by Monroe, Lila
What’s Your Sign?
A Romantic Comedy
Lila Monroe
Lila Monroe Books
Contents
Copyright
Also by Lila:
Prologue
Introduction
1. Natalie
2. Natalie
3. Natalie
4. Justin
5. Natalie
6. Natalie
7. Natalie
8. Justin
9. Natalie
10. Natalie
11. Natalie
12. Justin
13. Natalie
14. Natalie
15. Natalie
16. Justin
17. Natalie
18. Natalie
19. Natalie
20. Justin
21. Natalie
22. Natalie
23. Justin
24. Natalie
25. Natalie
26. Natalie
The Romeo Effect
About the Author
Also by Lila:
Copyright 2019 by AAHM Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Lila:
Cupids Series:
Cupids Anonymous
What’s Your Sign?
The Romeo Effect
The Break-Up Artist
The Lucky in Love Series:
1. Get Lucky
2. Bet Me
3. Lovestruck
4. Mr Right Now
5. Perfect Match
6. Christmas with the Billionaire
The Chick Flick Club Series:
1. How to Choose a Guy in 10 Days
2. You’ve Got Male
3. Frisky Business
Billionaire Bachelors Series:
1. Very Irresistible Playboy
2. Hot Daddy
3. Wild Card
4. Man Candy
5. Mr Casanova
6. Best Man
The Billionaire Bargain series
The Billionaire Game series
Billionaire with a Twist series
Rugged Billionaire
Snowed in with the Billionaire (holiday novella)
***
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What’s Your Sign?
A Romantic Comedy
Is love written in the stars?
I've never been the superstitious type. Black cats are made for snuggling, and broken mirrors just mean I can't see today's epic zit, but getting stuck in an elevator and accidentally making out with my handsome boss on his first day? I don't have to read the tea leaves to know, this spells disaster for my dream journalism job. With the future of the newspaper in jeopardy, I'm next on the chopping block for sure... until I figure out our new CEO's one weakness.
And it's written in the stars.
Turns out, Justin is a major fan of the Gazette's astrology column. And since our resident mystic has gone AWOL, guess who's left secretly writing the forecasts? Me!
Soon, I'm using his star sign to nudge him in the right direction - and away from the pink slips. But as Justin and I grow closer, the chemistry between us is sizzling... and my little white lie turns into a galaxy-sized problem. I'm seeing stars - and not just when he kisses me.
Can I find a way out of this celestial mix-up? Or will my forecast spell heartbreak for the both of us? Find out in the new romance from Lila Monroe!
1
Natalie
I’ve never been the superstitious type. Black cats crossing my path? Just another cute fluffball to pet. See a penny on the sidewalk? No way am I scrambling in the dirt and germs for that sucker. And as for breaking mirrors, well, I’m probably due another dozen years bad luck for the ones I smashed for that freshman art project.
But as the elevator comes to a grinding stop halfway between the tenth and eleventh floor, I wonder if I got it all wrong. After all, my horoscope tried to warn me this morning. But did I pay attention?
Nope.
“I should have listened to Pearl,” I say, sinking back against the wall. The only other person in the elevator gives me a strange look as he uselessly hits every button on the panel. I catch his gaze. “Pearl LeFarge, the astrologer,” I explain, waving my copy of the New York Gazette as evidence. “She says right here, Going the extra mile will keep you out of tight situations.” I sigh. “I should have taken the stairs.”
The guy smiles. It’s a pretty great smile—all blue eyes and rumpled brown hair—and for a moment, I don’t mind being trapped in close quarters with him. If we don’t make it out of this elevator before the world is washed away by rising sea levels, I’d happily repopulate the earth with this one.
“You believe that stuff?” he asks, and I smile.
“Right now I do. What’s your sign?”
“Aries,” he replies.
I scan the page. “Here you are: Be sure to prepare before embarking on new ventures. Sound familiar to you?”
The guy gives a rueful wince. “I could have used that advice last week.”
“Maybe Pearl’s playing catch-up with the planets.” I tuck the newspaper in my bag. “I’m Natalie, by the way. Since we’re going to be stuck here a while.”
“Justin.” He reaches out to shake my hand, and I give him about as subtle a once-over as I can manage, from three feet away. Dark wash jeans. Classic white button-down. Red sneakers. That preppy-with-a-twist smile.
Hello, Justin.
Maybe his abs are the tight situation my horoscope was talking about. Either way, I should be thrilled to be stuck in close quarters with him—if I wasn’t running late for a very important meeting.
I check the panel again. “Any luck with the emergency line?”
He shakes his head. “I texted the number for building maintenance. It looks like it’ll be a while.”
“Typical,” I groan. “This is only the fourth most important day of my life.”
