What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  He hangs onto my hand for the better part of the afternoon, our fingers laced together. The scrum around the bar has thickened as the day has gone on, the noise level rising. A tipsy blonde who looks like she’s still in college nearly clocks Justin in the head with a full pint. “Whoops,” I say, pulling him out of the way before he gets sixteen ounces of Hefeweizen poured right down his back.

  “Thanks,” Justin says, wincing as the girl lopes drunkenly back to her friends, and I laugh.

  “You regretting your trip to the rowdy streets of the outer boroughs yet?”

  Justin shakes his head. “Nah,” he says easily. “The opposite, actually. I’m really glad we came. I guess I didn’t totally realize how tight I’ve been wound recently, you know? With everything going on at the paper, I mean.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say. “I mean, not that I’m not super grateful for everything you’re doing to keep us afloat and all. But it’s nice to come blow off some steam.”

  “Oh yeah?” Justin asks, eyeing me wickedly over his pint glass. “According to a certain email I got last night, you’ve been too distracted to get any work done at all.”

  I freeze.

  WHAT?!

  “I—” I say, then break off, completely unable to come up with some kind of witty comeback over the roaring of shame and panic in my ears. “You read that email?”

  “Busted,” he admits—smiling, actually smiling, like this isn’t the most mortifying, humiliating moment of my entire life. “Somehow I didn’t totally buy the whole exploding computer thing.”

  “Right,” I manage—or at least, I think that’s what I say. It’s hard to hear myself over the buzzing in my brain.

  Holy crap, I cannot believe this is happening. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like? Am I actually about to go on record as the first person ever to literally die of embarrassment?

  “Um . . .” I set my half-empty glass down on the bar before I pass out and Justin winds up covered in someone else’s beer after all. Speak, I order myself. Say something funny that shows just how unphased you are by this whole ridiculous situation!

  But in the battle of fight or flight, flight wins.

  “Sorry. Would you excuse me for just a moment?” I sprint away before he can stop me, and go round up Poppy and April, where they’re deeply embroiled in a spirited debate over whether Timothée Chalamet is hot or not. “He looks like someone’s pervy little brother!” April is insisting, even as I grab her hand like she’s the last lifeboat leaving the Titanic.

  “We’ve got to go,” I tell them urgently. My whole body is clammy and sweating. “Like, right now.”

  “What?” April’s face is all alarm. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I’ll explain later,” I say before basically dragging them both out onto the sidewalk. “Justin read the email,” I announce, when we’re a safe distance away.

  Their eyes widen, twin pictures of disbelief. Then Poppy grins, wide and wicked. “Was he into it?” she asks.

  “No!” I exclaim, then stop to think about it. “Well, he didn’t seem not into it, exactly, but—I don’t know!” I shake my head. “I bailed out hard before we got that far.”

  “What? Why?” April frowns. “Well go back in there and find out, girlfriend! This could be your big moment.”

  “No,” I insist again, “you don’t understand.” Something that feels dangerously like tears rises at the back of my throat. “I like him. I like him so much, and we had this great afternoon—or at least, I thought it was a great afternoon, but it turns out the whole time he’s been thinking I’m some horny nympho who would send a late night, X-rated email to her boss.”

  “Oh, babe,” Poppy says, folding me into a hug. “I’m sure that’s not what he thinks.”

  “It’s not like it was off-putting to him, clearly,” April agrees. “Anybody could see how into you he was today. I caught all that hand-holding, PS.”

  “Just ignore the whole email thing,” Poppy advises. “It’ll blow over, and then both of you can act like it never happened. Or,” she adds thoughtfully, “you could always send him a follow-up.”

  “Saying what, exactly?” I all but wail. “That I’m only a slutty nympho over email for work?”

  Poppy laughs. “Come on,” she says, looping her arm through mine and tugging me on to the next bar. “Let’s go get you another drink.”

  12

  Justin

  Aries: Things are heating up for you this weekend, Aries! Trust your instincts, follow your heart, and watch the sparks fly.

