Cursed by Cupid

by Wendy Sparrow

  “Very few psychotic killers work in the textile industry.”

  “Oh?”

  “I can only think of a couple off-hand.”

  This seemed too good to be true. He was funny, he had that deep voice that kept making her heart race, and he was interested in her. He was flirting…with her. Maybe the curse hadn’t anticipated a recovery from the shake incident. Possibly, it was done meddling.

  He held out a pen and a pad of paper.

  “Well, then, that seems reasonable.” She took them and scribbled her name and phone number down. It was getting harder and harder not to grin like an idiot.

  “I know it’s late notice, but what are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “You mean for Valentine’s Day?” she asked. “It’s probably impossible to get reservations anywhere.”

  “Probably. It’s probably a bad idea anyway. Jinxing things. Probably.”

  She nodded. “I’m already cursed anyway. You wouldn’t want to mess with a curse, in addition to a first date.”

  “Cursed, huh? You mentioned that before,” he said, taking the paper from her.

  “Solidly. I broke a chain letter three years ago.”

  He sucked in a faux shocked breath and shook his head. “Brutal.”

  She grinned. Even if the curse was no laughing matter—Bryant really was funny.

  “So, I’ll pick you up at six?” He handed her back the paper. “Give me your address.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Are you sure? I’m really serious about the curse.”

  He held up the patch. “Are you sure? I’m not putting my reputation on the line for anything less.”

  She snatched the patch from him and pocketed it while writing her address down. A minute later, she walked out, side-stepping the huge puddle of shake with a smile on her face that lasted the whole way home. The curse was broken. It was broken. Yes.

  Chapter Three

  The curse wasn’t broken. It seemed like every animal in Portland went ballistic and threw themselves under moving vehicles on Valentine’s Day. The vet’s office was insanely busy, busier than she’d ever seen it. She’d had to run to the back and help several times, which was why she didn’t see the note on the front desk confirming her date with Cody until nearly three p.m. when she was getting ready to leave. There was also a note saying to wear semi-formal, because they had reservations.

  “No!” she shouted, picking up the note. “No.”

  One of the other assistants bolted in with a “What? What’s wrong? Another one?”

  She held up the note miserably. “The curse, Audrey! The curse!”

  Audrey blinked and stood up from her crouched stance of readiness for anything. “You told us you had a date tonight.”

  “No, I have two dates tonight! The guy I punched out—apparently we’re still on.”

  “Wow, you are cursed.”

  She tried calling Portland Threads. No answer and no answering machine. She drove by and groaned at the hand-written sign saying, “Closed for Valentine’s Day.” Who closed on Valentine’s Day? The curse was the only logical explanation. Finally, she sent an email via the Portland Threads’ website and prayed it was one he checked. No call or email from him by the time the doorbell rang at five.

  Some part of her was tempted to still bail on Cody—even though it was horrible, and she wasn’t like that. Then, she opened the door and saw he had two black eyes.

  Cursed. She was cursed.

  She did leave an apologetic note on the door for Bryant, saying she’d made a mistake and followed up with an email explaining everything.

  It was obvious from the start she and Cody weren’t well-suited. He kept bringing up that she’d surprised him with the punch. He mentioned it at least a dozen times on the way to the restaurant.

  “I did,” she said for the twentieth time.

  “I can hold my own. Really. I’ve made some great progress since I joined.”

  “It was my fault.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Then, why did he keep bringing it up?

  “It was an accident,” he said.

  No, she’d punched him in the face, as she’d intended to do. It wasn’t an accident. When she’d flung chocolate shake all over Bryant’s door—that was an accident. Her punch was the result of three years of training hard. Tilly smiled at Cody and nodded.

  Normally, the restaurant would have been nice and elegant but, with it being Valentine’s Day, there was a frazzled air to the wait staff, and tables had been pushed closer together to make room for more tables. They were nearly sitting on the laps of the next table over. She’d never had a date that felt like she was dating an entire restaurant. The woman to the left of Tilly kept tsking at her and staring pointedly at Cody’s eyes. If she didn’t knock it off, Tilly would stand up and yell, “There’s more where that came from.”

  Tilly took a deep breath. This was all displaced anger at the circumstances. She really didn’t need to punch that woman wearing the seafoam, glitter dress. She wanted to. But she didn’t need to.

