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)
My hands have been resting lightly on his chest, but now my fingers dig into the soft cashmere of his sweater, pulling him closer, needing more…
Somewhere, a door slams, followed by the sound of laughing voices coming back down the stairs.
The reality of what I’m doing sinks in and I pull my lips from his with a gasp.
Archer and I stare at each other, breathing hard, the space between us charged with uncertainty and something I don’t know how to name.
I lift a trembling hand to my lips. “Archer…”
His gaze is searching mine, looking for something. “Did that have anything to do with your horoscope?”
I’m still feeling off-balance, so it takes me a second to register his question. “What?”
His fingers, still in my hair, tighten slightly. “Your horoscope, Randy. Did that have anything to do with what just happened?”
“I…” Still trying to sort my thoughts. “Well, yes, but—”
He releases me abruptly, pivoting away from me, digging his fingers into his own hair this time. “Damn it, Randy!”
Startled and confused by his vehemence, I shake my head. “I don’t understand, what—”
He turns back toward me, his expression closed off and unreadable. “You should go find Christian,” he says in a cold tone I’ve never heard before.
Christian. Guilt flares.
“Don’t,” Archer snaps, seeing my expression. “Don’t feel guilty. It was just an inconsequential New Year’s Eve kiss. That’s all this was. He was doing the same thing upstairs. It didn’t mean anything.”
I swallow, but my feet don’t move.
“You hearing me, Randy?” Archer says, his voice still cold, a little impatient now. “It didn’t mean anything.”
Finally, I snap out of my daze enough to know that I need to protect myself now. Before he can hurt me any further. “Yes, Archer. I have a 170 IQ. I think I can grasp a blatant rejection.”
His jaw tenses, and for a moment I think—hope—he might contradict me, but instead he just gives a single nod.
I exit his studio, chin held high, but the second I slam the door behind me, I drop my chin to my chest, leaning against the wall for support.
My horoscope had been right about the fireworks, and they hadn’t just been in the sky.
But it had also been damn wrong. Those fireworks sure as hell aren’t lighting up my path to new horizons.
In fact, it feels very much like the end of something. Something that never had a chance to even start.
CAPRICORN SEASON
Today brings forward a pivotal decision that demands both courage and self-awareness. A second opinion will be helpful, but ultimately, you’ll need to trust your own instincts.
The next afternoon, I’m at Daphne’s apartment in Murray Hill for our long-standing tradition of New Year’s Day chili and a Friends marathon.
Only this time, our favorite sitcom is a mere backdrop to the topic at hand:
The Kiss.
“Okay, so how long would you say the kiss lasted?” Daphne asks as she tops her chili with a very generous handful of cheddar cheese.
“The first or the second?” I ask, adding a scoop of sour cream to my bowl. The chili is actually Daphne’s family’s tradition, started by her grandfather. But every January 1, every member of the Cabbot family follows the same secret family recipe, though Daphne has been known to omit the meat from hers when she’s on a vegetarian kick.
This year is apparently not one of those kicks, because the thick stew is meaty, spicy, and delicious.
“Both. Both kisses,” she clarifies before shoving a generous spoonful into her mouth.
“Um.” I blow on my spoon. “I’d say like, two seconds and… twenty seconds? So I’m overthinking it, right?” I ask a little desperately. “It was just a standard New Year’s kiss?”
“Could have been,” she admits. “I’ve had kisses with strangers on New Year’s Eve that lasted longer than that, and one memorable kiss a few years ago with a bit of tongue.” She pauses, reminiscing. “That was hot. Still regretting not getting his number.” She shakes her head. “But back to last night… I don’t think the duration of the kiss is the most pertinent factor here. It was the quantity. One kiss at midnight is simply tradition. Two is…”
“Is what?” I ask, when she pauses, trying and failing to keep the desperation out of my voice.
Instead of answering, she takes a sip of diet soda, and narrows her eyes slightly. “Did you tell Christian?”
I groan at the mention of his name. “No. He was all giddy from champagne and meeting his football idol and some actress whose name I’ve already forgotten. Apparently they shared a midnight smooch that would have blown teenage Christian’s head clean off.”
That last bit had gone a long way to make me feel better. Not all the way better, but… a little less guilty.
“So you two didn’t… after?” Daphne makes a childish gesture with her hands.
I shake my head. “He took an Uber home after the party as planned.”