“Maybe,” I concede, taking a long draw from my drink. “But the worst ones ruin your fucking life.”
“Hear-hear!” she says, lifting her glass in the air. “And Iwouldn’t have it any other way.”
Once again, I am in awe of my best friend, who lives life without apology, always wearing her heart on her sleeve. Couldn’t be me. In my world, love is fleeting, but a 401k is for a lifetime.
“I’ll get us the next round,” I say, finally easing into the idea of a night out on the town, even if it’s a Tuesday. Even if tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.
“The usual, please! And I don’t know if I told you—” Janae pauses. I glare at her.
“Please tell me you didn’t plan a date tonight.”
She grimaces. “I did. I’m sorry! She’s going out-of-town tomorrow, and tonight was the only night that worked for both of us. But you have me for a whole hour, okay?”
I consider getting mad at her, at least on principle, but actually…
I get out of here in an hour tops? I couldn’t have asked for better news.
“No worries,” I tell her, and I mean it. I hop down and push my way to the bar. I don’t glide, the crowds don’t part, and not a single head turns my way. If Janae is a beacon, I am a black cloud — a bad omen men know instinctively to avoid if they don’t want to encounter trouble ahead.
2
Cupid
I’ve been among mortals for thousands of years, off and on, and there’s one thing I’ve never been able to understand about humans. They spent millennia figuring out how to make their lives as comfortable as possible—indoor plumbing, electricity, memory foam mattresses—yet they still insist on using metal bar stools that make your ass go numb within minutes.
I’m shifting in my seat at the bar, trying to get feeling back in both cheeks, when someone sidles up next to me, leaning in close to look at the cocktail menu. I glance to my right and catch a glimpse of an absolute stunner of a woman. Dark hair, pale skin, cherry red lips, the kind of curves that men used to fight wars over. (And I would know; I’ve seen many of those wars up close and personally. Might have even caused a few of them.)
I weigh my options. On one hand, I could keep my mouth shut, sip my drink in silence, and not try to talk to her. But on the other hand…
I peek at her again. Yep, option one is not happening.
Besides, tonight I’m in town on business—business that’s being mysteriously kept secret from me—and who could blame me for indulging in some pleasure while I’m here, too? I’ve got time and a beautiful woman next to me.
“Sorry to bother you—” I say, turning to her with an easy smile.
“Then don’t,” she replies immediately, staring straight ahead.
That startles a laugh out of me. “Good one.” I raise my drink to her as a sign of acknowledgment and defeat. And at this, shedoesspare me a glance—and the tiniest lift of her lips—probably just happy to find out I’m not the kind of guy who’s going to cuss a woman out for rejecting me.
No, that’s not my style at all. In fact, I’m a sucker for a woman who wants to put me in my place. Which, of course, means I only want to break the icemore—but I need to play my cards right.
I don’t try to speak to her again as she orders and waits, but I do observe her from the corner of my eye. She holds herself with her back straight and keeps an impassive expression the entire time. Her whole vibe screamsdon’t fuck with me, from her blunt bangs to her dark red lips. Consider me intrigued.
When she grabs her drinks from the bar—two vodka sodas, extra lime—and turns to leave, I lift my chin. “It was nice not bothering you,” I say.
Incredibly, against all odds, she laughs at this—a throaty, sultry laugh that travels through me and settles in my lower spine. “Feel free to do it anytime.”
The full force of her smile hits me like a ton of bricks, and I’m a goner before she’s even walked away.
(I admit to staring just a little as she goes. You wouldn’t criticize a man for admiring a beautiful work of art, would you? That bodyisa work of art.)
I signal to the bartender that I’ll have another drink and make a plan to camp out here for a while. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get a second chance.
When I twist in my stool—ass cheeks numb from lack of circulation—I scan the room to look for where the mystery bombshell ended up. I find her sitting at a table with her friend. She points toward the bar, and I catch both of them looking directly at me, laughing.
You know, I could take that as a bad sign, but I’m an optimist—it comes with the territory of being Cupid. I choose to believe it’s good-natured, that I must have charmed her in some way.
I tip my glass toward her, and she does the same with her drink, smiling big.
