Page 4 of Written in the Stars
Darcy’s tongue poked against the inside of her cheek. “Sweet in theory, but a bit starry-eyed, don’t you think?”
Was that a diganda quip about her profession? “I’d rather be starry-eyed than jaded.”
Reaching for her wine, Elle’s fingers skimmed the stem, her grip slipping. The glass teetered, tottered, swaying back and tipping forward. Her stomach rioted, mimicking the motion. In slo-mo, the red wine sloshed over the rim of the glass as thewhole thing tumbled, merlot soaking into the linen tablecloth and splashing across the table, splattering Darcy’s dress.
“Oh fuck.” Elle scrambled for a napkin and stood, knees knocking into the table and—
Fifty-six dollars of wine toppled right over into Darcy’s lap.
Elle froze, white cloth napkin poised to—what? Blot? Fuck, she’d better start waving it in surrender.
“I amsosorry.” Heat crept up her throat, making her uncomfortably warm.
“It’s—it’s fine.” Darcy shoved her chair back, legs squealing against the wood. The wine not soaked into her dress dribbled down her legs when she stood. “Excuse me.”
Darcy shuffled off toward the back of the restaurant, where there was a sign pointing to the restroom.
Elle’s pulse lurched in her throat and her eyes went damp as she set the now-empty glasses to rights. Fuck her life. She hadnotmeant for that to happen. She wasn’t usually clumsy, nowhere close, but Darcy had put her on the defensive.
Astrology was one thing—granted, an important thing—but not believing inlove? How in the hell was she related to adorkable Brendon,creatorof OTP? Brendon who rambled about Harry Potter and spoke with his hands and made “May the 4th Be With You” an official companywide holiday. Brendon who, in her two in-person meetings with OTP Inc., several lunches, and countless DMs, had displayed more verve for life in his pinkie than Darcy possessed in her whole, admittedly gorgeous, body. Elle had felt sparks, she absolutely had, but had Darcy? Apparently not if she could so easily scoff at the idea of true love.
Elle stuck her hand in the air and flagged down the waiter.
He frowned at the table. “Let me grab something to clean this up.”
“Just... could you... I’m ready to leave.” She handed him her card, forcing her fingers to release the plastic when he tugged.
One swipe of her Visa later, he returned, handing her the receipt folded around her card. Good. She didn’t want to look at the bill right now, anyway. “Have a nice night.”
Nice night, her butt. That ship had sailed and sunk and was now nothing but wreckage on the bottom of the ocean.
Time to cut her losses. As soon as Darcy came back, Elle would make her exit.
She crossed her legs and tried to ignore the twinge in her bladder. What was taking Darcy so long? Maybe she would hit the restroom first. If she ran into Darcy, she could kill two birds with one stone, making her good-bye brief before more damage could be done. Literally.
Decided, Elle stood and tossed her napkin on the table before heading to the restroom.
“—didn’t even want to go on this date in the first place and now my dress is ruined, Annie.”
Darcy faced the end of the hall, her back to Elle. Phone pressed to her ear, she paced slowly in front of the door to the ladies’, one spindly stiletto placed perfectly in front of the toe of her other foot as if she were walking on a balance beam as she held her phone to her ear.
Elle’s legs locked, trapped in the evolutionarily stupid choice between fight and flight.Freeze.
Darcy gave a dry laugh. “I don’t see how that’s relevant but,yes, she’s pretty. I’m sure she’sloadsof fun, too. She’s also a mess.”
All she wanted to do was pee, but Darcy wasright there, right in front of the restroom, blocking the hall,roastingher to this Annie person.
“What am I going to tell Brendon?” Darcy asked. “The truth, that we’re total opposites. And I’m putting my foot down. This was the last date he’seversetting me up on.”
Elle pressed her lips together and swallowed past the lump in her throat.
On second thought, she could hold it.
***
The air in the apartment was sticky with humidity and honeysuckle sweet. Thin wisps of steam floated out from beneath the bathroom door, filling the hall as Stevie Nicks’s rasping voice flooded into the living room.
Elle flipped the lock and fell to her knees beside where Jon Bone Jovi hung from a double-knotted strand of monofilament tacked into the drywall. She crawled across the room, face-planting into the sofa with a groan. The blue afghan draped against the cushions smelled faintly like patchouli, and the little gold coins affixed to the fringes were cool against her cheek as she burrowed deeper, rubbing her nose into the well-loved fabric. Home sweet home.
