Can't Fix Cupid

I have to make an embarrassing sucking sound to keep said drool safely in my mouth.

Warren does not look impressed with me.

“Care to tell me your first name, Miss Valentine?” he asks through clenched teeth.

Wow. He’s really mad.

He’s still holding onto me, and his touch is having its own effect, because my skin has heated up where his hands are gripping me, but I also shiver for some reason when I feel his breath against my face. Having a body apparently means that you can be assaulted by countless senses at once. And yeah, he’s holding me firmly, but it’s a nice firm. Like he’s strong enough to hold me up, but gentle enough not to hurt.

“No, thanks,” I tell him. “I’d rather not.”

I hear a choked laugh behind me from Mr. H-whatever.

“Can I have some clothes? You have plenty to spare,” I tell Warren, suddenly very aware that everything of mine is on display. He seems to notice too, because his eyes slip down before jerking back up again.

I make a half-hearted attempt to cover myself, but really, that nude cruise has sailed. Still, it hardly seems fair that they get to look at me when I haven’t even gotten a chance to properly look at myself yet. As soon as I find a mirror, I’m gonna ogle the shit out of myself.

He finally lets me go, but I find I miss his touch. I also waver on my feet. Luckily, I manage to reach forward and catch myself on the desk before I fall again. He yanks off his suit jacket and shoves it at me.

Ignoring his attitude, I grab it and slip it on. He’s a lot bigger than me, so as soon as I shove my arms through the sleeves, it swallows me up, though the bottom just barely covers the curve of my ass.

“Thanks,” I tell him as I try to do up the buttons. I can’t do it, though. The little fuckers are slippery, and buttons are more difficult to master than one might think. “Huh. Maybe I’m more of a zipper girl.”

Warren sighs, bats my hands out of the way, and buttons it up for me. It’s actually a pretty sexy move, even if he is doing it grudgingly.

When he finishes dressing me, he crosses his arms over his chest. Which is a nice move, because it makes his muscles bulge under his dark dress shirt. “Now, tell me why the fuck you’re in my office and how you got in here, or I’m calling the police and pressing charges.”

Yikes. I definitely don’t want him to call the cops. I’ve floated through plenty of jail cells, and I can tell you, there’s not a lot of love going on in there.

I clear my throat and nervously fidget with the buttons on the jacket. “I got lost?” I answer.

“You got lost,” he repeats flatly, not buying it for a second.

I blow out a puff of breath. Warren doesn’t like to be bullshitted, and he also doesn’t like to feel like someone is wasting his time. So if I want to get on his good side, I need to turn this around.

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you, okay?”

“About fucking time.”

I narrow my eyes at him, making an internal note that I’ll help him work on his tone at a later date.

“I was sent here to match you up with someone.”

Okay, okay. Not exactly one hundred percent true, but it’s true enough. I need to make enough Matches to meet my quota, and my own personal vow insists that he be one of them. Might as well get started.

He stares at me in disbelief, his brown eyes unblinking. “What?”

“You know. Match you up. Dates. Sex. Love.”

Mr. H starts cracking up. “Oh, shit, this is fucking great, Knight!” he guffaws. “You got sent a fucking hooker.”

I whirl around. “Hey! I’m not a hooker!”

Warren glances down at my wrist. “You have triple Xs tattooed on you,” he points out dryly, as if this fact definitely makes me a hooker.

“That’s my cupid number,” I insist.

Mr. H laughs harder at that, even going so far as to clutch his stomach, like this is giving him an ab workout.