What's Your Sign?

by Lila Monroe

  My father snorts. “You think being liked has anything to do with strong leadership?”

  “Actually, yes.” Natalie replies defiantly. “His work ethic is incredible, and the staff appreciates it. They know he’s busting his ass trying to save the paper—to save the hundreds of people who actually depend on it for a living wage, to say nothing of everyone who gets their news from us every morning—but it’s like you don’t even give a damn about anything except your precious shareholders’ bottom line.” She’s getting riled up now, her cheeks flushed with anger—and looking sexy as hell. “Well, Justin’s right, some things are more important than profit,” she continues, glaring around the table. “We’re all lucky to have Justin at the helm instead of some penny-pinching, newspaper-killing, Daddy Warbucks impersonator like you!”

  There’s silence. Absolute, pin-drop, shocked silence.

  Natalie clears her throat. “I’m not hungry anymore. Lovely meeting you all.” She sets her napkin on the table, picks up her purse, and heads for the exit.

  “Well . . .” Aunt Bitsy says, looking appalled. “She’s certainly a character.”

  Yes. An amazing one.

  “You know, I’m not hungry either,” I say cheerfully, pushing back my chair. “Have fun bitching about my life choices in my absence.”

  I hurry out after her, and find Natalie down the street, pacing on the corner.

  “I’m sorry,” she says immediately, holding her hands up like in surrender. “I know that was way out of line. They’re your family, you barely know me. I shouldn’t have lost my temper, I just—hearing him talk to you like that—”

  “Are you kidding?” I interrupt, grabbing her hands. “That was amazing!”

  Natalie blinks, surprised. “It was?”

  “Holy shit, yes!” I laugh. “Nobody has ever stood up to my dad like that. Shit, nobody has ever stood up for me like that.”

  Natalie slowly smiles. “Well, you deserve it,” she says quietly. “I meant everything you said.”

  “About my father being Daddy Warbucks?” I ask, teasing. “Maybe when he’s lost a little more hair . . .”

  She groans. “It was the best I could think of on the spot like that!”

  I laugh. “I would pay good money for a video of his reaction,” I say. “That look on his face was priceless.”

  Natalie slowly exhales. “Are you sure it won’t cause trouble for you?”

  “No more than usual,” I grin back. She stands there in the streetlight, like a sexy avenging angel, and damn, I couldn’t want her more. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  We grab a cab and head back to my place, but we’re only about halfway home when a neon sign on the corner catches my eye. “Sorry,” I say, leaning forward so the cabbie can hear me, “can you pull over right up here? Keep the meter running.” I wink at Natalie. “I’ll be right back.”

  I kiss her quickly and jump out of the backseat, returning five minutes later with a box full of a dozen Krispy Kreme donuts. “Fresh out of the fryer,” I announce, handing them over.

  Natalie gasps, openly delighted. “Are you for real?” she asks, opening the box. “Because I was fully lying back in the restaurant about losing my appetite. I’m freakin’ starving.”

  I smile. “I wanted to say thank you.”

  “Throw in a couple of crullers, and I could go right back to the restaurant and insult your cousins too.” She opens the box and offers me a doughnut before sinking her teeth into a piping-hot glazed. “Well, no, not tonight,” she amends, once she’s swallowed. “I’d love to never have to do that again.”

  “It’s a deal,” I promise, and kiss her hard, tasting sugar and sweetness and all that sass.

  * * *

  Back at my apartment, the door has barely closed before we’re all over each. Natalie gasps as I push her back against the wall, kissing along her bare neck and shoulders. My hands are all over her, loving the feel of her body through the silk of her dress, but it’s not enough. I tug the fabric up, over her hips, squeezing her ass until she moans. I all but rip her tiny thong off, sliding two fingers between her legs and finding her already wet.

  Fuck. I can’t keep from groaning at the feel of her, how hot and slick her body is. She reaches up, dragging my face down for a kiss as I rub slow circles against her clit.

  “Please,” she begs, spreading her legs wider. I slide one finger inside, then another, her ragged gasp echoing through the empty apartment as I curl them up against her G-spot.

