Cupid's Mistake

by Chantilly White

  Good, they were almost gone.

  As a favor, she'd agreed to hand out the cards to all the singles and uncommitted couples at the party. Each card was inscribed with a code for one free month's membership to DeeDee's dating-service business, Cupid's Cavalry. Allison had also invited a select few of DeeDee's clients to the party as a social mixer.

  In return, DeeDee had provided some of the drinks and hors d'oeuvres and would help with clean-up the next day. Even better, she'd pimp Allison's event-planning services to her own clients for showers, bachelor and bachelorette gigs, weddings, and more. It was a win-win arrangement and one they intended to formalize in the new year.

  A clutch of cards in her hand, Allison's gaze strayed right, roving over the hulking man on her loveseat. Glints of red and gold shone in the dark brown of his hair and beard, and she detected a pleasing, masculine scent beneath the usual party aroma of spilled beer and dancer's sweat permeating the garage. Something a bit woodsy, with a hint of spice. She sniffed again. Nice.

  Her eyes traveled up from the long tail of his beard, over his flat stomach and wide chest, then widened like a deer's caught in a hunter's crosshairs. His deep-set eyes were slitted open, too narrow to determine their color, but fastened on hers with an intensity that had her taking an instinctive step back.

  A beat passed, then two. Then three. Frozen in place, a strange current raising all the hairs on her arms as though in recognition of an imminent threat, she stared. He didn't appear dangerous, scrunched as he was into the corner of her tiny sofa, Sally snoozing on his shoulder. And yet. . . Wishing she could see his eyes clearly, she tried to draw a breath into her airless lungs. He hadn't moved a muscle.

  And. . . and she was still staring.

  Flushing, Allison whirled and hurried to the door without a word, intending to escape back inside. Instead, she nearly barreled into Jeff's muscular chest as he exited the house.

  Already taller than most women, in her heels she stood eye-to-eye with his six-foot-four frame, though he outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. Jeff and the angelically blond Greg, who stood behind Jeff clutching his arm, blocked the doorway. Both men frowned at her.

  "What happened with Tom?" Jeff shouted over the music—Shania Twain's Man, I Feel Like A Woman this time.

  "Jon," Allison corrected. Sean?

  "Whatever," Jeff and Greg said in unison.

  Uncomfortably aware of the mountain man's gaze burning a hole between her shoulder blades, she shrugged. "Greener pastures."

  Not wanting to hold a conversation in front of Grizzly Adams, Allison made a shooing gesture to encourage Jeff and Greg back into the house, which they ignored.

  "Do you want me to take him outside?" Jeff asked. Behind his back, Greg rolled his eyes, making Allison cough to disguise her laugh.

  "No, I'm good," she managed, leaning forward to kiss Jeff's tanned, movie-star-handsome face on the cheek. "Thanks. He's not worth messing up your manicure."

  Jeff studied her for a moment, while Allison chafed under the weight of the stare still boring into her back. She never ran from a man, not even a hairy hippie throwback, but getting caught scrutinizing a guy she'd thought was asleep had thrown her off. She stiffened her spine and flashed a smile for Jeff, evidently satisfying his silent query.

  "Well, then, my darling girl," he said, kissing her back and waggling his dark-red nails—the same shade as her own—toward her family room with a flourish. "Après vous."

  Taking her hand in his left, with Greg's clutched in his right, Jeff towed them both back into the thumping music. "Let's dance!"

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning, at half-past way-too-freaking-early, Allison hobbled into the kitchen, bleary eyed, her cold bare feet caked in the glitter they kicked up with every step.

  "Coffee," she moaned. "Coffeecoffeecoffee, oh, God, why is there no coffee?"

  Elbows on the grey marble counter, she dropped her head between her arms and lightly banged her forehead against the stone. When that failed to make a cup materialize, and no helpful java faeries rushed forward to fulfill her need, Allison called on her superpower—also known as desperation—just long enough to get the pot going. Staggering to her breakfast nook, she collapsed into a chair at her kitchen table.

  "Why am I awake," she groused, mouthing the words soundlessly to the room in deference to her aching head.

