Eros (Contemporary Mythos Book 4)

Cozying on my fluffy pale pink comforter, I flipped open my laptop. While waiting for it to start up, I took a quick inventory of surrounding essentials.

“Popcorn. Red wine. And—” I tapped my phone, cueing a playlist. The song Crystalline by Amaranthe soothed through the room. I closed my eyes, swaying to the calming sounds of the violin intro.

Propping my elbows in front of the laptop, I took a deep breath. “I can do this. Three-hundred-sixty-five questions and I’ll find my most compatible partner.” The application window popped open, and I bit my cuticles.

What did I have to lose?

The entire year I took to work on the code. That’s what.

Sundays were one of the only days I allowed myself a break from the office. The sun beamed through my sheer white curtains, making the whole process I was about to endure slightly less daunting. I’d opened my window a crack, letting in just enough cool breeze to keep the room fresh and airy. The surrounding ocean landscape paintings I’d hung on my bedroom walls made me wish I were there. On a beach, soaking up the rays and having only one care in the world: what would I eat for dinner.

I slapped my hands against my face. “Focus.” Puffing my cheeks, I squinted at the first question. “Question one: Status of your parents? Starting with a doozy. Great.”

Grimacing, I selected both “Divorced” and “Mother Deceased.” I sipped my wine as I scrolled to the next question.

“Are you a spender or a saver?” I snorted. “I couldn’t afford to be a spender if I wanted to.”

Munching on some popcorn, I bobbed my head to Just Haven’t Met You Yet by Michael Bublé randomly playing from the list.

“What is your favorite—” Heat flushed up my neck. “Sexual position?” Alex had to have snuck that question in there. It most certainly wasn’t at the top of my list of importance.

An hour dwindled on as I answered question after question.

How do you deal when something makes you very angry?

What social cause is most important to you?

Do you think couples should be one hundred percent open about everything?

It’s when I reached question three-hundred-sixty-four that my fingers froze over my keyboard.

Do you believe in soulmates?

The empty wine bottle on my nightstand didn’t contain the answer. Nor did the depleted bowl of popcorn.

I selected “No.” And it stung. A part of me—a tiny microscopic part of me still wanted to believe it was possible. But try as I might, the universe had given me nothing but lemons for my lemonade since I was a kid. Everyone knows authentic lemonade needs a bit of sugar.

I changed my answer to “Yes,” just to see how it’d feel.

“No. No. If this is going to work, I have to be brutally honest.” Punching, not pressing, I re-selected, “No,” and quickly scrolled to the last question.

I’d been staring at the computer screen so long my eyes were dry. I rubbed my knuckles over them and winced before looking back at the laptop.

Did you have a happy childhood?

Yes, and no? Tears welled in my eyes, fingers hovering over the mouse. I regretted not creating a third option for the question.

The memory was as clear as if it were yesterday. It was my tenth birthday, and my dad wanted to celebrate in Scotland. My sister Chelsea had just gone off to college and couldn’t come, making for a vacation with my parents and me. It was my first time there, and having the opportunity to experience a country I found mystical trumped any birthday party with ten of my friends—cake and ice cream be damned.

It rained three out of the four days we were there, forcing my parents to entertain me inside our rented cottage with Dad telling stories of Scottish myth and lore. I’d gotten so excited I wanted to play them out—dress as a princess warrior, fighting the Loch Ness monster alongside my knightly father. To my sheer delight, they’d agreed, and my mom played as a fairy. It’d be one of the last moments we’d be happy and carefree as a family. The last time I’d see mom smile lovingly at my dad. And more importantly, the last day I’d believe in fairy tales or true love.

As soon as we were back on American soil, they broke the news of their divorce to Chelsea and me. Devastation didn’t begin to describe it. We’d seemed so happy. But looking back, I’m sure the signs were there. Expressions of love and admiration between them were more than likely over my happiness. I was too young to notice the anguish in their eyes—the grief of knowing what they’d have to tell me. But I’ll always thank them for that final week in Scotland. A single tear rolled down my cheek as I selected, “Yes.” Despite how the divorce affected me, they did the best they could.