“Fourth?” He looks amused. “OK, I have to bite. What are the other three?”
“Well, the day I brushed past Oprah in the lobby,” I admit.
“Obviously.” He grins.
“Second was the day I interviewed Luke Rafferty,” I continue, naming the big TV star. “I was stuck working at a trashy celebrity gossip website, and only supposed to get a quick five minutes for the standard ‘briefs or boxers’ questions,” I explain. “But for some reason, Luke was in a contemplative mood. He wound up taking me for ice cream, and we had a really interesting conversation about the nature of celebrity and art. It went viral, and was a really big deal for my career.”
Justin looks thoughtful. “I think I read that one,” he says. “It was a great piece.”
“Thanks.” I beam. My old bosses at the trashy gossip website were not happy, to say the least, but it led to me landing my dream job as a staff writer here at the New York Gazette.
At least it was my dream—until we all found out that the newspaper is getting sold off to some corporate assholes. Today’s the big day where we’ll meet our evil overlords from the Rockford Group, and learn just how screw
ed and/or laid off we’re all going to be. I pause, narrowing my eyes suspiciously at Justin. “What floor were you heading to?”
“Sixteen,” he replies, and I exhale, relaxing again. The tech start-up upstairs. He doesn’t look like a soulless suit, but you can never be too careful these days. “So, come on,” he adds. “Don’t leave me hanging. What’s the top spot?”
“The most important day of my life?” I pause, reluctant. “It’s kind of corny.”
“Corny isn’t bad,” Justin replies. “I love corn. Slather on the butter.”
I laugh. What the hell. “March 16, 1989.”
Justin pauses. “Unless you’ve got a serious miracle skincare situation going on, that would make you . . . ?”
“Not yet born,” I agree. “It was the day the bathroom pipes busted in Elliot Hall, at Barnard College. So, my mom just happened to meet the charming guy who came to fix the plumbing, fall madly in love, and, a couple years later, voila!” I strike a pose. “If not for that day, then I wouldn’t be here, telling you the whole corny story.”
As my mom reminds me. Frequently. She’d been on track to become a high-powered lawyer, and if it hadn’t been for those busted pipes, her life would have followed a very different path. Now, she runs the office for Dad’s plumbing business, and sure, two kids and thirty-odd years of happy marriage aren’t anything to sniff at, but I can tell a part of her always wonders what might have been. Which is probably why I’ve focused more on chasing my career in my 20s than panting after any guy.
And why it’s been so long since I’ve had a good hot and sweaty makeout that this tall, lean stranger is looking temptingly good right about now.
Get a grip, girl, I chide myself silently. Just because your most reliable late-night companion these days is your vibrator is no reason to throw yourself at—
All at once the elevator lurches, dropping us a couple of floors with no warning. I let out a panicked cry, grabbing for something to hold onto—and coming up with a fistful of Justin’s button-down as the free fall stops just as quickly as it started.
I let out a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing wildly through my body. “Sorry,” I say, unclenching my fingers and giving him as much personal space back as I can manage, holding my hands up to show I come in peace. “Panicked there for a sec.”
“No, I get it,” Justin says, looking rattled himself. “Smashed to smithereens in a midtown elevator is definitely not the way I want to go out, either.”
I let out a feeble laugh. “I was literally just joking with some friends the other night about how awful it would be if my last hookup was my actual last hookup,” I admit with a grimace. “But I didn’t mean it literally.”
“Oh no?” Justin asks with a grin, his shoulders relaxing a little bit as he leans back against the elevator wall. “Not a love connection, huh?”
“Hardly,” I say—then snap my jaws shut, stopping short of painting him the same gory picture I spilled to April and Poppy over one too many vodka and sodas. I don’t want my final act on this planet to be oversharing with a hot stranger about the sad state of my love life, thanks, even if we are both doomed.
“I think my worst kiss ever was back in junior high,” Justin says thoughtfully, shaking his head at the memory. “She and I both had a mouthful of braces.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, sure I’ve seen enough teenage romcoms to know where this is going. “Did they lock together?”
“I wish,” Justin says ruefully. “No, one of my rubber bands popped off and she choked on it, right there in the middle of the back row of the Shady Hills Multiplex.”
I feel my eyes widen, momentarily distracted from our imminent deaths in spite of myself. “No!”
“Oh yeah,” Justin says, grinning beneath two days’ worth of scruff—which is definitely a look that works for him, not that I noticed. “And I’m thirteen, and so excited about the fact that I’m actually making out with a real-life girl that it takes me a good thirty seconds to figure out what’s going on. Once I do I jump up and start yelling for help, the lights come on, the movie stops, the usher comes running down the aisle to try and give her the Heimlich—”
“Oh my gosh,” I say, unable to keep from laughing. “Was she OK?”
