Written in the Stars (Written in the Stars #1)

by Alexandria Bellefleur

Last she checked, she couldn’t get her heart broken if she never put it on the line. That didn’t make her scared, that made her realistic.

Period

Her eyes were brown. Nothing was wrong with them, but no one ever complimented her eyes.

“Vexed.” She lifted her head, face flushed pink. “God. Do you insert that stick up your ass every morning, or is it more like an IUD that lasts you five years?”

“Lying to your family isn’t the way to get them to take you seriously. What you need to do is tell them if they don’t like how you’re living your life, they can go fuck themselves because it’s not their life to live.” “Jesus, Margot. Is that your solution to everything? Just tell everyone I know to fuck off?”

Suddenly Elle’s fingers, those fingers that had touched the spines of all of Darcy’s books and left smudge marks on her coffee table, were buried in Darcy’s hair, pulling her closer and keeping her there.

“This is perfect. You realize that, right? You’re starring in your own romantic comedy, Darcy. Next thing you know, there’s only going to be one bed at the B&B and you’ll have to huddle for warmth beneath one tiny blanket and—”

“It’s not silly. Not if you enjoy it. And even then, silly’s not a bad thing.”

How you spelled the word okay mattered, each iteration distinct in tone. K, of course, was in a league of its own, and if there was a period behind it? Chances were, things were not, in fact, okay.

“I was kidding. I didn’t really pull a muscle when she went down on me, I just—” “Elle?” Elle cringed so hard she was going to need to see a chiropractor. “Mom?”

“I’m Ryland.” Elle’s nephew peeked up from where he was hugging Elle’s knees. He lifted a hand, thumb and pinky folded against his palm. “I’m three.” Darcy dropped to a crouch and grinned. “My name’s Darcy. I’m almost thirty.” Ryland’s eyes rounded comically.

Darcy took a careful step toward her, then another and another until she was close enough that Elle could count the freckles on her nose. Only there were too many, countless others spreading out along Darcy’s cheeks, spilling down her jaw. Of course, there was that special freckle shaped like the moon beside Darcy’s mouth, the one bracketed by her dimple. She was so busy trying in vain to count Darcy’s freckles, to remember what the freckle at the corner of her mouth had tasted like when they’d kissed,

“For what it’s worth,” Darcy said, her right hand joining the left to wipe away the tears and liner from beneath Elle’s eyes. “I like cilantro.”

“And when we kissed? I really liked how you taste.”

In retrospect, the impulse terrified Darcy. Protecting Elle had been practically instinctive, but protecting her meant she cared and Darcy wasn’t supposed to care.

“Eventually, when those massive stars reach the end of their lives, they go out with a bang, a supernova so bright, so beautiful it drowns out all the other stars. And when they do, they throw out all those elements they created. That’s what we’re made of. We’ve got calcium in our bones and iron in our blood and nitrogen in our DNA . . . and all of that? It comes from those stars.”

“Dimples? They’re caused by having a shorter than normal zygomaticus major muscle. It’s a facial flaw.”

“Margot made it sound more mainstream than when I—” Record scratch. “When you?” Darcy glanced over her shoulder, not meeting Elle’s eyes, but peeking in her general direction. “Nothing.” Like that would work on her. “When you what? When you—” No fucking way. “Darcy Lowell. Do you read fanfiction? Oh my god, what fandom? Do you write it? Is it smutty? Please tell me it’s smutty. What’s your—”

“Really.” Darcy gave Elle her best deadpan stare. “That thing I did with my tongue last night didn’t clue you in?”

“This is different. This is—” Approaching a line she wasn’t ready to cross. “I don’t cook breakfast for just anyone, you know.”

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. “You take care of your brother. You take care of everyone. Who . . . who takes care of you?”

“You’re doing a pretty good job of it.” No one had ever said that to her before. Elle had never been put in the position of caring for someone, not really, not beyond a weekend of babysitting.

“I hopped on Tinder and this guy legit thought that being pansexual meant I’m attracted to fucking nonstick cookware. ‘Oh yeah, baby, your griddle fucking turns me on. You shake that wok. Shake it harder.’” Elle chortled. “That’s not funny.” “I joke so I won’t commit fucking homicide.”

Definitely. Just between us, we like her better than Marcus, but don’t tell Lydia we said that. Hand to God, if he mentioned his Lamborghini one more time, I was going to flip my shit at the table. His car gets eleven miles per gallon. Weird flex, but whatever.

ELLE (5:29 P.M.): what are you doing tonight? DARCY (5:32 P.M.): Study group. ELLE (5:33 P.M.): i can help you study ELLE (5:34 P.M.): question one what is darcy doing tonight? ELLE (5:34 P.M.): a) elle b) elle c) elle d) elle

“Fun fact—the moon doesn’t actually produce any light of its own. It reflects light from the sun, making it appear bright at night. So, if I look like the moon, I guess that means I’m reflecting the light that’s around me.”

Margot grabbed the sides of Elle’s face, forcing Elle to meet her stare. Margot’s throat jerked and she blinked fast. “You do. You absolutely do, you hear me? And honestly, you probably have lots of perfect people. Look at us. You’re one of my perfect people. You’re my best friend, Elle. You’re my family.” Shit.

Because she thinks it’s easier to be alone than risk falling in love and getting hurt again.”

We’ve all got shit and I’m—” She sniffed, stupid eyes watering. “I’m tired of having to constantly put myself out there and not be met halfway. That’s not fair.”

But who’s best for her isn’t up to me to decide. I pour the drinks and feed her ice cream and hold her hand when she cries and yeah, I give my opinion and plenty of advice, but Elle can make her own decisions. For whatever reason, she wants you. But so help me god, if you break her heart again, I will slash your tires, Darcy Lowell.”

“I sold my car when I moved here,” Darcy admitted. Margot rolled her eyes. “Then I’ll break into your apartment and move everything three inches to the left and fuck with your flow, okay?” Darcy stared because, shit, that actually sounded awful.

lol

“It’s cilantro. Because I’ve liked you for longer than I knew how to say, before I could say it. Before I could say it the way you deserve to hear it. But I have and I do. I like you exactly the way you are, Elle. Boxed wine and glitter and astrology and most of all”—Darcy sucked in a gasping breath—“I love the way you make me hope. You make me hope and you make me happy. You make me so happy, Elle.”