Written in the Stars(2)

God, pretty people made her stupid.

The hostess cleared her throat. “Are you meeting someone?”

At least now she wouldn’t have to do the awkward thing and approach every lone woman in the joint. “Yeah, I am. Last name on the reservation should be Lowell.”

Enviably full lips pursed as the woman’s eyes narrowed minutely. “Elle?”

Hold on. “No, Darcy. Unless Brendon put my name on the reservation? With her last name? That’s a little presumptuous, but okay.” She snorted. “I’ve been on plenty of first dates and I’ve never had one go that well if you catch my drift.”

“No, I mean you are Elle,” the hostess spoke slowly. “I am Darcy.”

Elle’s heart thudded, skipping over one beat and quickening on the next. “Darcy . . . is you? You are Darcy?” So . . . not the hostess.

She nodded.

Of course this was Brendon’s sister. This was just Elle’s luck, and now that she knew, the resemblance was quite obvious. They were both tall and slender and unfairly attractive. Granted, Brendon’s hair was darker, but it was definitely red, and they both had freckles. So many freckles it was like Darcy’s skin was a peachy-cream sky covered in pale brown stars begging to be mapped out, connected into constellations. They spilled over her jaw and dotted her throat, disappearing under the collar of her green swing dress, leaving their path to Elle’s vivid imagination.

Her toes curled, face flushing when Darcy’s eyes dipped, mirroring her own unapologetic perusal. She bit back a grin. Maybe it was a good thing she’d worn this underwear after all.

“You’re late.”

Oof. Or not. “I am, and I’m really sorry about that. But there was—”

Darcy held up a hand, forcing Elle to swallow her excuse. “It’s fine. I’ve had a long day and I already settled my tab at the bar.” She pointed over Elle’s shoulder toward the door. “I was calling a Lyft.”

“What? No.” She was late, yeah, but only by a few minutes. Okay, fifteen, but that wasn’t her fault. “I really am sorry. I wanted to text you, but my phone died and it was like mommy roller derby in front of Macy’s. And let me tell you, those women are vicious with their strollers when there are sales at stake. Vicious. I swear to God, you’d think it was Black Friday. Can you believe they’ve already got Christmas decorations up? I’ve still got cobwebs and Jon Bone Jovi hanging in my apartment.” Her face flamed at Darcy’s puzzled frown. “He’s, um, my apartment skeleton. We thought it’d be humerus. Because . . . anyway.” She squared her shoulders and gave Darcy her most heartfelt smile. “I’ve been looking forward to tonight ever since your brother mentioned he thought we might hit it off. Let me buy you another drink?”

She held her breath as Darcy deliberated, fingers pressed to the space between her brows as if she was staving off a headache.

After an excruciating moment of silence where Elle struggled not to squirm, Darcy dropped her hand and offered a ghost of a smile. “One drink.”

Once more with feeling. Elle bit the inside of her cheek and smiled. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Lack of enthusiasm aside, this was good. Promising. There was still a chance to make this right. She could do this. She could totally rally.

Darcy’s shoes, a pair of towering red-soled pumps, click-clacked with every perfectly paced step across the restaurant. Elle followed, fluffing her fringe with her fingers, quick and inconspicuous. Her first impression might’ve been lackluster, but that meant the only direction things could go was up.

“What are you drinking?” Elle plucked the drink menu off the table and— Oh sweet Saturn. Her wallet curled up into the fetal position.

“The Francois Carillon Chardonnay.” Darcy flagged down a waiter with a twist of her wrist.

The Francois . . . Elle brought the menu closer to her face and nearly choked. Fifty-six dollars for a glass of wine? That couldn’t be right. It had to be a typo, a misplaced decimal, maybe some trick of the candlelight playing off the gold gilded font. She double-checked to make sure she hadn’t confused the price of a glass for a bottle, maybe a case, and . . . nope.

“What can I get you?” the waiter asked, and when Darcy finished relaying her order, he turned to Elle. “And you, miss?”

“Erm.” She scanned the page, struggling not to cringe. Didn’t this place believe in happy hour? Or hell, happiness? Making your rent? Shoot, her rent. That was due on Monday. “The Domaine De Pellehaut Merlot Blend?”

Not only did she butcher the pronunciation, she hated merlot. But nine dollars was plenty more palatable than fifty-six.

The waiter nodded and disappeared.

Salvage this date. A seemingly simple goal, only, all her wonderful, sparkling witticisms caught in her throat like a swallowed wad of gum when Darcy just stared at her. Candlelight transformed Darcy’s light brown eyes into butterscotch and when Darcy glanced down at her phone, the light danced off the darkest, thickest lashes Elle had ever seen and—

“What mascara do you use?” Elle blurted.

Darcy flipped her phone over, screen side down, and looked up, brows furrowing as she met Elle’s eyes. “My mascara? YSL.”

“They’re really pretty. Your eyes, I mean.”

The crests of Darcy’s cheeks turned an alluring shade of pink. “Thank you?”