“I wonder if my clients feel this exhausted after finishing this thing. Man-o-me.” After rolling my shoulders, I hit the submit button.

Gathering my empty dishes, I hobbled off the bed, heading to the kitchen. It’d take at least twenty-four hours before the system would tabulate a match. I tossed the bowl into the dishwasher and froze when a chime sound echoed from my laptop speakers.

“No.” I glared at the electronic notebook nestled on my bed. The HP symbol resembled a middle finger flicking me off in the distance. “No possible way.”

Tripping over my area rug and teal-leather lounge chair, I fell onto my bed, staring in disbelief at a new notification on the site.

“It must be an auto-bot or something,” I mumbled, clicking into it.

A match.

The name Adrian Foster stared back at me, and my heart raced.

How could the system have worked that fast?

Two more chime sounds went off, followed by another, and two more. I slapped the laptop shut with a shriek.

“Did someone hack the site? Corrupt the code?” I bit my lips together and hopped off the bed, staring at my computer like a ticking bomb.

Roughly tousling my hair, I bounced on the balls of my feet like a boxer preparing for a fight. Before I could psych myself out, I whipped the laptop open and gazed wide-eyed at the dozen matches.

This is fine. Everything is fine.

Without looking at their profiles, I sent off requests for dates to Adrian Foster and Michael Kohns, the first two matches on the list, without even bothering to look at their photos. I shut the laptop and picked it up to throw across the room but rested it on my table instead. My silent cell phone sat there, taunting me. I designed the system to connect with your phone number while keeping it anonymous. Any time now, Adrian and Mikey would be texting me to set up days and times.

I groaned and grabbed the teal paisley throw pillow from my chair, muffling a scream into it. Had I always been this competitive? Or did Eric truly know how to get under my skin?

“Are you positive you don’t want me to come with you?” Alex stared at me blankly from her desk chair, swiveling.

Taking one last glance at myself in a compact mirror, I snapped it shut and tossed it in my purse. “Yes. I’d rather you not be there if it goes up in flames.”

She continued to rotate back and forth in her chair, slouching far enough to rest her head on the back. “Aw, but I love fire.”

“Hold down the fort. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“Oh? Preemptively planning a nightcap?” She bounced her brow.

“You know I’m not that kind of gal.”

She did one full rotation in her chair. “You could be. All it’d take is the right gentleman.”

After a snort, I said, “Goodnight,” elongating the “I.”

“Do everything I would do,” she shouted at my back.

I slipped my tan wool pea coat over a bright red cocktail dress. Red always seemed to bring out the auburn hidden within my darker locks—an attempt at making more of my heritage shine through. My metallic gold ballet flats clicked against the concrete as I shoved my hands in my jacket pockets and flipped up my collar from the brisk wind.

Once I reached the bar, I paused outside, staring at the blazing logo sign. The neon made faint hissing sounds that increased every time the arrow animated. I looked up at the sky, taking in the twinkling stars and crescent moon.

“To whoever is listening…please make this not be a mistake.” I frowned and then gasped as a shooting star launched across the sky.

Good enough for me.

As soon as I walked in, Eric’s eyes lifted from the woman he talked to at the bar. He’d been smiling, but when his gaze roamed over my attire, the smile turned sultry. He wore another plaid shirt—red and brown. It unnerved me how attractive the pattern made him look. A design I associated exclusively with lumberjacks when worn as a shirt versus a kilt.

“Well, well. I honestly expected you to back out of this.” Eric flipped a glass into his hand, resting it on the bar top and filling it with ice.

“Joke’s on you then. I don’t break my word.” I glanced at the clock hanging on the wall behind him, rhythmically tapping my fingernails.

“Nervous?”

I snapped my gaze to him and answered more abruptly than intended. “What?”

His smile warmed. “Your date?”