  The house sat, silent as ever, surrounding her with privacy and security, familiarity and comfort, all the things she valued in her home. Yet this morning, she thought she detected a disapproving air in the waiting stillness.

  "What?" she said out loud, then winced as the sound of her own voice set off a cymbal crash in her skull.

  So she'd had a little too much to drink last night. With no temporary-Romeo waiting for her in her bed, she'd commenced to serious partying, aided and abetted by Jeff and Greg. Which, she admitted, had been a mistake. Jeff could drink her under the table on her best day, and she'd already had a few glasses of champagne before they started. Even Greg, a lightweight compared to Jeff, could belt them back.

  Had she learned nothing in college?

  Strange dreams had chased her through the few hours of sleep she'd managed—dreams in which she'd strolled hand-in-hand with Bigfoot through a softly lighted forest, a garland of flowers on her hair. When his big, fur-covered paws reached to slide her camisole and lacy bra straps down her arms, and his hairy face leaned in for a lover's kiss, she'd bolted from sleep with a gasp, repulsed and not a little freaked out by the tingly sense of anticipation humming in her veins.

  She liked some wild and kinky sex as much as the next woman, but she was so not into the whole animal thing. Allison wrinkled her nose and a shudder rocked over her body.

  Gross.

  A rumbling snore interrupted her hangover and had her jolting upright in her seat. Cripes. She'd forgotten the slumber-party guests crashed all over her house. How had she missed their lumpy forms on the way to the kitchen? Coffee-brain, she decided.

  Hoping to hell no one expected her to cook for them this morning, Allison cradled her head in her hands. 'Safety first' was a motto she took seriously when it came to partying, so it was a given that anyone who'd over-imbibed would either catch a ride with a designated driver or stay put, but that didn't mean she planned to don her hostess hat again. Not today.

  Not after those too-few, dream-laden hours of sleep. Sally's hobo had certainly made an impression on her alcohol-embellished night ramblings. Usually, her dreams were filled with nonsensical but entertaining little vignettes, like tap-dancing pineapples with beaver tails and top hats, or the more mundane but easily understood business worries. Not poorly dressed strangers with big feet and too much hair.

  The aroma now wafting from the coffee machine had her body quivering like any self-respecting java addict's on caffeine withdrawal. Seriously, why couldn't they figure out the whole intravenous thing?

  Pushing to her feet, she grabbed her favorite 'Life's A Beach' mug—a Christmas gift from Mia their freshman year—out of the cupboard, then stood, waiting impatiently for the final drips to straggle into the pot.

  She was on her second deeply appreciative sip when a gravelly voice rasped, "Coffee," in her ear, making her jump.

  "Damn it, Jeff," she said, whispering for the sake of her splitting headache and jabbing her elbow backward into his rock-hard belly. His woof of air bathed the side of her face in minty-fresh breath. "Don't sneak up on me."

  Rubbing his abused abdomen, Jeff gifted her with a jaundiced glare. "I do not sneak. If your head wasn't pounding loudly enough to hear down the hall, you would have heard me. Never could hold your liquor."

  "Stop shouting," Allison moaned, rubbing her fingers at her temple and trying to ignore her queasy stomach.

  Smirking, Jeff shook his head. "Pathetic."

  Allison sniffed at his mouth. "Did you use my toothbrush again?"

  "No idea," he said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "I can never remember w
hose is whose."

  "It's got your name on it!"

  Jeff canted his head. "Really? I never noticed."

  "And it's your favorite color," she muttered into her steaming cup.

  She'd started keeping mini overnight kits for Mia, Derrick, and Jeff when they were fresh out of college, as they often crashed at one another's homes after late nights hanging out together, and had continued the tradition ever since. She'd added one for Greg the previous year, as well.

  "Then, yes," Jeff said. "I definitely used the sparkly red one."

  Allison stared at him. "Your favorite color is green."

  "Ah, well. Today it's red."

  "Jeff," she said, her tone reproachful.

  He merely winked at her. Allison rolled her eyes.

  Comfortably at home in her kitchen, he reached past her head to lift two mugs from the shelf and filled them to the brim with rich, black coffee.

