Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69877 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
And the responsible adult in me can’t keep from adding: “What’s really important is that your stepdad and mom make each other happy. Regardless of what their charts might say.”
“But charts do say something,” she says, persistent. “About love compatibility, right?”
“Sure. There’s a whole branch of study of astrology called synastry.”
“Synastry.” Kylee tries the word. “It can tell you if two people are meant to be together?”
“Um. In theory. You’re awfully interested in this. You have someone special in mind?” I ask, wondering if this line of conversation all stems from a crush on her classmate.
Kylee nods very solemnly. “Yes. I want to find a girlfriend for my dad. His perfect match.”
LIBRA SEASON
The New Moon is in Scorpio, dear Gemini, making this an ideal time to learn a new skill, perhaps one you’ve been putting off out of fear of a new direction. Proceed with caution, though; test your new knowledge with low-risk endeavors to hone your skills for when it really matters…
I’m sitting at the kitchen table poring over my astrology books when I hear my front door open. I don’t even have to look up to know it’s Archer, who’s made a habit of stopping by whenever he feels like it. Which is often.
“Randy,” he says by way of greeting as he goes to the fridge.
I tug the band out of my hair and rub at my scalp, which has been in a tight pony all day. “Did you do this with Lillian?” I ask.
“Do what?” He pulls a Tupperware with leftovers out of my fridge.
“Let yourself in. Pilfer her food?”
“Do I at least get points for not drinking directly out of the carton?” he asks, pouring juice into a glass he’s grabbed from the cupboard.
“I can barely contain my applause. And you didn’t answer the question.”
He takes the lid off the container, sniffs, and then pops the leftover chicken Parm into the microwave. “I’m not great about remembering to grocery shop when I’m deep in the zone on a piece. But”—Archer drains the orange juice in three gulps before continuing—“since from what I can tell, your aunt subsisted on cigs, sherry, and smoked oysters, no. I did not pilfer her food.”
“I asked her about you,” I say, standing to get myself a wineglass from the cabinet.
He grabs the pinot grigio out of the fridge and wordlessly fills my glass, and I’m a little startled to realize how natural this routine feels. That it is a routine at all.
“Lillian declared you a ‘charming mystery,’ ” I say, even though he doesn’t ask. “I readily agreed with the mystery part.”
“Hmm.” He grabs a wineglass for himself, which is not part of the routine. Usually it’s a beer, or rye whiskey, if we’re up on the roof.
“She said that years ago, she met your fiancée a few times,” I say casually, giving my wineglass a little twist, watching the liquid swirl.
Lillian also told me that she liked Archer’s almost-wife quite a bit and was disappointed they hadn’t worked out. What she hadn’t known was why they hadn’t worked.
And from the stubborn look on Archer’s face right now, I don’t think I’m going to find out, either.
He pulls the Tupperware out of the microwave. “You want?”
“No, thanks. Actually. Yeah,” I say, realizing that dinnertime has come and gone, and I’m hungry. But he isn’t distracting me from the fact that he’s plating up my food. “Why not order takeout? Or delivery?” I ask as he divvies the leftovers onto two plates. “It’s way better than what I can cook.”
He shrugs. “I’m not picky about food when I’m working. It’s just sustenance.”
I lift my eyebrows. “And yet you grow fresh herbs. Thanks to my greenhouse.”
“Our greenhouse.” He hands me a plate.
“Fine, then why do we grow herbs if you don’t care about food?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “My mom’s big into her vegetable garden. The herbs were always her pride and joy.”
“You have a basil plant to feel close to your mom?” I pause. “I think that is just about the cutest thing I’ve ever heard.”
He jabs his fork in my direction. “Tell anyone, and…” He draws the fork across his throat in a menacing way.
I mime locking my lips and tossing the key.
“What’s all this?” Archer asks, this time using his fork to gesture to the books spread out in front of me. “Still on planetary transits?”
“Wow.” I take a bite of chicken. “You managed to say that without even a trace of mocking.”
He shrugs. “Other people are free to believe whatever fanciful crap they want. As long as it doesn’t touch my life, I’ve got no problem with it.”
Archer’s attention is on his chicken, so I study him a moment over my wineglass. As blasé as his tone is, there’s a sharpness there. A defensiveness that goes beyond just the usual derision.