  Natalie moans. “Please,” she says again—tugging at my suit jacket, working the buttons on my dress shirt with shaking hands. She makes to pull her dress off, but I shake my head.

  “Leave it on,” I say roughly, tugging the front of it down to give me the access I’m after, ducking my head to suck at one stuff nipple. I can’t get enough of her this way, both of us desperate and out of control with passion. She reaches down and shoves my suit pants down over my hips, wrapping her fist around my cock and teasing me with a featherlight stoke.

  Goddamn it, where is that condom . . . ?

  I fumble in my wallet, then slide it on, lifting her again until I can find her molten wet center and thrust deep inside.

  Fuck, she feels so good.

  Natalie arches against me. “Don’t stop,” she orders, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Don’t stop . . .”

  As if I ever could.

  She’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen like this, wild-eyed and breathless, tight around me. with every thrust, she takes me deeper. Urging me on. Wild and free. Maybe my horoscope has it right, because it feels like all the stars really are aligning, right here. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel this way before.

  I never ever want to let her go.

  It’s a startling thought, the sudden realness of what I might have found here. It’s too soon, I tell myself, and too fast. For now all I can do is I hold on tight, the two of us moving together, until the rush takes us over, and I can’t hold back anymore.

  I have no idea what happens next, I just know I don’t want this to end.

  17

  Natalie

  Gemini: advice may come from unexpected quarters, so be open to all comers. Change is coming, so be ready to adapt. A rising moon signals new beginnings.

  * * *

  I wake slowly on Saturday morning, early-autumn sunlight spilling warmly across the crisp white sheets. My whole body feels deliciously sated . . . and the reason is right here in bed beside me.

  “Hey, sleepyhead.”

  I turn. Justin is propped up on one elbow, looking effortlessly tousled as he smiles at me with a sleepy, satisfied morning-after grin. It’s like the guy is genetically predisposed not to get bedhead.

  “Do you really wake up like that?” I ask, yawning. “It’s not fair.”

  “It’s a burden,” he agrees, smirking. “As it must be for you, looking so damn sexy.”

  I snort with laughter. “Are you trying to charm me into bed?” I tease. “Because, spoiler alert, I’m already here.”

  Justin pulls me to him and kisses me in a long, slow embrace that wakes me up in a heartbeat.

  Especially certain parts of me . . .

  I sigh happily, rolling back under the covers with him. It’s been a week since that night at dinner with his family, and I’ve spent every spare minute of it right here in this bed.

  We’re keeping things between us a secret at the office, of course, taking separate routes to work and stealing kisses behind closed doors. I’d be lying if I said the sneaking around wasn’t adding to the thrill of it all—especially all the after-hours trysts: pressed up against the wide windows of his office . . . his expert fingers between my legs . . . straddling his lap in that leather chair.

  I was right, by the way. That desk is sturdy enough for two.

  To be fair, it’s not all hot sex—although, make no mistake, the sex is the hottest of my entire life. The truth is, I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. The past
week has been completely magical, the two of us digging into late-night mountains of pasta at a tiny Italian place near my apartment, and sharing a bottle of wine at a rooftop bar overlooking the East River. One evening after work, we took a long walk through Central Park and stumbled on the tail end of an outdoor jazz concert; perching on the edge of a fountain with ice cream from a nearby street cart to listen to the band play. I feel like I’m swept up in some amazing romantic comedy movie, not my regular life, and while it’s way too early to be thinking long term, the city feels brand new to me in a way in hasn’t in ages.

  I could get used to this.

  This morning, I finally slip out of bed (two orgasms later, thank you very much. Lucinda would be proud of my new anti-aging regimen). I pad naked across the loft to the bathroom, stepping into the massive rain shower and treating myself to a long, luxurious scrub before wrapping up in a fluffy white towel and heading out to the kitchen to make breakfast.

  Or—let’s be real—to nibble at the leftover doughnuts on the counter while I trawl through brunch options on Yelp.