  "Hog," she complained, staring dolefully at the half-empty pot.

  "I'll make more later," he said with a soft laugh and a quick rub for her tense shoulders.

  He opened his mouth to say something else, but a peevish voice calling, "Why is my toothbrush all wet?" down the hallway cut him off.

  Grimacing, Jeff took a mug in each hand and saluted her with the one in his right. "I need to get this to His Highness before there's an international incident."

  That made her smile. The last she'd seen of Greg, he'd been in the backyard, naked to the waist with his head thrown back, arms flung wide, howling at the sliver of moon.

  "How is he this morning?" she asked.

  "Better than you, my love. Better than you."

  Hmph.

  Jeff dropped a kiss on her frowning forehead and headed toward the hall, sidestepping her former Adonis with a mumbled, "Morning, Tom," as the blond man made his way into the kitchen.

  "It's Paul," the Adonis said, with a confused look after Jeff's retreating back.

  "Whatever," Jeff sang over his shoulder, not breaking stride.

  Paul! Right. Crap. Had everyone spent the night?

  Turning to her with a frown, Paul said, "Ah."

  Ah, indeed.

  Waving a hand to sweep it all away, she said, "Don't worry about it. Coffee?"

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  After that, guests trickled into the kitchen in twos and threes, all in various stages of confetti-covered undress and assorted levels of hangover-induced crankiness. Kris, she noted, appeared less pleased with her Greek god encounter than she had the night before, but Allison kept her opinions on the matter to herself. Jon—no, Paul!—hadn't particularly impressed her, either, but at least he was pretty to look at. Not like that mop-covered mound from the garage last night. Still, it seemed neither Kris's nor her own New Year's Eve plans had quite gone off as desired.

  Oh, well. If nothing else, it was a great party.

  Someone turned the TV on to watch the Rose Parade, prompting a lively—if quietly voiced—hour of debate over favorite marching bands, floats, best uses of color and natural items other than flowers, as well as overall execution of themes.

  When Greg, whose disposition normally matched his blond-haired, blue-eyed, sweetly angelic appearance, got testy with Jeff over the merits of a particular float, Allison and Jeff shared a pained grimace. Greg didn't drink often, and rarely to excess, but when he went over his personal limits, the next day always dragged by on the ugly side.

  Without a word, Allison fixed him another cup of coffee and placed two aspirin next to the mug. He accepted her offerings with a grimace of his own and a muttered apology for being such a bitch.

  Ultimately, UCLA's marching band won their highest approval rating, along with a float featuring a fanciful faerie village.

  If Allison caught herself, appalled, searching through the float's thick foliage for an equally fanciful, furry male mountain, well, no one else knew or cared.

  Two additional pots of coffee later, most of the hangers-on had gone on their way, with many thanks and wishes for a happy new year. It was with some relief that Allison waved Jeff and a still-crabby Greg goodbye and reentered the empty sanctuary of her home. Mia and Derrick had not been amongst the overnight partiers, but she'd only seen them share a single glass of champagne the entire evening. They were too drunk on each other to need alcohol, she supposed.

  Lucky ducks.

  Not that she wanted a serious relationship right now. Not at all. She was far too busy, and having far too much fun, for something like that. But the idea of it was wonderful. For someday.

  Flopping onto her purple couch, she closed her eyes and breathed deep for several long minutes, releasing the last of her tension. Thank God for coffee and aspirin. DeeDee would be over any minute to help with clean up and to discuss new ways to build each other's businesses in the coming year. She needed to focus.

  The sound of the garage door opening rumbled in her ears. Frowning, Allison sat up, staring at the door leading into the garage. Who. . .?

  Grabbing the baseball bat she kept in an umbrella stand by her front door, she opened the door into the garage. Blinking in the sunlight flooding the space where her car usually sat, which was still covered in party mess, she squinted at the black shape of a huge man leaning over a lumpy form on the loveseat along the far wall.

  "Who—" she began, out loud this time, but the man cut her off.

