He chuckles, not unkindly.
“Kintsugi is a Japanese technique that involves repairing broken ceramic with gold lacquer. Instead of throwing the piece away, they fix it, make it whole again. Except it’s not exactly wholeagain, not really. The original piece is fundamentally changed because it was broken. So the repairs make it whole, but in a different way. And instead of hiding the flaws of what was broken, it’s been made beautiful because of its new scars. Do you see what I mean?”
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen examples of this on the internet, and the resulting pieces were undeniably beautiful. But I’m having trouble following his point.
“Not really…”
“It’s like this,” he brushes a lock of hair from his forehead. “Whenyouthink of the bad parts of love, you’re only thinking about the broken pieces that get left behind. WhenIthink about love—including stuff like heartbreak and grief and loss—I’m thinking of what comes after: the new, beautifulwhole. Scars and all.”
At this explanation, I feel my eyes prickle.Shit.I’ve never thought about love this way—as a mix of good and bad, broken pieces that can be mended. And maybe if I had…
Cupid turns toward me, but I don’t dare meet his eyes. I don’t want him to see the tears threatening to fall. If he were to ask me why,exactly, I’m reacting this way, I wouldn’t know what to say. Or, rather, I know what I could say, but I’m not prepared to say it aloud.
But Cupid doesn’t ask.
He doesn’t say anything at all.
Instead, he reaches across the seat and takes my hand in his, giving it a squeeze before letting both of our hands rest against the sun-warmed leather.
And we stay like that until the sun begins to set, and we can see the bright lights of Vegas on the horizon.
11
Felicity
As we’re driving into the city, I take in the sky—muddled with white clouds and tinged with burnt orange, every shade of pink and purple. The lights of the Las Vegas skyline paint a twinkling constellation on the other side of the windshield.
I’ve never been to Vegas before—never had a reason—and I expected to be unimpressed. But I find it’s beautiful in its own way: the mix of old and new, of natural desert and artificial structures. It’s also hot as hell, and I can feel my hand growing sweaty on top of Cupid’s. I’ve been telling myself tolet gofor the past ten minutes, but I fear his touch is grounding me. I didn’t realize I was so nervous about accepting this last-minute speaking invitation—my primary reaction was excitement. Now, though, as the city closes in and the time to my presentation creeps nearer, I feel anxiety squeezing at me.
And so I leave our hands, tangled and sweaty, as they are between us. I expect Cupid to pull away at any minute, but he seems perfectly content. We’re locked in a silent game of chicken.
Until my anxiety ramps up to critical mass because,oh no, I forgot to handle one very crucial detail for this last-minute trip. “Shit!” I yank my hand away now, needing it to slap my palm against my forehead. In my periphery, I see Cupid flex the hand that was just holding mine.
I don’t have a hotel room booked for myself, let alone rooms for both of us. What a stupid oversight, and one I wouldn’t typically make. Today has just been…distracting.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, thoroughly confused.
“I don’t have a hotel room reserved,” I cry. “And the hotel rooms are all going to be sold out because this conference is a big deal, and I was lucky to get invited last minute because I need the networking, but now I don’t have a place to stay, and—”
“Whoa, whoa!” Cupid’s palms go up, placating. “Breathe.”
I suck in a deep breath, immediately choke on a gob of my own saliva, and start hacking.
Cupid reaches over to rub small, soothing circles between my shoulders as I cough up a lung and try to stay in my lane. “Look, just leave it up to me, okay? Drop me off at the hotel—I’ll handle the rest.”
The truth is, there are about a million places to stay. It’s Vegas after all. But the weirdness of the day and the long drive have hit me all at once. And that was before I remembered that I should be stressing over my presentation. Of course, I could do it in my sleep…but that doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking.
I look at Cupid with watery eyes, still recovering from my spit-choke panic. “What areyougoing to do about it?”
Cupid straightens his sleeves and flashes an easy smile. “Have some faith, Love.”
Eventhough I’m usually the girl who wants to do everything on her own, who refuses help—especially from men—I decide to trust him in this. So, I guide the giant gas guzzler through an obstacle of cars and people and drop him off at the hotel’s entrance. Then I take my own sweet time to park and collect myself.
Crush the presentation. Win the bet. Build your app.
The only thing between me and getting out of this three-day gamble with everything I’ve been working towards is myself—and one very strange, very sexy god.
But, of course, trusting a man—even if he is a god—is always a mistake.