  “We can get fresh ones, you know,” Justin says, emerging from the bedroom a couple of minutes later. “We can have them delivered, even.”

  “I actually like them best when they’re a day old,” I confess, licking sugar off my thumb; Justin catches my hand and slips it into his own mouth instead, his tongue sliding suggestively over my skin. I swallow hard, setting the rest of my doughnut on the counter and taking a step closer until we’re pressed together, our lips just inches apart. I can feel the stir of his cock right through both layers of cotton between us. “Already,” I arch an eyebrow. “You’ve got stamina.”

  He laughs. “I’m working on it.” He hooks one finger in my towel and tugs until it loosens, falling to the polished concrete floor.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later, we sprawl on the massive leather sofa with coffee and the very last of the doughnuts. “I was thinking maybe we could go grab brunch somewhere,” I suggest, resting my head in Justin’s lap. “Maybe take a walk on the High Line?’

  “That sounds perfect,” he says, fingertips tangling idly in my hair. I’m just about to suggest a spot in the Village that specializes in chicken and waffles when my phone dings with a text from my mom: Are you still bringing chips and dip later? she wants to know. Don’t forget Joanie is gluten-free this week. Do chips have gluten?

  “Oh, shit,” I say out loud.

  “What?” Justin frowns.

  “I completely forgot I’m supposed to go to a thing at my parents’ house.” I groan, wondering if there’s a way to get out of it. Probably not. I’ve missed two Friday dinners in a row in favor of hanging out with Justin—or, as I explained it to my family, “work emergencies”—and my mom has been threatening to drive to Brooklyn for a wellness check if I don’t show my face at their house ASAP. “Can we rain check?”

  “Sure thing,” Justin says. Then, pausing, he asks: “Do you want company?”

  I look up at him skeptically. “You want to spend a perfectly good Saturday at a barbecue at my parents’ place in Queens?”

  “I mean, you met my family,” he points out.

  “I did,” I agree, thinking fast. Bringing a guy home to meet the parents feels like something. Something major. And if he’s offering . . . It must mean this is getting real to him, too.

  I break into a smile. “If you promise to behave better than I did, I guess I can let you tag along,” I say, pretending reluctance to hide the somersaults my stomach is turning.

  “Well, I can’t guarantee that,” Justin grins, pulling me into his lap and pressing his lips against mine one more time. “For instance: I’m about to make you very, very late.”

  If I was worried how Justin would fare in the rowdy free-for-all that counts as my family get-togethers, I shouldn’t have. The guy can charm anyone—including my notoriously over-protective father.

  “You want to leave the burgers alone for exactly as long as it takes to listen to Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way,’ ” my dad instructs Justin firmly, waving his spatula for emphasis as they tend to the grill. “Not ‘Summer Wind,’ not ‘The Way You Look Tonight.’ ‘My Way.’ ”

  “ ‘My Way,’ ” Justin echoes, smiling. “Got it.”

  “Do you need another beer?” my mom asks, surprisingly welcoming. But that’s probably down to the bouquet of flowers Justin thought to bring. And as for my brother, he was won over the minute Justin started talking sports. He even listened to Joanie tell him all about her latest online business venture, a pyramid scheme that seems to involve wrapping herself in Saran Wrap for weight loss and enticing others to do the same.

  “Where did you meet this guy again?” Joanie asks me now, as the two of us stand in the kitchen, on corn-shucking duty. She’s wearing a teensy spaghetti-strap romper in a screaming hot pink with a pair of stiletto-heeled sandals—not the ensemble I might have chosen for a family barbecue, perhaps, but she’s turning up the heat on her mission to get my brother to propose.

  I glance over at my mom. “We met at work,” I say vaguely, hoping neither one of them will cop on to the fact that Justin holds the fate of my career in his extremely clever hands.

  No such luck: “Wait, is this your new boss?” Mom asks, her smile dropping.

  “The one you were talking about at lunch?”

  I bite my lip. “Maybe . . .”

  “What did I tell you?” She sighs disapprovingly. “I’m not saying he isn’t handsome, honey, but the risk to your career—”

  “Mom,” I cut her off, brushing cornsilk from my fingers. “It’s not an issue, I promise.”