  "Sorry," he said in a voice that sounded low and rough, as though he didn't use it very often. "Didn't mean to disturb you. We fell asleep." To the lump on the sofa, he said, "Come on, Sally."

  Hoisting Sally over his shoulder in a slump, he strode past Allison with a brief nod in her direction on his way out through the roll-up door. It was the human mountain from last night, his beard and hair swinging as he walked. Exactly the way it had in her dreams.

  The sense of déjà vu—of familiarity where none belonged—prickled down her spine. Freaky.

  The man moved easily, as though the hefty Sally weighed nothing at all, drawing Allison's reluctant admiration, and he was even taller than she'd thought when he'd been sprawled out on her couch. He had to be at least six-seven. Even at a size two, Allison wasn't used to feeling small and vulnerable in a man's presence, since she was as tall or taller than many. This man, with his grizzled guerilla looks and hulking body, made her feel tiny. Delicate.

  Breakable.

  Still, there was something. . . Mentally smacking herself, she stepped back. She was not attracted to homeless giants. Even if he did have a really nice ass. Shivering, Allison hit the button for the automatic door as soon as he'd cleared it, shutting him from view.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  Benjamin Turner toed the front door of his cousin Sally's house open and shifted his grip on her limp form, ducking beneath the doorframe. The woman was out cold. She must have had more than her customary glass or two of champagne last night. He hadn't had any at all, but he'd crashed just as hard almost the moment they'd sat down, thanks to too many sleepless hours of hard traveling over the past few days. Or years.

  He hadn't wanted to go to the blasted party four houses down from Sally's in the first place, but she'd insisted. Never mind that he had barely had time to shower, let alone shave or get his hair cut. And he hadn't known a soul there, as he'd reminded Sally would be the case. He hadn't seen her in years, and had been looking forward to a quick familial catch-up before falling into his bed for seven or eight days of straight sleep.

  But she'd had her heart set on going, long-lost relations turning up on her doorstep notwithstanding. Alone now that her kids had chosen to live with their father—an arrangement she'd reluctantly agreed to so her girls would have a role in their new half-brother's life—she'd been desperate to get out of the house. Ben had taken one look at Sally's face and hadn't had the heart to refuse.

  It looked like they'd both paid the price. He had a crick in his neck from sleeping crunched onto that toy-sized couch, and Sally was bound to be hung over when she came around. He probably sh
ouldn't complain too loudly, though. Even a toy-sized couch was an improvement over the many nights he'd spent sleeping flat on the ground over the past six years.

  "Come on, Sal," he said to her unconscious form, "let's get you settled."

  With a final heave, Ben dropped Sally on top of her fussily frilled bedspread and tossed a blanket over her still-snoring form. He straightened, twisting right and left to stretch the tight muscles in his back.

  The evening hadn't been a total loss. Ben made his way to his own room and stripped, a vision in snug, bright yellow and corkscrewy copper curls dancing in his mind. Sally's neighbor sure was a looker. High maintenance—one glance was enough to tell him that. She was a Princess with a capital 'P' and a serious partier to boot—but a looker, with her high cheekbones, creamy real-redhead's skin and puffy lips. She was tall for a woman, even without her red ankle-breakers on. Slender as the swizzle sticks she'd set out for mixing drinks.

  And a bit of a snob.

  He'd caught the assessing gaze she'd raked him with out of her brilliantly-hued baby blues. She hadn't found him up to scratch.

  Ah, well.

  Dropping into bed naked, Ben pulled the blankets almost to his ears and burrowed in, pulling his knees up to keep his feet from hanging off the edge. The soft mattress gave like a cloud beneath his sore, tired body.

  The Princess wasn't his type, anyway, but his reaction to her had reassured him on one point. After six years of running from the pain in his past, maybe he really was ready to move forward. To give life another chance. If a swizzle stick princess could flip his switch, anything was possible.

  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

  Allison's first two weeks of the year flew by, filled with meetings with her stable of vendors and several with DeeDee on how best to cross-promote their individual businesses. Successful, interesting meetings, with successful, interesting people. Yet every minute seemed overshadowed by a vague sense of unease. To compensate, she spent extra time ticking items off her to-do lists.