Can't Fix Cupid

No wonder the marble looked familiar. If I would’ve stopped petting myself long enough to actually look around, I would’ve noticed his mahogany desk that I’ve perched on many a time and the floor-to-ceiling windows I’ve often looked out of. I would’ve recognized the black and white photo of a pier on his wall and his accolades framed behind his computer.

I stare over in horror at Warren and his business associate, Mr. H-something-or-other, standing in the doorway, gaping at me in their suits.

Warren looks all hot and serious, with his black hair swept to the side and sexy stubble on his jaw. Mr. H is blonde, attractive, probably in his early thirties, and has a boyish face that is currently lit up with glee.

“So...you can definitely see me?” I ask, just because I feel it’s necessary to double check.

“Oh, we can see you, alright,” Mr. H-man says with a growing smirk.

“Fricken archway,” I mumble.

“What’s that?” Mr. H-nosy asks.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

Between the two men, they have at least eighteen articles of clothing on them combined, which hardly seems fair since I have exactly zero.

I scramble to my feet, but I’m not used to moving in a solid body, so I eat shit immediately. I end up sprawled on the cold marble floor like a flailing starfish, ass cheeks jiggling for all to see.

“For fuck’s sake.”

One second, I hear Warren muttering under his breath, and the next, I’m being hauled to my feet. I look up at him, eyes wide, as he scowls down at me.

“How did you get in here?”

I wince. “Oh, man. You’re using your mean voice. I hate that one.”

His brown eyes narrow. “Who are you?”

“Thirty,

” I blurt out.

He rolls his eyes. “I didn’t ask how fucking old you are. I asked for your name and how the hell you got in here.”

“You look real good for thirty, ma’am,” Mr. H-something interjects behind me.

“Thanks?”

“Not helping,” Warren snaps at him.

Mr. H shrugs. “Just saying.”

Warren makes a noise of frustration deep in his chest. He still hasn’t taken his hands off my arms. It’s a tight hold, but honestly, I’m thankful, because he’s basically holding me upright. There’s a good chance I’d go full starfish-mode again if he lets go.

“Name?” Warren demands again.

“Uh…” I quickly wrack my brain, but even after weeks of flying around the city full of humans, I can’t think of a single name. The only words popping into my brain are cupidity-inspired. Like crush, orgasm, chocolates, erections, love, doggy-style, that sort of thing. I don’t think those will work.

“Come on,” Mr. H-goodcop says. “Better tell him, Miss...”

Warren is looking at me like he’s about to toss me out of his office window, so he’s obviously the bad cop. I panic. “Miss uh...Valentine?”

“Miss Valentine,” Warren sneers.

I’m momentarily distracted from his anger, because his breath smells fantastic. I’m not exactly sure what it smells like, since I’m smelling things for the first time, but whatever it is makes a weird sensation happen around my tongue, and saliva rushes in. I barely stop myself from letting a little drool slip out.

Nice.