Written in the Stars(44)

“It’s probably psychological.” Elle shrugged. “Or you’ve gotten so used to wearing fancy fabrics that polyblend gives you hives?”

“Ugh.” Darcy whipped the sweater over her head, her hair sticking up from the static. The strap of camisole slipped down her arm again, the strap of her bra following it down. Elle swallowed thickly. “You happy?” Darcy asked.

“Hmm. Oh!” Elle nodded. “I will be if you buy it.”

Darcy threw the sweater on the floor and reached for her blouse. “It’s awful.”

“It’s amazing. You have to wear it.”

“You wear it if you love it so much.”

Elle already had a sweater. “It found you, Darcy. It’s fate.”

Darcy sighed. “Everyone’s going to be wearing one?”

“You’ll stick out like a sore thumb if you don’t.”

Darcy’s eyes flickered between Elle’s pouting face and the sweater pooled on the floor.

“Please. It’s a tradition.”

Her shoulders dropped. “Fine. But I’m washing it first.”

Elle couldn’t help it. She stepped forward and threw her arms around Darcy, hugging her tight. “Thank you.”

Like the first time she hugged her, Darcy stiffened. But this time, she relaxed into the embrace sooner, her own arms wrapping around Elle’s waist. She had to have felt the forceful thud of Elle’s heart, kicking against her chest, their bodies pressed together.

Darcy was the first to pull away, leaning back, her hands slipping, fingers brushing the small of Elle’s back as she dropped her arms. Their faces were close, so close Elle could’ve leaned in and pressed her lips to Darcy’s. She teetered on her feet, knees faltering at the soft smile Darcy sent her. “It’s . . . it’s fine. It’s just a sweater.”

It wasn’t just about the sweater, but Elle didn’t say that for fear of saying too much. Instead she stepped back and pointed at the rack of recent arrivals. “I’m going to look around for a minute, if you don’t mind?”

Darcy nodded and began doing up the row of tiny pearl buttons on her blouse.

Elle’s favorite thing about One Man’s Trash was that they offered a little bit of everything. Looking for antique silverware? Suits that looked like they were straight out of Saturday Night Fever? They had housewares, costumes, knickknacks, a little something for everyone.

Darcy caught up with Elle just as she was salivating over a letterman-style jacket, only instead of being for a school or team, it had a gigantic embroidered cartoon Samantha from Bewitched on the back.

“Brendon and I used to watch that when we were little.” Darcy bit her lip. “When we spent summers at Grandma’s, she’d let us build pillow forts in the living room and stay up late to watch Bewitched and I Dream of Jeannie on TV Land until we crashed on the floor.”

Elle traced the stitching and smiled. “When I was a kid, I was convinced I was a witch and that the rest of my family were mere mortals and that was why I was different. Never could wiggle my nose like Samantha.” Elle smiled. “You’ve got a very Samantha-ish nose, you know that?”

Darcy cupped her fingers around the tip of her nose, forehead wrinkling. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why do you always think what I say has some double meaning? It’s a compliment. It means I—” Like your face. “I think you’ve got a cute nose.”

It felt like someone had cranked the heat in the store up to a million degrees, like Elle was standing on the surface of the sun instead of wearing an impractical T-shirt in the middle of November. She ignored the flush climbing up the sides of her throat and stared at Darcy from the corner of her eye, watching as an identical blush crept up Darcy’s jaw.

“Oh.” Darcy cleared her throat. “Thanks.”

Elle bit the inside of her cheek and hummed, flipping the tag on the jacket so she could see the price. Her brows rocketed to her hairline. Never mind.

Moving down the aisle, Elle stopped in front of a case of creepy dolls that Darcy refused to look at because she’d seen enough horror movies to know how that goes, thank you very much. When Elle paused to peruse the vintage hair accessories, Darcy slipped off to buy her sweater.

Casting one last forlorn glance to the back of the store where the Bewitched jacket was tucked away, Elle made her way to the front of the store, meeting Darcy by the door.

Bracing herself for the cold, Elle crossed her arms tight across her body and ducked her chin as she stepped onto the sidewalk. Warm fingers gently seized her by the elbow, keeping her from going far.

“Here.” Darcy shoved a bundle of fabric at her, pressing it to her chest.

It was the jacket, the one she’d wanted terribly, the one that cost ninety dollars. Too much. Elle’s heart climbed its way up her chest, settling inside her throat, an immovable lump that made it hard to swallow. “Darcy—”

“You’re always forgetting to wear a jacket. I start to wonder if you even own one.” Darcy stared at a spot over Elle’s shoulder.

She clutched the jacket to her chest reverently, words failing her.

“It’s really nothing,” Darcy said. “You bought my dinner. And paid for our drinks that first night. Consider it an additional congratulations for closing your deal with OTP.”