  Cody insisted on ordering food for her.

  “I can order for myself,” she murmured quietly in the crowded restaurant.

  “No, it’s fine. I like to do that on my dates.”

  Whatever. If he wanted to order for her like her voice was broken…whatever. Closing her eyes, she reminded herself that it wasn’t his fault they weren’t that great together, and that they had as much chemistry as she did with Master Ito. Actually, she had better chemistry with Master Ito. If he were fifty years younger, she might have gone after him. At least he would have blocked that punch.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  She opened her eyes to find him staring at her in concern.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You looked like you have a headache.”

  “No. Work was crazy. Do you have pets?”

  He shook his head. “No, I don’t care for animals. I’m allergic to some, and don’t like the rest. I saw your cat when I picked you up.” He tapped a finger against the table absently and then added, almost in an aside, “I’m not allergic to cats.”

  She smiled tightly. “Did Master Ito tell you what I do?”

  “He said you’re a receptionist.”

  “At a veterinary office.”

  “Oh.” He had the grace to look slightly abashed.

  Could this get any worse? In the distance, she saw it turn six p.m. Please let Bryant have gotten that email. As if on cue, her phone started ringing, and she winced.

  “Do you mind if I take this?” she asked Cody.

  Cody frowned. Combined with his double-black eyes, it looked ghastly—a bit like the Scream mask.

  “It might be an emergency,” she said. I’m going to hell for that one. Still, it felt like an emergency and that was close enough.

  “A cat emergency?” He said it as if there never were any such thing.

  She nodded and got to her feet. She answered on her way, but the noise of the restaurant was such that she couldn’t manage to hear a word on the phone and kept saying, “Just a second…let me get somewhere else. Just a second.”

  Half-way across the restaurant, her way was blocked by a guy in a tux going down on one knee in front of a girl. He pulled out a ring.

  The restaurant cheered.

  The wait staff rushed over with champagne.

  She went to step around the would-be fiancé right as he bounded up with his prospective bride’s exclamation of “YES!” His elbow caught her in the side and knocked her into the next table where she landed on a guy’s lap. Her arm caught the edge of his plate, covering them both with shrimp linguini.

  “NO!” Tilly groaned out. This couldn’t be happening.

  It was another minute of scrambling and horrified apologies before she could glance at the phone in her hand—which displayed only the time—because Bryant had hung up.

  The curse. The curse was alive and well.

  She finally made it
to the lobby where she attempted to call him back. Shrimp linguini should never be combined with electronics—everyone in the lobby jumped back from her as the phone zapped its way out of her life. And now she didn’t even have his phone number.

  “I have paid,” she said, looking up through the ceiling at the cruel, vindictive universe.

  “It must have been really expensive,” an elderly woman to her right hissed under her breath. “Clive, check the menu for prices.”

  She didn’t bother correcting her impression. Instead, she used the trip as an excuse to go clean up what she could. Luckily, she planned for such moments by wearing things that wouldn’t show stains—today it was a deep red, faux velvet dress, but she still looked slightly worse for wear when she arrived back at the table.

  Cody looked less than pleased at how long she’d taken. She’d had shrimp in her hair, for crying out loud. Shrimp. In her hair! When she’d seen herself in the mirror, she’d had a hysterical urge to climb out the bathroom window and run for a cab.

  Leaning in, Cody sniffed her. “Is that shrimp? Do you smell like shrimp?”

  Yes, I do! I smell like shrimp! I smell like what amounts to sea cockroaches. Thanks for telling everyone.

  Sure enough, everyone at nearby tables turned to look at her.

  Tilly cleared her throat. “Yes. There was a spill.”

  He grimaced. “I’m allergic to shrimp.”

  “How allergic?”

  He pushed back from the table, eyeing her with trepidation. “Severely. My throat swells closed. I have an EpiPen with me. Didn’t you hear me warn the waiter?”

  No, she’d been too busy thinking about Bryant and her bad luck. There was no person in the history of the world as cursed as her.

  “Maybe we should call it a night,” she said with a sigh. It was all of 6:15 p.m. They’d been on the date from hell for just over an hour. Actually, this was one of her longer dates in the last three years.

  “No, it’s fine. I won’t get too close.”

