“Is everything okay, Liv?”
Her throat chose the worst possible moment to grow impossibly tight. “Mm-hmm. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
Dad went quiet. “Are you okay on money, because I don’t have much, but I can send you—”
“No. I’m good. It’s just been a long day. There was a plumbing problem at my old apartment; that’s why I moved. I’m—I’m really fine. I promise.”
Dad hmmed over the line. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She forced a laugh. “I’m actually doing really well, otherwise. Lori’s letting me take point on a wedding, and it’s—it’s a really big deal, Dad.”
“Good for you, Liv. I’m sure you’re going to be great.”
Cat hopped off the other end of the couch and stretched, letting out a sweet, contented-sounding meow. At least one of them was feeling right at home.
“Enough about me. How are you? When’s your next doctor’s appointment?”
“Next Tuesday, I think. Or Wednesday, maybe? I’ve got it written down somewhere.”
Written down somewhere. All she could do was shake her head. “Speaking of writing things down, how’s your food diary going? You are still keeping up with it, right?”
Dad grunted. “Mm-hmm.”
Yeah, that sounded promising. “Dad.”
“I am. Honest.”
“And you’re filling it out properly?”
Left to his own devices, Dad would subsist on a diet of pork rinds and TV dinners laden with enough sodium to float a brick.
Dad chuckled. “It amazes me how you manage to hover from a hundred miles away. It’s a talent, really.”
“You’re exaggerating.” She smiled. “It’s only fifty miles.”
“I’m fine. I’m doing everything the doctor asked me to. And I’m even working fewer hours, okay? You worry too much.”
She worried the right amount. A heart attack was nothing to joke about, even a mild one.
“I’m glad you’re working less. That’s a relief. Stress isn’t good for you.”
Dad gave a soft grunt. “Why don’t you leave the worrying to me, okay? That’s my job. I should be worrying about you.”
“And like I said, you don’t need to worry about me. This wedding could be huge. If I pull this off, Lori’s going to promote me. That means a raise and more events and—this is what I came here for.”
Event planning. Turning other people’s dreams into a reality, bringing them to life. That was what Olivia wanted.
“How’s everything else going up there?” He coughed. “You, uh, meet anyone?”
“Dad.”
“I just want you to be happy, Livvy.”
She could be—she was. She was doing just fine on her own. Just fine. “I’m good.”
“Must be nice at least, having a familiar face around now,” Dad said. “Margot.”
Nice wasn’t quite the word she’d pick. Dizzying, maybe. Definitely surreal.
“Mm-hmm.” She pulled her phone from her ear and checked the time. “Look, I should I let you go. I’m pretty beat.”
“All right. Love you, kid.”
“Love you, too, Dad. Talk soon.”
Chapter Four
What Cocktail Should You Order Based on Your Zodiac Sign?
Aries—Dirty Vodka Martini
Taurus—French 75
Gemini—Long Island Iced Tea
Cancer—Old Fashioned
Leo—Espresso Martini
Virgo—Gin and Tonic
Libra—Cosmopolitan
Scorpio—Manhattan
Sagittarius—Negroni
Capricorn—Vesper
Aquarius—White Russian
Pisces—Mojito
Bell and Blanchard Brewing Company, a small, locally owned and operated brewery, was the latest—and largest, save for OTP—partner Oh My Stars had teamed up with to date. In the past, Elle and Margot had diversified OMS’s revenue stream by accepting sponsorships and paid advertisements from zodiac-centric brands they themselves liked enough to rep—perfume, astro-themed activewear—but this was a step above. Oh My Stars would be collaborating with the brewery to launch a series of astrology-inspired beers, one for each sign, to be released during the corresponding season, beginning with Aries and ending with Pisces.
Margot was jazzed about the partnership. She was firmly in the beer good camp. What she was less jazzed about was spearheading the partnership sans Elle.
Not that Elle wasn’t involved—this was an Oh My Stars venture after all, and Oh My Stars was and would forever be run fifty-fifty by them both—but as their business had grown, boomed, so had the need to delegate. They’d done some variation of delegation since day one; Elle handled the majority of the chart readings they offered by phone or Zoom, in part because clients responded better to Elle’s outgoing, bubbly personality, and also because Elle genuinely enjoyed the one-on-one interaction more than Margot did. Margot preferred the behind-the-scenes work infinitely more—website maintenance, content creation for their social media channels, research, and now beer test tasting.
Margot was living the dream.
She just, you know, wished that she got to do it with Elle. These days, as busy as they both were, Margot was lucky if she got to see Elle outside of their weekly OMS planning chat . . . once? Twice? More often if the whole group was getting together at Elle and Darcy’s for game night, like they would be soon. So while Margot was meeting with brewers and discussing hops and yeast and IBU, sampling Bell and Blanchard’s current brews while distilling each zodiac sign into traits that could be represented in beer, Elle was handling back-to-back sessions with clients.
Things were changing, and it wasn’t bad, but it was taking some time for her to get used to it.
Margot juggled a complimentary six-pack of beer from the tasting she’d just attended—the first of many promised to her by the brewery—and flipped through the mail as she stepped inside her apartment. Credit card statement, phone bill, junk, junk, more junk, coupon to Sephora for her birthday next month. She tossed the stack on the entry table along with her keys, set the beer on the floor, then reached down to unlace her boots and—
“Jesus.” Margot jumped back and gasped. Cat sat in the middle of the foyer, head cocked to the side, staring up at her with those peridot-green eyes.
That was also going to take some getting used to.
She cleared her throat. “Hi, Cat.”
The cat blinked at her.
Wait. Shit. Eye contact was a no-no. Then again, this was Margot’s apartment. Did she really want to demonstrate deference inside her own domain?
Cat opened her mouth and yawned out a meow that showed off her many pointy teeth and—Margot quickly averted her eyes. That answered that question.
She shuffled past, boots still on, and booked it down the hall to her bedroom, shutting the door once she was inside. Everything she’d told Elle about maybe adopting a cat? Total bullshit. Cats had terrified Margot ever since her great-aunt Marlena’s fluffy white Persian had fallen through the canopy of Margot’s bed, waking Margot up from a dead sleep by landing on her . . . claws out and yowling. They’d both been fine, but the scars—mostly only emotional, thank God—had lingered.