“She was fine,” Justin says with a grin. “She blocked me on AIM after that, though.”
“I mean, sure, on account of the attempted murder.”
Justin’s mouth drops open in mock dismay. “Involuntary manslaughter at the most!” he counters. “The real culprit was my orthodontist, if you ask me. If we’re talking about liability.”
“Oh, I see how it is.” I grin at him, charmed in spite of myself. As far as elevator malfunctions go, I’ve definitely had worse. “Are you a lawyer?”
Justin snorts. “Do I look like a lawyer?” he asks, gesturing down at his sneakers.
“You look like a tech bro,” I counter.
“Ouch,” Justin says with a laugh. “You’re not wrong, I guess. My dad keeps telling me I need to stop dressing like I’m in college and put a damn suit on like an actual adult.”
“Nah,” I counter, surprised by the flirtation in my own voice. “I didn’t say it was a bad look, did I?”
“Oh no?” Justin smiles. He’s taken a step toward me, I can’t help but notice. He smells like soap and a faint, expensive cologne.
“Nope,” I say. “Wouldn’t you know it: tech bro couture is actually a weakness of mine.”
Justin nods slowly, like he’s considering that. “Lucky me,” he says, gaze flicking down to my mouth, then back up again. I feel a surge of electricity . . . and take a half-step towards him, too.
I’m playing it cool, but inside, I’m freaked out by my own boldness. And seriously impressed. Holy shit, am I really about to make out—with a total stranger?
“So . . .” I murmur, my mind racing. Because we’re alone, and stuck, and suddenly, there’s only one thing on my mind.
His mouth.
I swallow hard even as he closes the rest of the distance between us, heat radiating off him in the tight, enclosed space. “This is really, really not the kind of thing I do normally,” I manage to say, even as I’m tilting my face up in blatant invitation.
Justin tilts his head to the side. “What’s that, exactly?” he asks with an irresistible smile.
And then he kisses me.
Holy shit.
All at once I’m hit with the sensation of the ground giving way beneath me, even though the elevator remains steadfastly stuck. But seriously, wow. Justin is an amazing kisser, all rough tongue and soft lips and just the faintest nip of his straight white teeth. I can’t get enough. My dry spell is officially over, and I wind my arms around his neck, hungry for more.
Justin dips his head, kissing at the sensitive spot between my neck and my jaw, and I just about melt. We’re pressed together from chest to hip, and I run my hands through the short hair at the back of his neck, his skin burning hot against my palm.
What exactly is happening here? I’m still not sure, but all I know is, I want more.
Luckily, Justin seems happy to oblige. He kisses me again, backing me up against the wall of the elevator. He’s hard against me, and feels delicious. I can’t help but slide my hands up underneath his button-down, running my hands over the taut muscle of his stomach and chest as the memory of every bad makeout I’ve ever endured is well and truly wiped clean from my mind, Eternal Sunshine-style.
I meant it when I said this isn’t the kind of thing I do normally, but the last thing I want to do is stop. The press of Justin’s warm body against mine feels incredible, and the truth is that left undisturbed I’d probably climb him like a tree right here, but just as I’m wondering if maybe he’d be more comfortable without that shirt—and, say, it would be helpful of me to take it off for him—the elevator grinds back to life.
Damn.
We’re moving again, ascending as smoothly as if none of this had ever happened. We break apart reluctantly, panting for air. My
entire body feels like it’s on fire, aching and unsatisfied and humming with pleasure.
“Well!” I manage to gasp, trying to keep my voice even as I tuck my mussed hair behind my ears. “Guess this isn’t how we die after all.”
“Guess not,” Justin says, smoothing his wrinkled button down and clearing his throat. His mouth is slightly swollen, I notice. I’m pretty sure mine is, too.
The elevator reaches my floor with a DING!
“This is me,” I say, awkward. Now that I’ve had my tongue stuck down his throat, I’m finding it harder to look him in the eye. “Umm, nice being stuck in an elevator with you, Justin.”
“You too,” Justin replies, looking amused.
The elevator doors open onto the floor that houses the Gazette’s sprawling offices. Even through my post-makeout fog I remember the thrill of showing up here on my first day of work, fresh-faced and ready to change the world by speaking truth to power. Even after almost a year, the sight of the logo over the reception desk still sets off a flurry of butterflies in my stomach.
Or I guess those could be Justin’s fault.
“See you around sometime, maybe.” Ask for my number, I silently beg.
But Justin doesn’t seem to be wondering when and how he’s going to see me again: “Uh,” he says, looking out at the lobby, then back at me. “This is my floor, too. I must have gotten the numbers mixed up.”
