Miranda in Retrograde

20. Capricorn Season

CAPRICORN SEASON

Fireworks will send you careening in an exhilarating new direction, darling Gemini. Lean into what scares you, as your greatest adventure begins with a leap into the unknown. The universe is aligning to guide you, so embrace the fireworks and let them light up your path to new horizons.

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.

“Hi! Come on in,” a tall blonde says when we step into Archer’s kitchen. “You must be the neighbor and neighbor’s boyfriend. Welcome! I’m Alyssa.”

“Hi, I’m Miranda. This is Christian.”

Alyssa, as I had prepared for, is gorgeous. She’s also a bit older than I’d have thought. Older, I think, than Archer by a few years—though there’s nothing about her that comes across as old , just… interesting, as though she has a million stories to tell, and all of them would be as sparkly and light as she is.

Because damn it . She seems really likable.

“I’m so glad you could make it,” she says, ushering us further into the space. “Here! Champagne.”

She grabs two crystal flutes that must be rented, because I can’t imagine Archer owning anything so fussy, and points us toward an ice bucket where several champagne bottles are already open.

“That’s Jackson Burke,” Christian murmurs in my ear as he pours us each a glass. The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but his excitement is plain as he looks across the room to a tall, handsome man with his arm around a pretty blonde.

“Who?” I accept the champagne, trying not to think about how wrong it feels that it’s not a mason jar with Michter’s rye. Trying not to feel like all of these people in Archer’s place feels wrong.

“Former quarterback and the Super Bowl rings to prove he was a good one,” Alyssa explains, having overheard Christian’s and my conversation. “Client of mine.”

She grins at Christian. “You want an introduction?”

“Oh man.” Christian is a little starstruck, and it’s kind of adorable. “Hell yes.”

I touch his arm. “You go. I’m going to run to the restroom.”

Alyssa points. “First door on left.”

I suck in my cheeks to keep from saying that I know where the bathroom is. That I’ve been here before. Not often, but more often than she has, at least recently.

I shake my head to clear it. What is wrong with you, Miranda? The house isn’t yours. Neither is the man…

I don’t actually need to use the restroom. I do need just a moment to retreat and center myself. I’ve never enjoyed high-energy gatherings, and with this one coming on the heels of Christian’s holiday party a couple of days earlier, my supply of small talk topics is feeling a bit exhausted.

The bathroom is occupied when I get there, so I hover in the hallway, taking in the various art pieces. They’re different from the ones in Archer’s entryway. Sketches, mostly, but they’re all framed. To my untrained eye, it seems like an eclectic collection, no two pieces by the same artist, and not a single one signed by Archer himself.

I get to the end of the hallway, where, in my home, Lillian’s bedroom is located. It’s not the largest bedroom in the home, but she’d moved to it following her hip surgery a couple of years ago to minimize the use of stairs.

The equivalent door in Archer’s home is shut, and taped to it is a handwritten sign with the words Keep Out underlined for emphasis.

The note on the front door tonight, inviting people inside, had been written in a pretty feminine script, probably by Alyssa.

There is nothing pretty about this assertive, terse scrawl.

This is Archer’s studio.

“Well, well. The white whale,” I murmur, because anytime I’ve even looked at his house, he’s made a point of telling me that no one is allowed inside the studio. Ever.

I lift a hand to the doorknob, then swiftly snatch it back.

What am I doing?

I am a rule follower. I respect other people’s personal space.

I would never jeopardize Archer’s trust.

And yet…

The sudden urge to know a little bit more about the man feels impossible to resist.

I bite the corner of my lip, hesitating only a moment longer before glancing over my shoulder for witnesses, and then slip into the off-limits room.

Even if I didn’t know it was Archer’s studio, the smell would be a dead giveaway: paint mixed with Archer’s soap or cologne, or whatever makes him smell like… him.

For some reason I was picturing white. White walls, maybe a white painter’s tarp on the floor to catch any messes. But aside from a stack of white canvases stacked neatly in a corner, everything else is darkly masculine. The floors are dark hardwood. Clean, but not polished. There’s a large storage cabinet on the far wall, but the rest of the brick walls are covered, as I suppose one would expect, with art. Archer’s art.

This same room in Lillian’s should feel the same, and I suppose there are similarities, but somehow this feels fundamentally Archer.

The space is lit by a warm glow, and I smile to realize it’s the moon lamp I got him for Christmas. He’s moved it in for the party. Logically, I know it was to make more room on the roof for watching the fireworks at midnight, but I like the idea that he put it in here so nothing would happen to it.

I pivot toward what must be his workstation, an enormous wooden table covered in paint and a no-nonsense wooden stool tucked into the shadows, with…

A man sitting on it.

I jump so hard some of my champagne sloshes onto my hand. I shake it off. “Damn it, Archer. What are you doing in here?”

He, too, is holding a flute of champagne, and he takes a small sip before speaking. “Now. Which one of us should be asking that question?”

I flinch because I know he’s exactly right. I’m the one who shouldn’t be in here, and entering without permission was actually a really crappy thing to do. “I’m so sorry. I’m really sorry. And I’m leaving,” I say, backing up slowly. “And sorry again.”