  * * *

  Damn.

  Once Natalie and her friends take off—Natalie stammering some excuse about other plans that I don’t buy for a second—I stare out across the bustling patio, clutching my half-empty beer and wondering, not for the first time, why I insist on being such a chump all the time.

  Why did I do that?

  I knew I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that email. God knows she tied herself in knots trying to convince me not to open it. But the truth is, I haven’t been able to get it off my mind since last night. I figured out pretty quick that it was probably for her freelance gig, since she mentioned she did side work for her friend Poppy’s Cyrano business, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was hot as all hell. I was up half the night basically committing the damn thing to memory, wondering if she’d be interested in a live action performance.

  Wondering if she was imagining me, too.

  “Hello?” Charlie says from across the table, in a voice that makes it clear this isn’t the first time he’s tried to get my attention. I’ve barely heard anything he’s said since Natalie and her friends headed out.

  “Huh?” I say distractedly. “Sorry, say that again?”

  Charlie snorts. “Justin’s in love,” he announces.

  “What?” I almost upend my beer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Relax,” Luce says with a laugh, sitting back and reaching for her pint glass, eyeing me from behind a massive pair of sunglasses. How Charlie, the Khaki King of New York City, snagged himself such a glamorous girlfriend is beyond my powers of comprehension. “Natalie’s great.”

  “Any girl who can kick my ass at horseshoes without breaking a sweat is OK by me,” Charlie puts in.

  “You should see her play poker,” I say absently, then shake my head. “But she’s my employee, first of all—at least, she’s my employee for as long as I can keep the Gazette from going under without my dad forcing me to fire anybody.”

  Luce looks unconcerned. “And second of all?” she presses.

  Second of all, I just totally embarrassed her with her own X-rated email, but I’m not about to say that out loud. “Nothing’s going to happen,” I insist.

  “We’ll see,” Luce says, apparently unmoved.

  They’re planning to hit another bar, maybe find some dinner in Williamsburg, but I’m not in the mood. “I’ll meet you with you guys later,” I promise, digging some cash out of my wallet. “I think I’m going to head into work for a couple of hours first.”

  “Wild Saturday night,” Charlie teases, and it’s not like he’s wrong, exactly—even I can admit it sounds like something my dad would say. Still, I could probably stand to take advantage of the quiet to try and get my head back in the game where the paper is concerned. If I’m going to pull this off, I can’t afford any distractions.

  And Lord knows I’ve had more than my fair share of those.

  I grab a cab over the bridge and stop for an iced coffee at the shop around the corner from the office, picking up a copy of the Gazette while I’m waiting in line and flipping straight to my horoscope out of habit.

  I read it once, then twice more:

  Things heating up.

  Trust your instincts.

  Oh, what the hell.

  I abandon the paper, leave the iced coffee on the counter . . .

  . . . then double back and head for Brooklyn instead.

  Half an h
our later, I ring the bell outside Natalie’s apartment. She buzzes me right in without even asking who’s there, so I make my way up the narrow staircase to her apartment. I’m just lifting my hand to knock, when she swings the door open . . .

  . . . completely and totally drenched.

  “Oh thank God, I’m so glad you’re— Justin?” She blinks at me, surprised, water dripping from her hair and eyelashes. “I thought you were the plumber.”

  “I’m . . . not,” I manage, trying desperately to keep my eyes on her face. Her clothes are soaked and clinging, the dark outline of her nipples clearly visible through the thin, translucent fabric of her T-shirt. “What’s going on?”

  “The faucet busted!” she explains frantically, stepping back to let me in. I can see over her shoulder into the tiny kitchen, where water is spraying everywhere and the tile floor is one big, rapidly expanding puddle. “It’s been leaking for a while,” Natalie wails. “The super is supposed to come on Monday, but when I got back here this afternoon I turned it on and it just . . . burst!”

