God of Temptation (Immortal Matchmakers, Inc)

“Really?”

“Yes. How do you feel about skipping the pants altogether?”

Normally, Zac wouldn’t care about showing off the godly goods. But this body? “What did you have in mind?”

I can’t believe I’m dressed like this. Zac’s ride pulled up in front of the two-story, Spanish-style villa with bright red bougainvillea hedges and tons of fancy cars crammed in the circular driveway. He shut the Prius’s door, cursing his utter lack of coolness tonight.

Not only couldn’t he drive his red mustang, but he had to depend on lowly humans to get around.

Worst of all is this outfit. But it was either this or come to the party in those brown pants, and he was not about to ask Tula to dance with two cloth Hula-Hoops around his cankles.

Zac made his way to the front door and rang the bell. The hum of voices, laughter, and music poured through an open window at the front of the home.

As he waited, he fumbled with his black bow tie. Greystone swore it gave Zac the illusion of having a neck. The tuxedo shirt checked the “I’m successful” box, while the downstairs said “I’m a cultured man who knows how to have fun.”

Please don’t let there be any wind tonight. Please? Zac looked down at his green plaid kilt and snarled. A demon in a kilt. Now I’ve seen everything.

The wrought-iron door popped open, and Zac was greeted by a tall, slender woman with red hair. Not a good sign. He’d come to expect a disaster every time he saw red hair.

“May I help you?” The woman lifted a coppery brow, disdain written all over her face. Was this really how ugly people were treated? It was kind of crummy. Personally, he was used to people falling all over themselves when he walked into a room with his badass shiny mane of black hair, his turquoise eyes, and olive skin. His tall, perfectly muscled frame was like a manly Christmas tree that women just wanted to hang from.

“Yes, I am meeting my woma—I mean I am meeting my friends here.”

“And your friends would be…?” she asked in a snotty tone.

Seriously? This woman was not going to let him in? He was a fucking god, for gods’ sake! “Tula and her tall, heinous-looking sidekick, Gol—”

“You should talk, mister.” Gola appeared in a big black tentlike frock, a frown on her drooling lips. Her long blonde hair was back in a braid, looking greasier than ever.

“He’s with you?” asked the woman.

“Yeah. So go find some Seagram’s wine coolers or blueberry hard seltzer or whatever mean skinny girls drink these days.”

The woman narrowed her eyes and disappeared into the crowd.

Gola stared down at Zac.

“Thank you for that,” he said, “and sorry about the hideous comment.”

She held up her bony hand to stop him. “Don’t want to hear it. I’m perfectly aware that I’m no prize in the looks department and that my face is a fountain of slobber. You coming in or not, Hilbert?”

He nodded and entered. “Where’s Tula?”

“Over there.” Gola jerked her head to the side. “Just don’t get your hopes up. She seems to only be interested in men who are…well, not you.”

He smiled tightly. “Like you, I am well aware that this package is no prize, but there is more to me than what you see.”

Her eyes drifted down to his nether region. “Please keep it that way. I really don’t want to see what’s under your sporran.”

“Excellent choice. Well, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Good luck.” Gola gestured toward the door leading to the jam-packed living room. Tula had been right. Everyone here was tall, tan, beautiful, and dressed in casual but expensive-looking clothes. Designer jeans, silk tops, and strappy heels for the women. Jeans and blazers for the guys.

Zac entered the living room but didn’t spot Tula. Dammit. I can’t see shit in this body. Normally, his seven-foot-tall body towered over everyone in a room. He could see if a person had a healthy scalp, needed a touch-up on their roots, or required dandruff shampoo.

Suddenly, the sound of Tula’s sweet laughter filtered through the noise, rising above everything else.

“Excuse me. Excuse me.” Zac pushed his way through the crowd, eliciting laughs and comments about his outfit:

“Never seen a turnip in a skirt before.”

“Wow. Someone got hit with the ugly stick.”

“Poor man. How does he look at himself without throwing up?”

Assholes. Zac entered the huge all-white kitchen with crimson-red cupboards. A large group congregated around the kitchen island, where Tula sat in a tight black dress, cleavage out, legs crossed. She was smiling and flirting with three men while she sipped champagne.

What the…? He pushed his way over, sliding between two of the men. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Her blue eyes drifted down, down, down to meet his. “Oh, Hilbert. You made it.” Her tone said she couldn’t be more unimpressed by his presence. “What are you wearing?”