“Two, actually. Back-to-back.”

“Wow. Already assuming the first one is going to tank?”

“Not at all. I’ve got quite a few matches, and I need to get through most of them to weed the right one out.”

He leaned on the bar, hugging each of his biceps with his hands. “Is that common?”

“What?” I looked behind me at the door, my heart racing every time a man walked in.

“For someone to have that many matches?”

“Weren’t you supposed to make me a drink?”

“Already done.” He removed a cocktail glass filled with a peach-colored liquid from behind the bar.

I peered into it. “What is this? And what are the floating red balls?”

“Cranberries. This, my dear Elani, is called a Polished Princess. The main ingredient is vanilla vodka.” His lips curved with extra snark.

“You’re hilarious.”

“I do try.” His eyes lifted to the door, and his forearms tensed. “Date number one seems to have arrived.”

After whipping my head over my shoulder to spy a man at the door looking absently around and rubbing his hands together, I snapped my attention back to Eric. “How do you know that’s him?”

“Do you have any idea how many set up dates I see here?”

I clucked my tongue against my teeth. “Touché.” Taking my drink with me, I hopped off the stool.

My date had jet-black cropped hair and terra-cotta skin, which blended well with his brown sports jacket and black pleated pants. When his gaze passed me, he squinted and pointed.

Whose idea was it to not look at their pictures at least?

I squinted back.

“Elani?” He asked, edging closer.

“You must be Adrian, judging from the confused look on your face that I’m sure is on mine too.” I grinned and held out my hand.

His skin was smooth. Really smooth—so soft I questioned whether I’d put on lotion this morning. His sunken deep brown eyes warmed from my touch, and he gestured toward a table. Pulling the chair by the window out for me, I gave a light chuckle as I sat down. He took his seat across from me, the one facing away from the bar. I risked a glance at Eric, and he waved at me—the bastard.

“So, Adrian, what do you do for a living?” I rested my clutch on the table after slipping my jacket off and draping it over the chair.

“I’m a stockbroker.” He folded his hands on the table. “And you?”

Was I so dense to think these dates wouldn’t ask where I worked?

“I run a uh—a dating site.” I bit the inside of my cheek. “The one that matched us.”

His bushy eyebrows rose, and he sat back. “Oh.”

“Is that a problem?”

His thought process melted down his face like butter. “No. No, it’s not. I guess I didn’t expect to hear that.” He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled.

I gave a nervous laugh. “I suppose not.”

“Pardon me for saying, but your accent doesn’t sound Canadian.”

I took a sip of my drink and licked the taste of vodka and pumpkin spice from my lips. “I’m originally from Colorado. I moved here a few years ago to start up my business.”

“Lovely.” His smile hadn’t faded.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Eric appeared out of nowhere with his fingers interlaced behind his back.

Adrian looked up at him, still grinning. “A vodka tonic, please, with a spritz of lime.”

“You got it.” Eric gave me a thumbs up with a cheeky smile as he backed away.

I glared at him, pretending the neon arrow flashing above his head plunged straight into his chest.

“Something the matter?” Adrian’s face went blank.

I launched a hand across the table and placed it on his forearm. “Oh no, no, not at all. I just noticed on TV that Colorado was losing to Dallas. I’m a—big hockey fan.”

Minor hockey fan. Out of all sports, it’s the one I could stand to watch most.

His eyes beamed at my hand still on his arm, and I slid it back to my lap.

“Oh yeah? I’m more of a baseball fan myself. I think it’s more of a nostalgic thing for me.” His gaze dropped to the ground.

“How come?”

“My dad used to take me every few months when I was a kid. I lost him to cancer two years ago.” He didn’t look up.

“I’m so sorry. I lost my mom a couple of years ago. It still stings.”

His eyes met mine, and we had a brief moment of mutual understanding.

This was good. We were connecting.

Eric returned with Adrian’s drink, resting it on the table with a flourish of his hand.

