for a taste of—

  Reality crashed down on her in the form of someone laying on a car horn. Elle rolled her lips together, eyes flitting away. Darcy turned, glaring at the car where her brother was hanging out the window, grinning stupidly.

  “Get a room.” He winked. Tried to wink.

  Brendon was getting fucking socks for Christmas. Boring, black, argyle ones.

  Darcy turned back to Elle who was chewing on the corner of her lip. Darcy’s stomach flipped, not because the world had righted itself and the sudden adjustment was jarring. No, everything had gone pear-shaped, worse than before because now that she’d had a taste of Elle, she wanted another.

  Chapter Nine

  Darcy wasn’t good at this, gift-giving. Not under normal circumstances and this was anything but normal.

  What were you supposed to give someone you were fake dating, someone you weren’t supposed to like, but were finding yourself increasingly—and worryingly—fond of? Someone you couldn’t get out of your head no matter how hard you threw yourself into work, someone whose laugh you couldn’t quit hearing inside your head, whose lips you could swear you could still taste, even days later? Darcy was pretty sure Cosmo didn’t offer a gift guide for the niche category of fake girlfriends. Go figure.

  Whatever it was, the gift needed to say congratulations without being over the top, and it needed to be something Elle would actually appreciate. An interesting challenge because as a general rule, Darcy usually refused to gift anything that she, herself, didn’t like. But Elle’s taste was so . . . distinct that Darcy needed to think outside the box.

  Which was why she was standing in the middle of Northwest Beer and Spirits staring not at the prized Napa cabernets, but at the—she repressed a shiver—boxed wines.

  A five-liter box of Franzia sunset blush cost eighteen dollars and twenty-eight cents. The box proclaimed there were thirty-four glasses inside, making each five-ounce glass approximately fifty-four cents. Fifty-four cents. Less than a dollar for a glass of wine.

  Darcy frowned at the box. Her wallet liked those numbers, bu
t something about paying that little for wine felt . . . unreal. Like someone was going to pop out from the other side of the shelf and shove a camera in her face and tell her she’d been punked before slapping her with a fifty-dollar bill.

  Darcy depressed the handle and lifted, cardboard cutting into her fingers. Maybe it was cheaper than dirt, but it was heavy as lead. Couldn’t they at least try to make the design a bit more ergonomic? She’d have paid five more dollars for better packaging alone.

  Inside her coat, her phone buzzed. If that wasn’t an excuse to set the box down, she didn’t know what was.

  Annie.

  Darcy swiped and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hey, Annie.”

  A horn honked in the background, followed by muffled cursing. “Darce! How are things?”

  She nudged the box of wine with her toe. Where to start? She hadn’t spoken to Annie since talking her ear off about the mess she’d gotten herself into, lying to Brendon. “Things are . . . complicated.”

  “Complicated. Hmm,” Annie said. “That wouldn’t have something to do with a certain cute blonde? Tiny thing with huge eyes that she has just for you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Another horn honked, meshing with the sound of Annie’s laughter. “Brendon posted pics from your date the other night. Elle is all googly-eyed over you in them and you’re just as bad. When you’re looking at her, she’s looking away. And vice versa. It’s cute.”

  Darcy’s stomach lurched, pulse pirouetting. “It’s fake.”

  “Sure.” Annie was probably rolling her eyes. “When’s the next time you’re going to see her?”

  Darcy glanced at the box by her feet. “Seeing as I’m currently buying her a box of wine, I’d say soon.”

  “Wait. Slow down. Back the fuck up.” Annie sighed. “Ich spreche mit meinem freund.”

  “Are you speaking German?”

  “I’m in Berlin. Business trip. Did I forget to mention that?” The better question was since when did Annie speak German. “Sorry. My cabdriver thought I was talking to him. You were saying?”