  “How can it not be an issue?” she presses. “This is your reputation we’re talking about! Your livelihood, your entire future—”

  “She won’t need to worry about a career at all if she’s smart enough to lock this down,” Joanie advises with a wicked grin. “The Rockfords own half of New York.”

  “That’s not the point,” my mom says stubbornly.

  I’m about to argue—after all, it’s not like I’m about to chuck my entire journalism career into the Hudson and become a stay-at-home society wife after one week of dating—when my dad comes wearing his Kiss the Cook apron. “Am I interrupting girl talk?” he asks, grabbing the corn.

  “Nothing important,” I say lightly. “How’s it going out there?”

  “Good,” he says, offering me a warm smile. Then it falls, just a bit. “Justin’s a catch, honey, but I have to say I wish you’d told me you were bringing someone.”

  “Why?” I ask. “What does it matter?”

  That’s when the doorbell rings. Dad winces. “Well, I took the liberty of inviting someone . . .”

  Oh, no.

  “You didn’t,” I moan, looking to my mom for backup.

  My dad holds his hands up. “How was I supposed to know you were seeing somebody?” he asks, sounding wounded. “Now, if you came around the house from time to time, updated your old man on your life—”

  “That’s no reason to subject me to another one of your fix-ups!” I protest. “Who is it this time? A random dude you met on the subway who happened to mention he was in want of a wife?”

  “Watch yourself, young lady,” my father says, though he doesn’t sound particularly ruffled. “Evan is a perfectly nice young man!”

  Evan is also an exterminator—“pest control specialist,” he corrects, beaming—who collects rare snakes, which he names after the frontmen of various ’90s indie rock bands. Who were topping the charts when he was in high school, because the dude has to be pushing forty. Luckily, I’m the last thing on his mind. He seems mostly interested in selling my dad on his plan to enlist the help of a coalition of plumbers to humanely capture rats in the New York City sewer system—presumably to feed them to his cadre of reptilian roommates, though we don’t get that far before I excuse myself to get another drink.

  “I’m so sorry,” I murmur to Justin, trying not to laugh. “I’d like to tell
you this is the first time my dad has pulled a stunt like this, but I’d be lying.”

  “Uh-oh,” Justin grins. “Am I going to have to fight this dude for your affection?”

  “I think that’s the idea,” I tell him. “Thumb wrestling, maybe?”

  “A dance off.” Justin laughs.

  “A lightning round of trivia about my deepest darkest secrets.”

  Justin waggles his eyebrows. “Like how you like your neck bitten during sex?” he asks, so quiet and casual it takes a second to register.

  “Shh!” I hiss, looking around even as an illicit thrill ricochets through me. Luckily, nobody seems to have heard him. But all I want to do is sneak him upstairs for a quick—or not so quick—tumble in my childhood bedroom.

  “It’s the truth, isn’t it?” Justin says, giving me a smoldering look.

  “Hmmm . . . we’ll have to test your theory. Later,” I whisper back, my heart racing.

  “Natalie!” My mom calls us over, and we spend the rest of the afternoon with more G-rated conversation, the last of the fireflies flickering lazily while Frankie and I argue good-naturedly over which one of us was the biggest scaredy-cat growing up and Joanie quizzes Justin over which celebrities he knows and how well. Evan the Exterminator notwithstanding, I can’t get over how easy it all feels.

  We just . . . fit.

  “Justin,” my mom says brightly, as we finish up our bowls of blueberry cobbler, “did you get enough to eat?”

  “I did, thanks,” he promises. “Everything was delicious. By the way,” he continues, with a smirk, “I was wondering, are there any good doughnut shops around here? Natalie just loves them,” he adds, as I try not to laugh.

  I do love them: after sex. A fact that Justin definitely knows, judging by the devilish smile on his face.

  “Hmm, let me think,” my dad says. “What about Eddie’s?”

  “No, you want to try Gino’s place, down the block,” my brother argues.