  I head for the kitchen to take a look, but I haven’t taken more than two steps when I slip on the tile. I pinwheel my arms to try and regain my balance—and nearly pull Natalie down with me as I land on my ass.

  Owww.

  Natalie grabs my hand to help me up, but with the faucet spraying everywhere, she slips herself—

  “Whoa there!” I catch her before she cracks her head on the edge of the counter. We both scramble on the wet floor, drenched by the spray.

  “You did that on purpose,” she teases, laughing.

  “You think I planned your burst pipes?” I skid around some more, trying to get my footing. “Under the sink,” I manage to tell her—both of us laughing by now, my clothes just as soaked as hers. “There’s got to be a—”

  “I tried!” she says, shrieking a bit as the spray intensifies. “It’s stuck!”

  “Let me try.”

  I brace myself and lunge for the pipe. It’s hard to even see with the cold water spraying in my face, but Natalie jostles in beside me. “Back there!” she says, water dripping down her face.

  “I see it!”

  We wrestle with the pipe, and between the two of us, we finally get the water shut off.

  I sit back, dripping wet. I can’t help but laugh. There’s water everywhere: the walls and the counters, trickling out toward the living room rug. Natalie looks like she just took a shower with her clothes on.

  Of course, as soon as I have that thought I wonder what she’d look like in the shower . . . without them.

  I clear my throat. “Crisis averted,” I manage to say.

  Or is it?

  Because Natalie is looking sexier than I’ve ever seen before: flushed, and laughing, and drenched from head to toe.

  Fuck it.

  I can’t stop myself from reaching out to peel a wet strand of hair off her cheek. But before I can touch her, she startles, like a thought is just occurring to her. “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!” she exclaims. “What did you need? Why are you even here? Is something going on at work?”

  I pause. “I wanted to talk to you,” I start, “about that email . . .”

  Natalie visibly cringes. “It was a mistake,” she says immediately. “It was for my freelance job, this thing for Poppy . . .” She trails off, looking redder than ever. “Can we just pretend it never happened?”

  I keep my gaze on hers, steady. “What if I don’t want to?” I ask quietly.

  Natalie inhales sharply. Her pupils get bigger, and I swear, her gaze drops to my lips.

  Damn.

  “Justin . . .”

  “Can I take you out?” I ask. “On a real date? Tomorrow?”

  That surprises her, I can tell by her expression. She pauses, the hint of a smile pulling at the edges of her full, kissable mouth. “What happened to keeping things professional?” she asks wryly.

  I let my gaze drop, finally, allowing my eyes rake over her body—the curve of her hips and her narrow waist, breasts I want to bite and suck right through the soaking fabric. “I mean,” I manage, managing somehow to ignore the rush of my blood to my lower regions, “it’s a little late for that now, isn’t it?”

  There’s a long beat, then Natalie sighs. “Screw it, why not?” she says, her mouth spreading in an irresistible smile. “Let’s do it.”

  Victory rushes through me. Then she frowns. “Oh, crap,” she says, scrambling to her feet. “I can’t tomorrow, though. My friend April is working on this project near here, turning this lot that’s all full of garbage into a community garden. We all said we’d help her out with it tomorrow.”

  Dammit.

  Still, I’m not about to let the moment slip away so easily. I get up. “Is there room for another pair of hands?” I ask. “I love gardening.”

  Natalie laughs out loud. “You do?”

  “I mean, no,” I admit with a smile, “but my grandma did. I actually do know my way around a vegetable patch, if you can believe it.”

  Natalie smiles back. “OK,” she says. “Why not?”

  “Count me in then,” I tell her, already picturing it—sunshine and fresh air, the two of us working side by side.

  Getting sweaty.

  Rolling around in the mud.

  “Well,” Natalie says, taking a step closer like possibly she’s reading my mind. “I guess it’s a date, then.”

