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I shrug, cheeks billowed as I swallow down my booze. “I dunno. For someone who sure as hell isn’t saintly, it seems like a weird choice.”
Oh, shit.
Did I say that aloud?
Saint leans back on his hands, a grin tugging at his full lips. “Fair enough.”
“What’s your last name? How old are you?” I can’t help but fire questions at him.
“It’s Hennessy. I’m thirty-three.”
I can imagine all the college girls swooning over their young, attractive professor.
It’s information overload, but the more he shares, the more I want to know. “When is your birthday?”
“November eighteenth.”
“Ahh, Scorpio, that explains a lot,” I reveal, swallowing down my rum. When he waits for me to elaborate, I say, “Part of your psyche resides in a very dark place. You also don’t like people disagreeing with you because you need to be in control. Tick. Tick.” I mimic a giant ticking motion in the air, making Saint smirk.
“But you’re also brave, loyal.” I decide to add because Scorpios are one of the most devoted star signs. “Scorpios are extremely passionate, and when they…fall in love…” I pause as I’m suddenly getting hot. “They are very dedicated and faithful.”
Saint watches me closely, sipping his drink.
I have no idea why I feel the need to share this with him. He doesn’t really seem like the horoscope type. But being able to share this with him is inadvertently telling him how I perceive him.
“And what star sign are you?” he asks, surprising me.
Licking my lips, I answer, “Cancer. My birthday is on June twenty-fourth.”
“So I suppose Cancer and Scorpios are the two signs which constantly argue?” he quips.
I can’t help but laugh. “Actually, no. We are two of the most compatible signs,” I confess, averting my gaze. “It’s been said Cancer can understand the needs of their Scorpio partner to help them express their deepest, darkest emotions in life. When a Scorpio falls in love, trust is the most important thing to them. Cancer just wants someone to share their life with, so they have no reason to lie or cheat.”
“So Cancers are the light, and Scorpios are the darkness?” he questions, which has me lifting my chin slowly.
Locking eyes, I shake my head. “No. They both care too much. They just express that emotion in different ways.” The air suddenly heats, and referring to the signs and not us makes this easier to confess. “They connect emotionally, intellectually, and…physically. Once a bond has been formed…the relationship tends to be long-term.”
Saint seems to ponder everything I just shared.
I’m left dizzy and lightheaded, and it has nothing to do with the rum. Acknowledging this is like looking in the mirror at Saint’s and my relationship. The attraction between us—well, from my end—was instant. He has never lied to me, and when he touched me…my skin blisters at the memory.
I’m drawn to his full lips. They glisten with rum under the moonlight. I wonder what they would taste like. I remember Saint voicing his no kissing rule to the woman he had no qualms fucking. I wonder if this rule would also apply to me?
“And what star sign was your husband?” The mention of Drew has my drunken brain scoffing instead of mourning our bullshit relationship.
“Gemini,” I reply, curling my lip. “Ironically, one of the worst matches with a Cancer. I should have known not to trust him. The Gemini symbol depicts two entities—a perfect reflection of his two-faced nature.”
Saint appears pleased by my response. “Then why did you marry him?”
There isn’t judgment, only curiosity in his question. “Because I wanted to believe in fairy tales. But I should know by now they don’t exist.” I throw back my drink, relishing in the burn as the rum flows down my throat.
When thinking of what Drew did, an anger surfaces as my sadness has now taken a back seat. “That asshole,” I say with a slight slur. I am way past drunk, but I don’t care. “I can’t believe he used me like that. You must think I’m a fucking idiot.”
I have just admitted that I believe Saint. The facts all point to Drew selling me like livestock at a farmers’ market. Covering my eyes, I’m suddenly embarrassed. I can’t believe I fell for his bullshit.
But when Saint’s fingers gently remove my hands so he can look into my eyes, a whimper escapes me. “I don’t think that. Not at all.”
“Then what do you think?” I’m crossing a dangerous line, but I don’t care.
