Can't Fix Cupid

“Crowd surf?”

“Definitely,” I say. “What else...Oh! I want to try a vibrator. I’ve heard they’re amazing.”

Warren opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but then closes it and tugs at his collar.

“Get a massage...take a pottery class,” I go on. “Go to a movie theater, oh, do a body shot! And go skinny dipping, jump in a bounce house, play poker, go to a roller derby, play a video game, and... umm…” I wrack my brain. “Hold a snake. That seems fun.”

He blinks at me for a few seconds like he’s waiting to see if I’m going to continue or not. “Is that it?”

“That’s all I can think of at the moment.”

He looks relieved. “That’s quite a list.”

“I know! It’s gonna be awesome. Do you have a list?”

He stares at me for a beat. “Like a bucket list? No.”

“You should, they’re fun,” I tell him with enthusiasm.

My very own live my second life to the fullest to-do list. I’ll be able to do so many things. My stomach flips in excitement at the thought.

Oh, wait.

That’s not excitement.

I look up at Warren in horror as I feel it.

My stomach clenching. My throat spasming.

Disaster is imminent.

Acidic, burning, vile fluid comes rushing up from my gut, and vomit suddenly starts spewing out of my mouth in an uncontrollable explosion.

Colorful chunks of vegan sandwich and a way too spicy Moroccan stew dish jump out of my throat like a damned jack popping out of a box. There’s no anticipating it or hope to stop it from happening.

It’s right here, in the middle of the Californian sidewalk, standing with one of the richest, most well-known, successful CEOs of all time, that I upchuck all over his Berluti dress shoes.

It’s loud. Colorful. Gag worthy. People passing by let out a collective “eww.”

Yep, I spoke too soon.

This. This right here is the most embarrassing experience of my nine-hour life.

Chapter 15

Warren

“I’m dying.”

I glance over at the pink-haired female currently straddling my bath mat.

She has her head sunk in the toilet, so every time she speaks, her voice echoes off the porcelain.

“You’re not dying,” I tell her as I place a glass of water and some nausea medication on the floor next to her.

As soon as she vomited on my shoes outside of the restaurant, her knees promptly gave out. Good thing I have quick reflexes and was able to catch her by the waist before she fell.

She couldn’t tell me where she lived, but even if my GPS could’ve located the right nudist colony—and fuck, I had no idea there were so many—I didn’t think it would be polite to shove her in the first cab I saw, given her condition. I may be an asshole, but I’m not that bad.