“Could we get an order of buffalo wings, please? Boneless?” Adrian kept his eyes trained on me.

He didn’t even ask me. For all he knew, I could’ve been a vegan.

“Is that what you want, miss?” Eric’s gaze pulled me in, his eyes diving into my soul, searching for the answer he knew I’d bury so deep he’d need a drill.

“Yes. Buffalo wings are super.”

Eric idly shook his head with a smirk before walking off.

“What kind of music do you listen to?” Adrian asked.

I circled the rim of my glass with a finger. “Oh, tons. I’ve got a soft spot for crooners, though.”

“Get out. I love Frank Sinatra. What’s your favorite song?”

I sat up straighter. “Strangers in the Night.”

“This is unreal. Mine too.” He cleared his throat and started to sing. Though he was utterly out of tune, it was adorable.

I laughed, trying not to wince at every botched note.

“Sorry. I’m a horrible singer.” His eyes gleamed.

“Oh, please. I only sound good in the shower.”

My cheeks warmed. Eliciting thoughts of me in the shower at any capacity was not something I wanted to do on a first date.

His face reddened, and we both went silent.

This could work. My algorithm really might work.

“You two doing alright?” Eric aimed the question more at me than both of us.

“Splendid,” I answered before Adrian could.

Eric rubbed his neck. “I’ll be behind the bar if you need anything.”

“Where bartenders usually should be. Imagine that.” I widened my eyes at him, attempting a non-verbal cue of: Get the hell out of here.

Once he was gone, I turned my attention back to Adrian. He held a wing between two fingers and blew on it, his kind eyes beaming at me from across the table.

I could see myself dating a man like Adrian. I really could. He was kind, down-to-earth, had a great job, and even blushed over the idea of me naked.

Slurp.

The sound jolted me from my daydream.

Adrian chomped on a wing with his mouth open as wide as flood gates. After he swallowed, he proceeded to lick the sauce from each individual finger, sucking them dry like the elixir of life covered them.

I froze.

He did too upon noticing me staring at him. “Something wrong?”

I let out a nervous bout of chuckles. “Nope. Nope. Not at all.” After finishing my drink, I shot to my feet. “Is your drink empty? Let me get us another round.” Not letting him answer, I scooped his half-empty glass and power-walked to the bar.

A single eyebrow rose on Eric’s face as I approached, slamming the glasses onto the mahogany.

“Can I have another one of those but with a tad more, I don’t know, alcohol?”

He eyed me sidelong, sliding the glasses away from me. “Things sound like they’re going well.”

“What gives you that impression?” My eye twitched.

He tapped his finger against the glass in his hand, waiting.

“Okay, fine. It was great until he revealed he eats like a hippo.”

“Funny, I would’ve thought him ordering food without asking you would’ve been the deal-breaker.”

“You enjoy this, don’t you? Seeing me squirm? It’s why you made a bet in the first place.”

He sunk his face near mine. He smelled like fresh laundry, cinnamon, spice, and not one damn thing nice. “After this is over, you’ll be able to tell me why I made a bet, and I won’t have to say a word.”

“Is this what you live for? Like, riddles?”

“Nah, I’m more about passion, honestly.” He stepped back. “And I’m pretty fond of archery.”

“Archery? What are you, Robin Hood?”

“Better.” One of his eyes halfway winked before both fell in a blink.

“What are you doing with your eyes?”

“…winking.” His gaze shifted, looking uncomfortably perplexed.

“That was definitely a blink. You closed both eyes.”

“No, I didn’t.” He glared.

“Yes. You did.” I glared back.

“Why don’t you be a big girl and go call it off with Hippo?”

“Fine,” I seethed, holding my head high and turning away.

The hard part wasn’t breaking the news to Adrian that we weren’t meant to be. It was the fact a second date would arrive in moments. In hindsight, I probably should’ve scheduled them further apart. Maybe even months in between. However, the worst of it was another date meant a potential repeated disaster and a reality I wasn’t ready to accept.