CHAPTER ONE
Since when didValentine’s Day get associated with a diaper-clad babe donningwings? Holy Zeus, I really must have gone wrong somewhere along the line.
First off, I was a grown woman. Second off? Flying around half-naked and shooting pointy-tipped projectiles? Uncalled for.
Despite all the hatred in the world, love really did make it rotate on its axis. Even if that love was a flash in the pan. Even if the myths painted the legendary god of desire as a man-child, piercing hearts with magical arrows. Even if mere mortals scoffed at the existence of immortal beings.
The stories rang true to the tune of an eternal matchmaker at work. That someone was me—Charlee Amoretti. Bound to the mortal plane by the Fates, destined to bind all hearts to another, and sworn to abide by the declarations of the gods.
A staticky teenage voice interrupted my thoughts. “Welcome to Figueroa’sFast FoodFunhouse! May I take your order?”
Yet… there I was in the drive-through of a place that had been shut down three times by the health department in the last year.
“Hi. Can I please have two lukewarm strawberry milkshakes, the not-spicy-at-all spicy chicken sandwich, a medium soggy-as-fuck fries, and an order of the questionable-looking heart-shaped chicken nuggets?”
Don’tjudge me.Matchmaking during the month of February is hard work.
The lingering silence on the other side of the speaker box rang louder than explosive heartbreaks.
Finally, the kid on the other side of the intercom recovered enough tostutter outa response. “Um,yeah. Whatever you say?—”
Remembering one more thing, I interrupted, “Oh! Do you have any of those mini cream puffs thatalways seem to bemissing the actual cream?” Icouldn’tforget to grab an orderofthose.?
“FigueroaFluffs? I think so…” he responded with clear uncertainty. Whether the question wasregardingthe inventory of the cheaply imitated pastry or my sanity remained undetermined.
“Good, I’ll take an order of those, too.” I nodded to myself in satisfaction and pulled away from the intercom to the first window without waiting for a response.
Sitting there in my blue pickup truck, my thumbimpatiently tapped the steering wheel while I waited. I half expected to wait at least ten minutes before being acknowledged by an employee. To my pleasant surprise, they only made me wait eight minutes,practically afucking record.
After an exchange of far too much money for the craptacular food, I pulled away as the smell of grease and regret filled the interior of my vehicle. There went the new car smell that I had been relishing for the past week.?
What I didn’t sacrifice for love.
Driving across town, I blasted songs from my playlist of catchiest love tunes. Singing my heart out, I amped myself up for my next job.
Today’s lucky couple involved an introverted banker, thrice divorced and contemplating donating his sperm to the local bank. The lucky lady? His therapist’s college-age daughter. That girl was about to liveouther best age-gap fantasy.
I got to play the role of an unassuming and completely ordinary Fast Ur Food delivery driver. The service was known for taking online orders for local eateries and delivering them withflair.
Almost missing my exit off the highway, I slammed on my brakes and jerked the wheel to veer right across three lanes of traffic. A chorus of horns blared behind me accompanied by a slew of wild gestures visible in my rearview mirror.
Partly hanging out the open window, my burgundy-brown hair whipping wildly in the wind, I waved with abright smile. “Love thy neighbor! He may love you in unexpected ways, friend!” Iyelledmy (unsolicited) professional adviceatthe other drivers.
Within minutes of navigating the local roads, I pulled up to a small community park. The picnic table in the gazebo overlooking the duck pond was empty.
Perfectly on time.
Feeling my excitement building in my veins, the electrical energy crackled just beneath my skin at the thought of what was to come.
Grabbing the bag of quickly-cooling fast food, I hopped out of my truck and resisted the urge to skip over to the gazebo. Instead, Imaintaineda more controlled pace thatbordered onpower walking.
Under the guise of a simple meal delivery driver, I deposited the bag of food on the weathered surface of the table. Taking a step back, I studied the sight before me. One hand rested on my chin, the other holding the elbow of that same arm. Thespitting image ofa contemplative philosopher.
This needs a little something. A spark of romance, a pinch of passion, or maybe…
I snapped my fingers, and a few embellishments appeared alongside the food. Two neon bracelets linked together, LED tealights—because I refused tobe responsible forburning down a local park, and a little white card that donned a romantic poem:
Roses are red.
