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)
A fireworks prediction on New Year’s Eve? Color me unimpressed with Zodiac Zone’s on-the-nose horoscope today.
I don’t love this holiday. Never have.
Most years, I spend New Year’s Eve in sweatpants on my couch, in bed by ten, and honestly? I’ve always been perfectly content with that tradition.
However, apparently that was how Dr. Miranda Reed, PhD, spent New Year’s Eve. Miranda, the budding astrologist?
She apparently has plans.
Last-minute invitations, two of them, that my December 29 horoscope had strongly suggested I accept.
The evening started in Manhattan. Christian made reservations at a fancy jazz supper club on the Upper West Side.
It had been fun. Okay, it had been fine.
I actually don’t really love the prix fixe menus that restaurants always do on these kinds of holidays. Why does everything have to have truffles? What if I just want the freaking chicken?
I also don’t particularly love jazz. I know that it’s trendy and cultured to do so, but I just… don’t. It’s too chaotic.
And last, and this one’s a real kicker.
I don’t love the man.
I don’t think I’m ever going to love the man.
I like Christian. A lot. But it’s getting harder and harder to avoid the truth:
Written in the stars or not, Christian Hughes is not the guy for me. It’s why I’m never in a hurry to return his calls or texts. It’s why I can never quite relax around him.
It’s why I’d been secretly relieved when he’d told me that he won’t be able to stay over tonight after all because her mother had needed to swap her Kylee days, and Kylee would be dropped off early at his house tomorrow.
Tonight was supposed to be the night with Christian, but I know in my gut that this isn’t merely a reprieve or delay. It’s a sign.
If it weren’t for Kylee getting more attached, I might try a bit longer, but I won’t risk breaking that little girl’s heart when things inevitably fall apart with her father. Not even for the sake of the Horoscope Project.
But that’s January’s problem.
My genius may not always extend to my skills in the relationship department, but even I know not to break up with someone on New Year’s Eve, especially when we have another party to go to.
Archer’s party.
I didn’t even know those two words could go together, but the invitation had come through a couple of days ago.
And actually, invitation is a bit of a euphemism for “terse command delivered via text.”
NYE party at my place. Alyssa’s hosting and told me to include you. Come.
Alyssa.
The woman whom, until just recently, I thought he might have made up.
Whom maybe a tiny part of me wishes he’d made up. A part of me that, per my horoscope, I am determined not to indulge.
I haven’t been particularly excited about a party with a bunch of people I don’t know, so it feels like a bit of a blessing that it’s already past eleven by the time we get home from the city. That means I’ll have to endure less than an hour of small talk before the countdown. With any luck, I’ll be able to make my date with my trusty Waterpik by twelve fifteen.
“So, tell me about this Alyssa,” Christian says as we pull on our coats to make the short but freezing walk to Archer’s. “Anything I need to know?”
“I haven’t met her, actually. All I know is that she’s some sort of hotshot agent. Archer says she specializes in celebrities who pivot from one career to another. Athletes who become sportscasters, singers who become talk show hosts, actresses who want to do food shows. That kind of thing.”
“Interesting. How’d she and Archer meet?”
“Well, the details are scant, because Archer’s conversational skills are scant, but I believe some sort of reality show was looking to do an artist-in-residency thing. They wanted Archer to get involved. Then she got involved. Then she and Archer got involved.”
“They must be very involved if they’re throwing a party together.”
“Um, I think together might be a misnomer,” I say. “Archer’s not really the party type. I got the feeling this was Alyssa’s idea.”
“Think she invited us so you won’t call the cops if they get loud?”
“Eh. I’m thinking it’s more likely she wants access to my roof.”
“Your roof? It’s not even thirty degrees tonight.”
“Lillian says you can see the midnight fireworks from up there. Maybe their guest list is too big to fit onto just Archer’s roof?”
I don’t tell him how much the thought of anyone being on my roof bothers me.
I’m possessive of my roof.
Only my roof. Definitely only possessive of the roof.
When we get next door, there’s a note on Archer’s door telling people to come on in. The wave of noise that hits us when I push it open tells me that this is not the small get-together I’d been hoping for.