Count Your Lucky Stars (Written in the Stars, #3)(48)

Margot’s heart skipped a beat before crashing hard against the wall of her chest. All the blood in her head seemed to drain south, leaving her dizzy. Where the hell had that come from? She didn’t love Olivia. No. If Margot loved anything, it was Olivia’s endless capacity to care about people, strangers and friends and family and stray cats alike.

She sucked in a lungful of air. It wasn’t anything worth freaking out over. Even if she did love Liv, Margot loved lots of things. Ice cream. Tequila. Her air fryer. Her friends. No big. Olivia cared, and so what if Margot loved that about her?

It wasn’t like she was in love with her.

“It just pisses me off,” Margot said, picking up as if she hadn’t stopped midsentence and gone silent for a beat too long, too telling. “I am—I am incensed on your behalf because . . . damn it, Liv. You deserve better than Brad trying to con you into talking to him for whatever bullshit he calls you about. He is a grown-up. He can find a garage door opener without having to resort to calling his ex-wife. The ex-wife he took for granted. I guarantee you he knows why you answer, and he’s counting on that. He’s counting on you being kind. Counting on you wondering and worrying, and if on the off chance he isn’t? If he’s just selfish and oblivious? That’s not any better. That’s not an excuse. Your boundaries and your feelings and what you want matter. You deserve better, Olivia.”

By the time she’d finished speaking—ranting—she was practically panting on the street corner, her face flushed so severely that she was surprised the misty rain falling around them didn’t turn to steam against her skin.

Olivia blinked, spun-gold lashes clumping together. Light from the streetlamp reflected off her eyes, bringing out the flecks of gold in her irises and turning the center ring of deep forest green that hugged her pupil into a brighter, brilliant shade of emerald.

The smooth column of Olivia’s throat jerked as she stepped forward, resting her hands on Margot’s waist. Margot held impossibly still as Olivia leaned in, pressing an achingly sweet kiss against Margot’s bottom lip. Olivia drew back but didn’t go far, staying close enough that Margot could make out the tiny drops of rain clinging to her lashes. “Thanks, Mar.”

It took a second to make her muscles move, to nod. “No need to thank me. I was just being honest.”

“What did you think I was thanking you for?” Olivia’s lips tipped up at the corners, and Margot’s heart stuttered. “What you said—all of it . . . that means a lot to me. That you feel that way.”

Swallowing took effort as did her shrug. “Just—think about what I said.”

“I will.”





Chapter Twelve




Olivia dropped the grocery bags on the kitchen floor and began unpacking them, setting the sugar and cocoa powder down on the counter.

Circling her feet, Cat mewled, ignoring the bowl of dry kibble beside the fridge, demanding wet food instead.

“I’ll get it.” Margot slid behind Olivia and swiped a can of Friskies off the counter. She cracked open the metal pull-top lid and dumped the paté on a plate. “Come on, you little monster. Time for food.”

Olivia laughed. “Little monster?”

“She is,” Margot said, snagging her Ben & Jerry’s and carrying it over to the freezer. “The cat screams like a banshee. I swear, half the time she doesn’t meow, she howls.”

Margot wasn’t wrong. Cat could reach a screeching pitch Olivia had never heard prior to adopting her. “She is a little bit of a hellion, isn’t she?”

Cat’s green eyes flicked up, ears twitching as if she knew she was being talked about. Her tail swished, and she lowered her gaze to the plate, focus returning to her food.

Margot laughed and shut the freezer. “Understatement.”

Cat sneezed in Margot’s direction. Olivia laughed before setting her hands on her hips, running through the recipe in her head.

Butter, sugar, eggs . . . shoot. Before leaving for the store, she’d grabbed the butter out to soften, but had forgotten about the eggs. “Could you grab two eggs for me?”

Margot nodded and ducked her head inside the fridge.

Vanilla extract, flour, cocoa powder, white chocolate chunks, salt, baking soda . . . Olivia gathered the ingredients one by one, placing them on the counter, separated into wet and dry. Margot set the eggs down on the counter, using the sticks as a barricade so the eggs wouldn’t roll.

All she needed now was a bowl, a rubber spatula, and—“Where do you keep your mixer?”

Margot stared. “My what?”

“You know?” Olivia spun her finger in a circle. “Your hand mixer.”

“Oh, right.” Margot scratched her jaw. “Um. Let’s see . . .” She crouched down and rifled through the cabinet beside the stove. Something fell, clattering loudly, metal on metal. Margot grunted and fell back on her butt against the kitchen floor, wearing a triumphant grin. Cradled against her stomach was a KitchenAid stand mixer, scuffed from age. Likely a hand-me-down, but still, absolutely a step up from a hand mixer. “Will this do?”

“Thanks. You want to cream the butter and sugar for me?”

Margot looked at Olivia like she’d lost her mind. “Me? You’re trusting me in the kitchen? Me, who almost burned down your kitchen boiling water?”