Page 87 of Pucking Around

He glances down, those dark eyes black in this light. His hair is tousled, and his tanned cheeks have a soft flush. He really does have beautiful bone structure. I can’t help but think of a fae from a fantasy book. The dark stubble gives him an edge and ages him up a bit.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” he replies. “You?”

“Twenty-seven. How old is Jake?”

“Same as you. His birthday is the end of April.”

We keep walking towards the door.

“Yeah, our bull-headed diva,” I say with a laugh.

“God, he’s such a Taurus,” Caleb replies, his arm slung casually around my waist.

“Wait—when’syourbirthday? What’s your sign?”

He purses those pouty lips, eyes narrowing. “I don’t wanna say.”

I sigh. “I swear to god, if you’re a Virgo, I may have to walk away. I can’t pinball between a Taurus and a Virgo.”

“I’m not a Virgo,” he replies.

I gasp, pulling him to a stop. My eyes go wide as I smile like a loon. I slip his arm off from around me, holding it by the wrist as I turn it over.

“What are you—”

“Aha!” I cry in triumph. I trace my thumb over the tattoo on the inside of his forearm. It’s a bow and arrow. “You’re a Sagittarius, aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, tugging his arm away.

“Yes, you are,” I croon. “You’re a moody, temperamental, emotional mess of a Sagittarius. Ohmygod, this explains everything. You aresucha Sagittarius.”

“Stop,” he grunts.

“I bet you’re artistic too, aren’t you?” I tease. “So, what’s your pleasure, daddy? Watercolors? Music? Oh,pleasetell me it’s poetry—”

“I will pay you to stop,” he growls.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what my sign is?”

“Nope,” he replies, walking off towards the front door.

“Oh, come on! Ask me!”

“I already know,” he calls over his shoulder.

I follow him. “How?”

He stops at the front door, glancing back at me. “You’ve got the Cancer constellation tattooed on the back of your arm, just above your elbow.”

“What—” I snatch at my own arm, trying to twist it to see. “Oh, shit—Itotallyforgot about that one! God, that was done when I was like fifteen. Harrison and I got them to match.”

He steps up to the front door, which has a fancy keypad lock. He taps in the digits to unlock the door and swings it open, letting Poseidon bolt inside with an excited yip. “After you,” he mutters. “Home sweet home.”

I step past him into the house, and I’m instantly greeted by an industrial layout of warm wood, dark metal, and glass. The entryway has a set of open stairs that zigzag up to all three levels.

Caleb shuts the door behind us, taking my bag off my shoulder.

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