“Let me guess, you’re a Virgo. No wait—” He holds up a hand. “Oh god, don’t tell me you’re a Capricorn.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve said that to him over the last two weeks. “When’s your birthday, Henrik?” “January ninth. Why?” “Yep.” He slaps both his thighs as he slowly bends forward and stands. “That explains it.” “Explains what?” “I’m fake married to a Capricorn. It’s my own fault, really. I made this bed of thorns, and now I’m gonna lie in it.”