“Randy.”

“Yeah?” I brace for a well-deserved rebuke for my intrusion.

He sighs. “First the roof, now my studio. I must be getting used to your presence, because somehow, I’m not mad.”

I narrow my eyes suspiciously at his champagne flute. “Uh-huh. Exactly how many of those have you had?”

He waggles it. “First glass. Not really a champagne guy.”

Shocker . I study him. “You’re really not upset?”

He shakes his head.

I ease slightly closer. “Why are you in here? You’re hosting a party.”

“No.” He sips more champagne. “Alyssa is hosting a party. At my house. I don’t know half the guest list.”

“I thought she has a place in the city.”

“She does. Tribeca. But no outdoor space, so no view of the”—he motions upward with a disinterested wave—“fireworks.”

“Ah. That makes sense. She’s very pretty,” I say as I begin to wander around the studio. Whether he’s accustomed to me or not, I don’t anticipate another chance to be in here.

“Yes.”

“These are bigger than they look online,” I say, stopping in front of a large canvas that is taller than I am, and apparently his work in progress.

I tilt my head, recognizing the distinct pyramid shape in the foreground instantly. “Paris. This your next series? Daphne’s been wondering.”

He looks startled. And annoyed. “You talk to Daphne about my art?”

“Nope. She talks to me about it. She’s a huge art buff. Apparently, everyone is speculating over your next move.”

“Fantastic,” he mutters.

“Is this where you were when I first moved in here?” I ask, looking back at the canvas. “Paris?”

He nods. “Three months.”

“Three months!” I say in surprise.

“That’s how long it took to get a feel for the tone I wanted. I was in Tokyo for six months for the first series.”

“You always do cities? Travel focused?”

“No. The Tokyo one was unplanned. I went to visit a friend for a week. Felt inspired. Stayed. Painted.”

“Daphne told me it made a huge splash in the art world. That you’d been popular, but this bumped you up to the next level.”

He stands, joining me in front of the canvas to stare down at it. “People like the travel pieces, I guess.”

“Probably because it presents an escape from their current world. Especially when it’s this large, this vibrant. You must feel that when you paint them.”

“Sometimes.”

I look over. “You don’t sound particularly… enraptured.”

He shrugs. “Escaping from your current reality is only desirable when you don’t like your current reality. Tokyo was great, because at the time I was feeling… lost.”

It’s about as emotional an admission as I’ve ever heard from Archer, and even though I’m dying to know if it has to do with his failed engagement, I also know to tread carefully. If I don’t ease open this door into his soul very gently, he’ll slam it shut again.

In fact, instinct tells me to say nothing. To wait.

After a moment, my instincts are rewarded. “I went there after Willow… ended things.” He gives me a wry look. “But you already knew that.”

I shake my head. “All the internet knows is that you two were engaged and that it ended. Not that she ended it. Or why.”

Or that you felt lost afterward.

The very mental image makes me feel like crying.

“I’m not even sure I know why it ended,” he says with a harsh laugh that does little to mask the pain in his voice.

“She didn’t tell you?”

“Oh, she told me,” he says, still staring at the Paris painting, though I don’t think he’s really seeing it. “Her psychic told her we weren’t a match.”

My mouth drops a little. “Her… psychic.”

“Well, Willow called him a spiritual adviser . Whatever you call the bastard, he informed her that the stars or the universe or whatever the hell didn’t want us to be together. It was nine days before the wedding.”

I set my hand on his arm. “Archer. That’s… I don’t even know what that is. Horrible.”

Heartbreaking.

He looks down. “Maybe it ended for the best. Forced me to set up some new rules, and I’m better for it.”

“What rules?”

Archer’s head tips back and he drains the last of his champagne in a single gulp. “No dating anyone who would put the universe’s wishes above her own.”

Before I can properly process that, I hear a loud murmur of voices from the other side of the door, followed by the clomping of footsteps.

I look upward. “Must be coming up on midnight. Everyone’s headed up for the countdown.”

He glances at his watch. “Nine minutes.”

I nod, fully intending to join the group. To join Christian.

But my feet don’t move.

Archer must feel the same, because instead of suggesting we go see the fireworks, he gestures with his empty glass at the Paris piece in front of us. “What do you think of this, Randy?”

I shift my attention to the art, startled by the subject change, but also sensing he needs the subject change.

“I think it’s beautiful,” I say honestly. He’s painted the famous pyramid in front of the Louvre, but he’s taken liberties with colors and perspective. There are none of the soft colors and delicate silhouettes that one associates with Paris. It looks like an alternate-universe version, one that begs to be explored.

He nods. “Yeah. It is.”

I look up at his tense profile. “You don’t sound happy.”

“I don’t know,” he says, sounding frustrated. “The Paris series isn’t consuming me the way that I’d hoped.”

“That’s how you want to feel? Consumed?”

“When it comes to my art, yes. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

“Hmm.” I scratch my cheek. “Well. Is there anything that does consume you lately? Perhaps that’s what you’re meant to work on.”

