Written in the Stars(7)
Her elderly neighbor tutted, lips pursing in disapproval, silent disapproval. If only it were that easy to put her brother off.
Saved by the bell, the elevator dinged, spitting them out on the ninth floor. Mercifully, Mrs. Clarence was in apartment 901, the unit closest to the elevators.
Darcy lugged the bags the brief distance to the doorway, arms trembling under their weight as Mrs. Clarence took her time unlocking her door before ushering Darcy inside. She unloaded the bags into the kitchen, setting them down on the dining table beside Mrs. Clarence’s Persian longhair, Princess. “You want me to unpack these?”
Stroking the purring cat between the ears, the older woman shook her head. “No, no. Just leave them here. I always appreciate your help, Darcy. You’re a peach.”
With a wave, Darcy departed down the hall, unlocking the door to her own apartment. As soon as she stepped inside, she placed her keys in the wooden bowl on the entry table and slumped against the door.
What a night.
Her favorite dress—vintage Oscar de la Renta that had once belonged to her late grandmother—was possibly ruined, the stomach-churning headache that had taken up residence smack between her eyes in the afternoon had only gotten worse as the day progressed, and for all that she loved Brendon, wrapping her hands around his neck and strangling him until his eyes bulged sounded like a fantastic idea right about now.
What had he been thinking? Had he been thinking? An astrologer? So what if Elle had been unbelievably pretty? They had nothing in common save for their mutual inability to keep their eyes off each other. Which could’ve been promising had Elle not been looking for her soul mate.
Darcy rolled her eyes.
She should’ve never agreed to Brendon’s matchmaking in the first place, but he’d been so earnest and eager to see her get back up on the horse when she’d been ready to put the damn thing out to pasture. Saying yes had been easier than explaining why not . . . especially when Brendon had mentioned the reservation was at a restaurant she’d been dying to try ever since seeing the chef featured on Food Network. And so she’d reluctantly agreed. One date, a drink, some amazing food, and a bit of surface-level chitchat. She’d have put herself out there and Brendon would be appeased. What was the worst that could happen?
Come on, Darcy. You’ll really like Clarissa.
Susanna’s absolutely your type.
I think you’ll hit it off with Veronica. I swear.
Really, Darce. I think Arden might be the one.
He hadn’t stopped at just one date. Oh, no. One date had snowballed into weekly setups—how in God’s name did he know so many single queer women?—and after three months of blind dates Darcy had officially reached her limit. Honestly, she’d reached her limit last month, but when she’d fessed up and told Brendon she didn’t have the time or desire to pursue a serious relationship and he could cool it, he’d balked. A few lackluster dates and you’re throwing in the towel? Come on, she’s perfect.
No one was perfect.
Next time, she wasn’t going to cave, wasn’t going to simply roll her eyes and agree to some date just to get Brendon off her back. Not even if he pouted and played the baby brother card. Darcy was putting her foot down. She’d had enough of him projecting his own romantic notions of true love onto her. She wasn’t looking for the one. Not anymore.
After stripping off her wine-soaked dress and setting it aside for dry cleaning—maybe they could work a miracle on the silk—Darcy stood in the kitchen, stomach rumbling.
Her eyes darted to the cabinet rather than the refrigerator. After a day like today, the peanut butter was calling to her.
Jar cradled in the crook of her elbow and bag of chocolate chips in one hand, a spoon in the other, Darcy curled up on the couch, leather groaning softly beneath her weight. At last. As soon as she fired up the DVR, she’d be in Whisper Cove, catching up on the antics of Nikolai and Gwendolyn, Carlos and Yvette, and the whole sordid Price family who had more skeletons in their collective closet than she had shoes.
Friday nights with her DVR, catching up on the week’s episodes of Whisper Cove, were sacred. Sacred and secret. It was a silly show, ridiculous that she even enjoyed it, but it was called a guilty pleasure for a reason.
Three episodes in, Nikolai and Gwendolyn were about to kiss, a culmination of months of tension and chemistry sprinkled with tender moments. The distance between their faces shrunk as Nikolai reached out, thumb stroking the delicate curve of her cheek. Darcy’s breath quickened as she inched closer to the edge of the cushion, bag of chocolate chips clenched in her fist. This was it, the moment—
A loud bang filled her apartment and her chocolate chips flew into the air as she jumped from the couch, heart hammering jackrabbit-fast against her sternum.
Someone was at the door.
Jesus. She rolled her eyes at her dramatics. It was only a knock, but she’d been swept up in the moment, oblivious to anything else. Ridiculous.
Tiptoeing over spilled chocolate chips, Darcy crossed toward the door, footsteps faltering at another thunderous rap of knuckles against wood.
“Darcy, open up.”
Her eyes shut, her pulse slowing.
Brendon.
Her eyes snapped open.
Brendon.
Scrambling backward, she shut off the TV and then shoved the remote between the couch cushions, hiding the evidence of her date with the DVR. He banged against the door again, this time harder. For god’s sake. She blew out her breath. “Coming!”