“How could I forget?”
“Hand over an arrow.”
Cupid clutched his quiver of golden arrows to his chest.
Hades rolled his eyes, held out his hand, and an arrow shot through the air. He caught the shaft. Stupid telekinetic god. “I know the perfect rock. You’ll have company.”
“Not Prometheus. Please, no. Titans are so boring. And don’t get me started on their grooming.”
“Sorry, it’s the only rock the gods may legally use for spearing purposes.”
Cupid knelt. “Is there no other punishment?”
“Well . . .” Hades pretended to give it thought. Cupid knew Hades had something up his sleeve—er, chiton. “There is something you could do.”
“Let me guess. It has something to do with that scene you made me watch in the lava lamp?”
“It does. I expect ultimate discretion in what I am about to relate.”
“Of course.” Cupid twisted his lips as if buttoning them.
Hades cleared his throat. “It began about twenty-one years ago. You see, Persephone and I have been married a long time.”
“I’m aware. Heck, everyone’s aware. Winter, duh.”
“Anyway, a god gets restless after so many eons.”
“I get it,” said Cupid. “Marriage is like carrying the earth on your back. Or so I’ve been told.”
“Yes, well . . .” Hades shifted in his marble chair. “Anyway, I decided to go somewhere to get a tan and watch human women in those wonderful inventions.”
“Bikinis?”
“Correct. There was this woman. To say she was beautiful would be a disservice to beauty. She was more beautiful than Helen, than Hera, even than Aphrodite. Don’t tell them I said that,” said Hades.
“I’m not an idiot,” said Cupid.
“This woman had olive skin. Raven hair. Eyes the color of the Mediterranean at daybreak. I had to have her.”
“Yes . . .” Cupid leaned forward.
“So I had her. And she got pregnant. And Persephone cannot ever know.”
“Could you be a little more specific about the ‘having’ part? It’s important to my understanding.”
Hades flamed.
“Okay, no specifics. Fine.”
“After I discovered the pregnancy, I escaped to the Underworld. Three days after the baby’s birth, Clotho stopped by. She foretold my daughter’s future. She saw two possible outcomes. One—she’s destined to become a demigod on her twenty-first birthday. Once this happens, Persephone will, of course, find out about my slight indiscretion and divorce me. Two—my daughter never comes into her demigod powers. She remains hidden from my wife, and I continue to be blissfully married.”
“So you want me to ensure your daughter doesn’t get her powers?”
“Correct.”
“How?”
“Simple: she must kiss the heir to a kingdom in the last hour before her twenty-first birthday.”
“That’s rather specific.”
“I don’t make the prophecies.”
“Understood. So I get this daughter of yours to kiss some guy who’s an heir to a kingdom? Easy. One arrow from my quiver will take care of your problem.”
“Your arrows aren’t reliable. No arrows.”
“Hey, I pride myself on my results. I have a full-ardor money-back guarantee.”
“That may be, but we cannot risk failure. You must get her to apply for that job and help her pass the tests, so she will be able to kiss Weston Fitzgerald at the appointed hour one week hence.”
“Sounds hard.”
“It’s that or the rock,” said Hades.
“I choose the rock.”
“Are you serious?”
“Nope. Besides, I have ethics.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“I think I know better than you, Mr. Philanderer.”
“You have angered me once again. I revise my punishment. Do as I say, or I shall turn you back into a teenager and send you to repeat high school.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Oh yes, I would. Acne and all.”
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent. One week,” said Hades. He raised his hand in an arc.
Cupid found himself transported to a sun-drenched beach, wearing Hawaiian-print bathing shorts and holding a rum cocktail with a tiny umbrella in it. Cupid took a huge gulp.
Delicious. Maybe Hades wasn’t entirely bad.
THE UNDERWATER SHARK BAR AND Café boasted a glass wall overlooking the ocean and dozens of sea urchin–shaped chandeliers glowing in carnival tones. The smell of brine hung thick in the air, and the tinkling of dishware made it hard to concentrate.
Phoebe Thompson checked her watch. Six fifteen. From her perch at the end of the shellacked bar, one of the sharks out the window winked at her. Phoebe blinked, trying to reconcile a shark winking with reality. A man’s shoe floated up.
