interpret your chart with the information you know to be true about yourself, so I can’t ask for a better self-analysis than that.” He sat back in the chair feeling very smug.
“I guess that makes sense. All right. I’ll show you mine.”
“That sounded sort of dirty.”
“Only because of where your mind is.”
“Touché.” He was having fun. He couldn’t remember when he’d had more fun.
“We need to move the cart so I can get out. I’m trapped back here.”
“Oh, right.” Maybe his brain wasn’t working as well as he thought. Scooting back the desk chair, he moved the cart away from the bed. “I’ll put this out in the hall while you print out your chart.”
“Okay, but keep the roses.”
“I will.” He grabbed the vase and put it on her bedside table. Then he started wheeling the cart toward the door immediately because he needed the distraction from the lustful thoughts that had started the minute the cart was no longer an obstacle between them.
He knew enough basic psychology to understand why he’d be ready to roll even though he didn’t have a complete personality profile on her. Men typically didn’t need that kind of info before sex, whereas women tended to want it. Not all of them, though. He was a twenty-first century male and knew better than to make sweeping generalizations about either gender.
But he’d also taken a class in anthropology for the hell of it, and that had educated him about cultural mating habits. Bill’s hypothesis about women dating bad boys until they needed a steady guy to help them raise the kids was likely true. Therefore a woman, especially one thinking about settling down, would want to know everything she could about the man she had sex with.
But even if he didn’t share those instincts, he was an educated, rational male creature who realized that mindless copulating would leave him feeling . . . terrific. Oh, hell, he’d talked himself out of accepting her unspoken invitation to sleep with her. Was he stupid or what?
She obviously had all the personal information she needed to make that a worthwhile experience. If he didn’t, he could have caught up later! He was officially an idiot who didn’t deserve to have sex with Darcie Ingram, because instead of kissing her senseless, he’d asked to see her damned birth chart.
By the time he’d positioned the cart out in the hall, come back into the room and flipped the security lock on the door, he was cursing himself for being a fool. Any other guy would be in bed with a naked Darcie by now. Not Dr. Nolan Bradbury. Oh, no. He required an astrological birth chart before he took the plunge.
He noticed that she pulled two sheets of paper out of the printer instead of only one. “You have two charts?”
“The other one’s my transit chart. It’s not important right now.”
“What’s a transit chart?” Yeah, he’d have to ask that instead of taking both charts out of her hands and pulling her into his arms. What a doofus.
“A transit chart describes what’s going on in a person’s life now and what might happen in the future.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “I might as well hear about that, too.”
“You mean mine or yours?”
“What do you mean, mine or yours? Do I have a transit chart?”
Her cheeks turned pink. “I had some extra time, so I created one for you. I wasn’t going to say anything about that until . . . well, depending on how the birth chart discussion ended up and whether you were open to more information.”
He felt as if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate that comparison so he kept it to himself. “So what we have is a birth chart for each of us, and a . . . transit chart? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“A transit chart for each of us.” He started to add what more could you want? But that would be sarcastic and he was trying very hard not to be a jerk about a subject she held dear. If someone mocked his team’s
“I guess that makes sense. All right. I’ll show you mine.”
“That sounded sort of dirty.”
“Only because of where your mind is.”
“Touché.” He was having fun. He couldn’t remember when he’d had more fun.
“We need to move the cart so I can get out. I’m trapped back here.”
“Oh, right.” Maybe his brain wasn’t working as well as he thought. Scooting back the desk chair, he moved the cart away from the bed. “I’ll put this out in the hall while you print out your chart.”
“Okay, but keep the roses.”
“I will.” He grabbed the vase and put it on her bedside table. Then he started wheeling the cart toward the door immediately because he needed the distraction from the lustful thoughts that had started the minute the cart was no longer an obstacle between them.
He knew enough basic psychology to understand why he’d be ready to roll even though he didn’t have a complete personality profile on her. Men typically didn’t need that kind of info before sex, whereas women tended to want it. Not all of them, though. He was a twenty-first century male and knew better than to make sweeping generalizations about either gender.
But he’d also taken a class in anthropology for the hell of it, and that had educated him about cultural mating habits. Bill’s hypothesis about women dating bad boys until they needed a steady guy to help them raise the kids was likely true. Therefore a woman, especially one thinking about settling down, would want to know everything she could about the man she had sex with.
But even if he didn’t share those instincts, he was an educated, rational male creature who realized that mindless copulating would leave him feeling . . . terrific. Oh, hell, he’d talked himself out of accepting her unspoken invitation to sleep with her. Was he stupid or what?
She obviously had all the personal information she needed to make that a worthwhile experience. If he didn’t, he could have caught up later! He was officially an idiot who didn’t deserve to have sex with Darcie Ingram, because instead of kissing her senseless, he’d asked to see her damned birth chart.
By the time he’d positioned the cart out in the hall, come back into the room and flipped the security lock on the door, he was cursing himself for being a fool. Any other guy would be in bed with a naked Darcie by now. Not Dr. Nolan Bradbury. Oh, no. He required an astrological birth chart before he took the plunge.
He noticed that she pulled two sheets of paper out of the printer instead of only one. “You have two charts?”
“The other one’s my transit chart. It’s not important right now.”
“What’s a transit chart?” Yeah, he’d have to ask that instead of taking both charts out of her hands and pulling her into his arms. What a doofus.
“A transit chart describes what’s going on in a person’s life now and what might happen in the future.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. “I might as well hear about that, too.”
“You mean mine or yours?”
“What do you mean, mine or yours? Do I have a transit chart?”
Her cheeks turned pink. “I had some extra time, so I created one for you. I wasn’t going to say anything about that until . . . well, depending on how the birth chart discussion ended up and whether you were open to more information.”
He felt as if he’d fallen down the rabbit hole, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate that comparison so he kept it to himself. “So what we have is a birth chart for each of us, and a . . . transit chart? Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“A transit chart for each of us.” He started to add what more could you want? But that would be sarcastic and he was trying very hard not to be a jerk about a subject she held dear. If someone mocked his team’s
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