“Yes.” He’s distracted. “But it’s nothing like my Tokyo series. And that’s what people want. Expect.”

I smile. “Take it from someone who abandoned the world of logic and science to detour to astrology. Sometimes eschewing expectations opens unexpected doors.”

He doesn’t smile back. “Unexpected doors. Like the one that led you to Christian.”

I hesitate.

Now doesn’t seem the moment to explain that I plan to end things with Christian. Or maybe it’s exactly the moment, and that terrifies me, because I say nothing.

Archer turns to face me, giving me a slow once-over. “Same dress as the other night.”

I glance down. “It makes the rounds during the holiday season.”

“Same undergarments as well?”

My brain scrambles for a witty retort, something to ease the tension, but the memory of his fingers on my skin when he’d zipped my dress the other night, when he’d seen said underwear, seems to overwhelm my every thought, and all I manage is a nod.

Neither of us says anything for a long moment. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but there’s a new tension that seems to crackle between us.

It’s broken only by a series of sharp popping noises, so unexpected that I jump, putting a hand over my heart, which is racing for two reasons now.

“Fireworks,” Archer says a bit tersely, not breaking eye contact.

I swallow. “It must be midnight. Should we… sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ or something?”

His mouth twitches in the corner, his gaze flashing with something that is probably amusement, but for a moment looks an awful lot like affection.

“Come on, Randy,” he says softly, taking the glass from my hand and setting it aside with his own. “That’s no way to ring in the New Year.”

Before I can register his meaning, he lowers his face to mine. He pauses a heartbeat before the kiss, his eyes holding my own, burning with an emotion I don’t recognize.

Archer’s lips brush over mine.

And every cell in my body seems to wake up from a lifelong sleep.

Objectively, it resembles a standard-issue New Year’s Eve kiss. A friendly peck much like the ones being exchanged all over the eastern time zone right now. Like the meaningless kisses likely being exchanged on our own roof this very moment.

Subjectively?

There is nothing standard about the kiss.

Not the way his lips linger a moment longer than they should.

Not the way it robs me of my breath.

Or the way I ache with the urge to pull him back. To kiss him again. To never stop.

Slowly I force my eyes open, finding Archer’s face still mere inches from my own, his dark blue gaze reflecting my same frustrated want back to me.

“Happy New Year, Randy,” he says, his voice a gruff whisper.

“Happy New Year,” I whisper back. My gaze drops back to his mouth.

Lean into what scares you, as your greatest adventure begins with a leap into the unknown…

This. This is what scares me. Because whatever it is feels too big to fit into the temporariness of what this experimental, sabbatical year is supposed to be.

Lean into what scares you…

Lifting to my toes, I press my mouth to his.

Archer’s response is immediate, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. Wanting it.

His other hand comes up so he’s cupping my face, fingers sliding into my hair as he tilts my head and deepens the kiss. His lips nudge mine apart, hungry and purposeful. My tongue shyly touches his and he lets out a masculine, gratified groan that I feel down to my very core.

My hands have been resting lightly on his chest, but now my fingers dig into the soft cashmere of his sweater, pulling him closer, needing more…

Somewhere, a door slams, followed by the sound of laughing voices coming back down the stairs.

The reality of what I’m doing sinks in and I pull my lips from his with a gasp.

Archer and I stare at each other, breathing hard, the space between us charged with uncertainty and something I don’t know how to name.

I lift a trembling hand to my lips. “Archer…”

His gaze is searching mine, looking for something. “Did that have anything to do with your horoscope?”

I’m still feeling off-balance, so it takes me a second to register his question. “What?”

His fingers, still in my hair, tighten slightly. “Your horoscope, Randy. Did that have anything to do with what just happened?”

“I…” Still trying to sort my thoughts. “Well, yes, but—”

He releases me abruptly, pivoting away from me, digging his fingers into his own hair this time. “ Damn it, Randy!”

Startled and confused by his vehemence, I shake my head. “I don’t understand, what—”

He turns back toward me, his expression closed off and unreadable. “You should go find Christian,” he says in a cold tone I’ve never heard before.

Christian . Guilt flares.

“Don’t,” Archer snaps, seeing my expression. “Don’t feel guilty. It was just an inconsequential New Year’s Eve kiss. That’s all this was. He was doing the same thing upstairs. It didn’t mean anything.”

I swallow, but my feet don’t move.

“You hearing me, Randy?” Archer says, his voice still cold, a little impatient now. “It didn’t mean anything.”

Finally, I snap out of my daze enough to know that I need to protect myself now. Before he can hurt me any further. “Yes, Archer. I have a 170 IQ. I think I can grasp a blatant rejection.”

His jaw tenses, and for a moment I think—hope—he might contradict me, but instead he just gives a single nod.

I exit his studio, chin held high, but the second I slam the door behind me, I drop my chin to my chest, leaning against the wall for support.

My horoscope had been right about the fireworks, and they hadn’t just been in the sky.

But it had also been damn wrong. Those fireworks sure as hell aren’t lighting up my path to new horizons.

In fact, it feels very much like the end of something. Something that never had a chance to even start.