She needed to get more sleep. Things never went well when she hallucinated. Her mom’s shift at the Shark Bar was supposed to end fifteen minutes ago.
Phoebe needed to get home to study for her microeconomics final, but she had to drive her mom as well. Because they could afford only one car—an ancient pale yellow Fiat Spider convertible—they had to take turns shuttling each other around the island.
Her mom passed by carrying a tray of oysters on a bed of ice. “Sorry, Phoebs. The boss is making me stay late.”
“It’s okay, Mama,” said Phoebe. The circles under her mom’s eyes were darker, and strands of long black hair escaped her bun. She must be exhausted, but why beautiful, kind Inaya Thompson thought she could waitress was a mystery. Inaya was as coordinated as a drunken octopus on roller skates.
The rotund manager snuck up behind Inaya. His thick mustache had earned him the nickname “Walrus.” “Get a move on, Princess.”
Phoebe cringed. She hated when people called her mom that. It was a reminder of all she’d lost. Miss Papaya Princess for twenty years. The loveliest wahine on the island. Fired because she had the audacity to get older. Phoebe glared at the manager.
“Table forty-six isn’t going to serve itself.” He smacked Inaya on the behind and strode to a table of important-looking customers half-hidden by a mountain of sushi.
Phoebe chose to right the serving tray as it wobbled in Inaya’s hands instead of clobbering the manager. Though clobbering would have been infinitely more satisfying. Still, Phoebe couldn’t ruin this opportunity for her mom. It was her sixth job in as many months.
“Thanks, Phoebs. It’ll be no more than fifteen minutes. I promise.”
“Sure, Mom,” said Phoebe, pulling out her phone. There was a message from the job board. A summer internship could save them. If she got it, they could eat and keep the electricity running, which meant air-conditioning.
“What’ll it be?” said the bartender, throwing a cocktail napkin on the bar.
“Nothing, thanks.” She didn’t bother to look up from her phone. “I’m waiting for Inaya.” Phoebe pointed across the room to her mom, who was delivering the drink order to table forty-six. “And I’m only twenty. You’re supposed to ask for ID.”
“Ah, a great beauty, your mother.”
“How did you know she was my . . .” Phoebe looked at the bartender for the first time. Her stomach sank, and goose bumps chased up her arms. The man had curly blond hair, turquoise eyes, smooth, sun-kissed skin, and his muscles, barely concealed by his thin Hawaiian shirt, practically begged to be touched. His lips quirked into a confident grin, as if he knew what she was thinking and was used to this reaction. She wanted to climb up on the bar and kiss him, hard.
“You okay?” he asked.
The enchantment ended. Phoebe realized her mouth was hanging open. Why was she gawking like a lovesick teenager? Phoebe knew she was never falling in love. It led only to disappointment. Abandonment. Phoebe wouldn’t end up like her mother. She’d be self-sufficient. Never rely on her looks.
&n
bsp; Head cleared, Phoebe returned to her phone, clicking on the message:
Wanted: Business school graduating senior.
Position: Management Trainee at Bull’s-Eye Mattresses.
Pay: $2,000 for one-week testing period. Thereafter, $5,000 per week.
Phoebe’s eyes practically bugged out of her head. Okay, so she wasn’t a senior, but she had straight As, was at the top of her class, and she could pass their test.
She typed a response and hit send as a slick-looking guy sidled up to the bar and nudged her.
“Excuse me?” He was incredibly handsome—not like the bartender. But still. Light brown hair. Green eyes that were perpetually in bedroom mode. Just the right amount of devil-may-care stubble. Were the very heavens trying to distract her?
“Yes?” said Phoebe, trying not to notice his dimples or his fine suit.
“Looks like you could use a drink. Allow me . . .” He snapped his fingers.
The bartender frowned. “What can I get you?”
“Your specialty.”
The bartender pulled down the top-shelf tequila, ice, limes, a fresh papaya, and two glasses. He expertly assembled the ingredients, poured the mixture into the glasses, and garnished them with a spear of fresh papaya. Phoebe cringed at the abhorrent fruit. Hanging a plastic monkey from each glass, the bartender set them in front of Mr. Fine Suit, who pushed one toward her.