  It would almost be rude not to kiss her right now, at least, that’s what I tell myself as my lips find hers. She melts against me, and for a moment I can see the rest of the night playing out: the feeling of her warm, wet body pressed against me, the soft rasp of her tongue along my bottom lip. I imagine walking her backwards into her bedroom, peeling off her damp clothes bit by bit, and—

  One step at a time.

  I reluctantly pull back. Do they give out medals for self-restraint? Because I deserve them all.

  “It’s a date,” I say, clearing my throat. “Tomorrow.”

  Then I leave, before I completely lose my mind and do something no HR professional can ever take back.

  13

  Natalie

  I never knew plumbing could be so sexy.

  I mean, sure, there’s the hilarious porno version, “laying pipe” quips and all, but growing up in my house, I saw more of the sweaty, smelly, gross side of the trade. But the sight of Justin, drenched, biceps bulging as he wrestled with that faucet?

  Well, now that’s an image that’s going to linger in my dreams.

  And my awake time, too.

  I jump out of bed early the next morning, full of excitement for the day ahead. And not just the feel-good volunteering, either. I pump myself full of iced coffee while I tear my closet apart trying to figure out what to wear to April’s community garden makeover. “You realize this project is basically a garbage pickup,” she points out via Facetime, effortlessly adorable in a pair of overalls and a baseball cap, her curly hair wrangled into a braid over one shoulder.

  “A garbage pickup that’s also technically my first date with the CEO of my freakin’ dreams,” I remind her, digging deeper in my closet. “I need, like, sexy work boots. Are sexy work boots a thing?”

  “Ask a Kardashian,” April grins. “See you there!”

  “Ugh!”

  Finally, I decide on a pair of ripped skinny jeans and an ancient pair of Converse—I know Justin’s into those, at least—along with a vintage I Love NY tee I found at a consignment shop. I scoop my hair into a ponytail and spend the better part of half an hour at the bathroom sink trying to make it look like I’m not wearing any makeup, then head out, ready for any trash-picking, flower-planting, and sultry flirting that might await.

  The project is happening in the empty lot beside an old church, on the other side of Brooklyn. Justin is already at the lot when I arrive, looking ridiculously good in jeans and a white tee—and, sure enough, his own pair of Converse. “Nice sneaks,” he says, smiling at me from behind a pair of Ray-Bans, and I smile at him in retur
n.

  “You weren’t kidding,” I say, noticing the gardening gloves tucked into his back pocket. “Brought your own supplies, huh?”

  “I’m a regular Boy Scout,” Justin says with a wink. “Always prepared.”

  I bite my tongue and refrain from making a dirty joke, because I’ve already fulfilled my quotient of embarrassing behavior for the month. Although, he seemed to like that email, if the scene at my apartment last night was any indication . . .

  “Welcome, everyone!”

  I drag my thoughts away from Justin’s tongue and back to the task at hand. April is greeting everyone and explaining about our job today.

  “Just a little elbow grease, and we can make this space somewhere really beautiful,” she’s saying, beaming happily. “So thank you for showing up and lending a hand!”

  There’s a good crowd here: some people April knows from the flower shop and a bunch more from a community group she’s a part of, a couple of high school students looking for service credit and a gaggle of little kids running around.

  “OK, you two are on clean-up duty,” April says, consulting her clipboard. “Then once we’ve got all the trash removed, how do you feel about hoeing?”

  Justin blinks. “As a career?” he asks, grinning.

  April’s lips twitch. “The ground,” she explains, smirking. “Hoes are over there.”

  She points over to where a couple of sweet-faced old ladies are organizing supplies.

  “I’m not even going to touch that one,” he laughs.

  Once she’s gone, Justin turns to me. “Just so you know, I’d pictured our first date having a little more romance, and a little less manure.”

  “You pictured it?” I repeat, getting that swoopy, fizzing feeling in my stomach.

  Justin grins. “It may have crossed my mind, once or twice.”

  “Well, luckily for you, I find manual labor very romantic,” I say, smiling wider. “Nothing makes me swoon like trash collection.”

  He laughs. “Then babe, do I have good news for you.”