Count Your Lucky Stars (Written in the Stars, #3)(14)

Cancer—Old Fashioned

Leo—Espresso Martini

Virgo—Gin and Tonic

Libra—Cosmopolitan

Scorpio—Manhattan

Sagittarius—Negroni

Capricorn—Vesper

Aquarius—White Russian

Pisces—Mojito





Bell and Blanchard Brewing Company, a small, locally owned and operated brewery, was the latest—and largest, save for OTP—partner Oh My Stars had teamed up with to date. In the past, Elle and Margot had diversified OMS’s revenue stream by accepting sponsorships and paid advertisements from zodiac-centric brands they themselves liked enough to rep—perfume, astro-themed activewear—but this was a step above. Oh My Stars would be collaborating with the brewery to launch a series of astrology-inspired beers, one for each sign, to be released during the corresponding season, beginning with Aries and ending with Pisces.

Margot was jazzed about the partnership. She was firmly in the beer good camp. What she was less jazzed about was spearheading the partnership sans Elle.

Not that Elle wasn’t involved—this was an Oh My Stars venture after all, and Oh My Stars was and would forever be run fifty-fifty by them both—but as their business had grown, boomed, so had the need to delegate. They’d done some variation of delegation since day one; Elle handled the majority of the chart readings they offered by phone or Zoom, in part because clients responded better to Elle’s outgoing, bubbly personality, and also because Elle genuinely enjoyed the one-on-one interaction more than Margot did. Margot preferred the behind-the-scenes work infinitely more—website maintenance, content creation for their social media channels, research, and now beer test tasting.

Margot was living the dream.

She just, you know, wished that she got to do it with Elle. These days, as busy as they both were, Margot was lucky if she got to see Elle outside of their weekly OMS planning chat . . . once? Twice? More often if the whole group was getting together at Elle and Darcy’s for game night, like they would be soon. So while Margot was meeting with brewers and discussing hops and yeast and IBU, sampling Bell and Blanchard’s current brews while distilling each zodiac sign into traits that could be represented in beer, Elle was handling back-to-back sessions with clients.

Things were changing, and it wasn’t bad, but it was taking some time for her to get used to it.

Margot juggled a complimentary six-pack of beer from the tasting she’d just attended—the first of many promised to her by the brewery—and flipped through the mail as she stepped inside her apartment. Credit card statement, phone bill, junk, junk, more junk, coupon to Sephora for her birthday next month. She tossed the stack on the entry table along with her keys, set the beer on the floor, then reached down to unlace her boots and—

“Jesus.” Margot jumped back and gasped. Cat sat in the middle of the foyer, head cocked to the side, staring up at her with those peridot-green eyes.

That was also going to take some getting used to.

She cleared her throat. “Hi, Cat.”

The cat blinked at her.

Wait. Shit. Eye contact was a no-no. Then again, this was Margot’s apartment. Did she really want to demonstrate deference inside her own domain?

Cat opened her mouth and yawned out a meow that showed off her many pointy teeth and—Margot quickly averted her eyes. That answered that question.

She shuffled past, boots still on, and booked it down the hall to her bedroom, shutting the door once she was inside. Everything she’d told Elle about maybe adopting a cat? Total bullshit. Cats had terrified Margot ever since her great-aunt Marlena’s fluffy white Persian had fallen through the canopy of Margot’s bed, waking Margot up from a dead sleep by landing on her . . . claws out and yowling. They’d both been fine, but the scars—mostly only emotional, thank God—had lingered.

Maybe living in close quarters with a cat could be good for her. A form of . . . exposure therapy, desensitizing her over time. Either that, or Cat would claw her to death in her sleep. She couldn’t help but see it as an analogy for her and Olivia. Living together would either benefit them both or explode in Margot’s face. One or the other. Margot had never been very good at operating on anything but a scale of either/or, all or nothing, particularly when it came to Olivia.

Margot grabbed her phone and fired off a quick text to her oldest brother, Cameron.

Margot (5:14 p.m.): Cats—what do I need to know about them?





As a veterinarian, Cameron had to possess some wisdom worth her while. Tips, tricks, warnings, anything.

Andrew (5:16 p.m.): why are you asking

Andrew (5:16 p.m.): you hate cats





She screwed up her face. Great. She’d clicked on the wrong message thread, texting the family group chat instead.

Margot (5:17 p.m.): Sorry, I meant to just text Cam.

Margot (5:17 p.m.): And I don’t HATE cats, I have a healthy respect for them.

Andrew (5:18 p.m.): “respect”

Margot (5:19 p.m.): ????

Cameron (5:20 p.m.): What kind of cat are we talking about?





Margot frowned.

Margot (5:21 p.m.): The kind with black fur, a smushy face, and squat little legs? You’re the expert.

Cameron (5:22 p.m.): ????

Cameron (5:22 p.m.): Sounds like a Scottish fold.