“No, thanks.” Phoebe waved it away. She sneezed.
“Bless you,” said the bartender.
“Thanks.”
“Drink up,” said the man, shining his dimples at her.
“I’m allergic.” She sneezed again.
“Bless you. To margaritas?”
“To papaya.” It started when Phoebe’s mom was fired as Miss Papaya Princess. Now looking at the fruit made her eyes itch.
“Why don’t we get out of here? My Ferrari’s parked out front.”
“Don’t think so.”
He looked crestfallen.
“Have you ever been told no?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“First time for everything,” she said, sneezing.
“Come on.” He wrapped his arm around her waist.
Phoebe picked up the margarita and tossed it in the man’s lap. He squealed. She felt like a horrible person. Why couldn’t she control her anger?
“I’m sorry.” She handed him a stack of cocktail napkins, and he patted his crotch. The bartender smirked. “I’ll pay for the cleaning.” If she skipped lunch this week, she could probably afford it.
“Oh, there’s my shoe,” said the man, making his way toward the window. “Sirennia?” The shoe banged silently against the glass.
Phoebe caught a glimpse of a lovely blue-green fishtail and what looked like long, gold-green hair. A mermaid? Phoebe shook her head. Her hallucinations were getting more creative. She rubbed her eyes, which now felt like ants were traipsing over them.
“I’m ready, darling,” said Inaya.
“Uh, okay.”
“What’s wrong with Weston?” said Inaya.
“Weston?”
“Yes, the young man at the window.”
“You know him?”
“He’s only the most eligible bachelor on the island. Family owns Bull’s-Eye Mattresses. Isn’t he dreamy?”
“Uh . . .”
THE NEXT DAY, Phoebe drove through a torrential rainstorm to the Bull’s-Eye Mattress flagship store. The rain blurred the road. Palm trees bent in the wind. Gripping the steering wheel, she concentrated on getting there alive. She had to get that job. Hopefully she wouldn’t run into Weston.
She parked. By the time she got to the entrance, her thin floral dress was clinging to her every curve. She opened the door to a blast of ice-cold air-conditioning. A puddle formed beneath Phoebe. The store was like a palace, with mattresses on pedestals and sparkling chandeliers casting an almost magical light in the cavernous space. Phoebe preferred the gloom. Her mom called Phoebe a creature of the night.
“You here for the interview?” said a salesman.
“Yes, I’m looking for the office.”
“Take the elevator.” He pointed to an inconspicuous brushed-metal door.
The four walls inside the elevator were mirrored. She looked like a cross between a wet mop and an overwatered garden. Her auburn hair stuck to her neck. She wrung it out as the doors opened.
“Phoebe Thompson,” said a Helen Mirren look-alike with a shoulder-length white bob. “I’m Victoria Fitzgerald.” She held out her hand. Phoebe shook it, realizing with horror that her hand was wet and cold. Mrs. Fitzgerald wiped it on a long, camel-toned jacket that matched her pants.
“Good to meet you, Mrs. Fitzgerald.”
“You must call me Victoria.”
“I’m Gerald Fitzgerald,” said a tall, bald-headed man. He had no eyebrows, and Phoebe fought not to stare.
“Nice to meet you.” Phoebe bowed her head, not wanting to subject anyone else to her clammy hands. No Weston. What a relief.
“Tell us about yourself.” Mrs. Fitzgerald indicated a chair next to a love seat on the far side of the office.
“I’m Phoebe Thompson, but you already knew that.” Phoebe laughed, crossed her legs, and shifted in the seat. “I’m a marketing major at Oahu University.”
“A senior?” said Mrs. Fitzgerald. Her eyes were blue, and though she seemed outwardly friendly, Phoebe felt like the woman saw every detail. Almost like she was memorizing Phoebe’s face for a police sketch.
“No, I’m a junior,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “But I’m a fast learner. I have straight As, and you’ll be satisfied with my abilities.”
“The ad called for a senior.”
“Yes,” said Phoebe. “But please give me a chance.”
“I’m not sure,” said Mrs. Fitzgerald, rubbing her chin and giving Phoebe that piercing stare. “You’re only twenty.”
Her stomach twisted. “I turn twenty-one in a week. I’ll work harder than anyone.”
“No one else has passed. Why so confident?”
“Because I’m desperate.”
“And honest, apparently.”
“I’m sure you’d know if someone wasn’t truthful. Not that I’d lie.” She held her breath.
“You intrigue me, Phoebe. I’ll give you a chance. There are three tasks. The first in accounting, the second in marketing, the third in quality control. Be here tomorrow. Eight a.m. sharp.”
Phoebe exhaled with relief, barely restraining herself from leaping off the sofa and hugging Mrs. Thompson. “Thank you. You won’t regret this.”
The elevator door pinged open. “Hey, Mom, Dad.”
Weston Fitzgerald. Phoebe gulped.
“Hi, I’m Weston,” he said, winking conspiratorially.
“Uh . . . Phoebe Thompson.”
“A pleasure.” He shook her hand. His was warm and dry, and he smelled like spearmint. She did not notice the outline of his well-toned body beneath his pristine white T-shirt.
He poured a cup of coffee and sat at the far desk, rearranging the mermaid collectibles.
Mrs. Fitzgerald shook her head. “See you tomorrow, Phoebe.”
THE NEXT DAY, the Fitzgeralds plopped Phoebe into a swivel chair with a cup of dark-roast coffee and a password to access the Bull’s-Eye accounting system. Her task: locate and correct a three-cent error in the bank reconciliation within the next eight hours.
The gray office had no windows, a utilitarian metal desk, a computer, and the aforementioned swivel chair. It was like a dreary cave, which Phoebe loved.
Six hours later, Phoebe folded her arms across the desk and put her head down.
She couldn’t work her way through the labyrinth of Bull’s-Eye Mattresses’ accounting in the two hours remaining. Her head throbbed.
“I’m an idiot.” Phoebe lifted her head and ground her fingers into her temples. “Why did I think I could do this stupid job? What a nightmare.”
“Obviously you’ve
never had a nightmare.”
Phoebe jumped out of her chair, her heart pounding. She crouched into a defensive position, knees bent, fists over her face, mouth set into what she prayed was a menacing grimace.
“Who are you, and how did you get in here? Wait a minute. You’re the bartender from the Shark Bar.” Phoebe could never have forgotten him. She picked up the only weapon she had at hand—the cup of coffee.
“Hey, put that down. This is a new shirt.”
“You have three seconds to tell me who you are and what you’re doing in here, or I’ll . . . um . . . be forced to ruin your shirt.” Even in her mind the threat sounded mealy and limp.
The man laughed. It was such a joyful sound, Phoebe bit her lip to counteract an impending smile.
“My name is, uh, Archer Calyx, and I’m your fairy godmother. I mean godfather. Godperson? I’ve been sent to help you.” He took the coffee, sniffed, and swallowed it in one gulp.
“You’re a bartender. Is your plan to mix me a drink?”
“That’s more of a Dionysus thing.”
“Huh?” This guy was deranged, though hearing the name of the Greek god of ritual madness and grapes sent cold prickles running up her body. “Who sent you? Why are you here?” Phoebe wondered if maybe this Archer was part of the test. Maybe the whole thing was a test of her ethics, and the error didn’t exist.
“Who sent me doesn’t matter. If you want to pass, I’m your guy.” He set the cup back on the desk and came so close to Phoebe that she smelled the coffee on his breath.
Phoebe straightened and narrowed her eyes. “I’m fine. Go shake your daiquiris elsewhere.” She shooed him toward the door.
He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. She practically melted into his body.
What sorcery was this?
Their lips moved toward one another. Phoebe had wondered for so long what a kiss felt like. But she’d vowed not to get involved with a guy until after she succeeded as a businesswoman. Her brain fuzzed, and now she couldn’t remember why she made the vow. Closer. Closer. It was going to happen. She didn’t even care about the job anymore. Her entire being was centered on his full lips almost touching hers. She wanted this with a desperation she felt down to her bones. It was like a magnet was pulling them toward each other.
Once Upon Now Page 7