  She smiled and hoped the smile looked better than it felt. It didn’t feel like a smile—even if she was using the right muscles.

  He slid back even farther. Great. That’s what every date needed. Distance. Now, if only they were on separate dates—that would be ideal.

  Things actually improved after that—which shouldn’t have been a surprise, because getting worse would have been difficult, but she did discover Cody was a social worker who decided to take up martial arts after he broke up a fight between a client and their spouse.

  “I’m impressed that you’re in self-defense classes,” he said after their food was delivered. He was sitting as far away from the table as he could—as far away from her as he could.

  “I like knowing I could hold my own in a fight.”

  “But I’m sure it’s also so you can defend yourself.” He liked to do that. He put words in her mouth that he thought would fit better.

  She shrugged. “I see myself more as defending other people.” Like a superhero.

  This left him less than impressed. “You should never underestimate your attacker’s skill like that—or his or her goal. You should always think of yourself as a potential victim. Anyone can be a victim…especially a female as small and delicate as you.”

  She tried looking pointedly at his black eyes, but he probably saw that as good eye contact. He saw her as a fragile, little flower, not a woman who could kick ass and take names.

  Whatever.

  The rest of the meal was stilted and awkward. He was a nice guy, just not the right nice guy. They had nothing in common, other than both being Homo sapiens. He insisted on ordering dessert for her, even though her stomach felt like a marching band was playing in it. Stress was not her friend. She wished they could split the cost of the dinner since it had been such a solid disappointment, but he snatched the check from the waiter’s hand while she was trying to swallow another bite of tiramisu—which she didn’t even like.

  When they’d walked outside, he said, “Well, I’d planned on going to an art gallery but—” He gestured at her.

  She didn’t take offense as she might have. “I’m coated in shrimp, and I’d hate for it to be a problem.” Adding an ambulance trip to the night would have really solidified it as the worst night of her life. “In fact, I should probably take a cab home since you drove your car.”

  “I’ll pay for your cab.”

  “It was my fault with the shrimp.”

  “I insist. I’ll pay for your cab.”

  “No.”

  “Really. It’s the right thing to do.” He was already getting his wallet out. It was like he thought her independence was an affectation so he could rise to the occasion as her manly protector.

  It wasn’t.

  It also wasn’t worth fighting over. Not tonight.

  She smiled tightly, nodded, and hoped the cab would run her over.

  The note was missing from the door when she got home. She pulled her phone out. Oh, she had power. It wasn’t dead. Taking a deep breath, she called him back.

  “Hello?” Oh, his voice sounded so good. It was exactly what she needed.

  “Uhh….” The phone zapped her cheek. “Oh, holy freak! Not again!” It buzzed and popped, and she felt the spike of an electric charge in her back fillings. The phone shorted out as she pulled it away from her face. It went dark as the screen broke in a spider web pattern.

  And she still didn’t have his phone number.

  And she’d just yelled at him for the second time that night.

  Tilly dropped down onto her front porch and had a good cry.

  Chapter Four

  Bryant didn’t call or email her all week.

  On Saturday, she dragged herself out of bed. A gallon of bleach had managed to remove all the chocolate shake from her gi. She kept promising herself that she’d take Bryant’s scrubs back to him, but they still sat on the table beside her front door. She could drop them off after class. Or not. He had her phone number and her email address—thanks to his website’s email. He hadn’t tried either.

  She left the scrubs beside the door—after she flipped them over so the “Dr. Love” was on the bottom. It’d been mocking her.

  Master Ito worked them hard. He had her sparring with the next belt up in hopes that she could challenge soon. It felt good to work off some of her energy. Plus, the belt class above her was entirely comprised of males. Sometimes, you just needed to kick a bunch of guys. It was a shame they’d actually blocked most of her kicks—and that Master Ito had seen that one punch she’d tried to sneak in while he’d been helping another group.

  After class, Master Ito was all smiles and asked about her date with Cody.

  She shook her head.

  “Not good?” he asked.

  “Cursed.”

  “Oh.” There was palpable disappointment. She could practically see it. She hated disappointing him.

  “Yeah.”

  “I do have something else.” He went into the office and came out with a package which he handed to her. “New patch.”

  She sighed. Bryant hadn’t even sent it to her house—that had to mean something. She opened it up and stood there, staring at it.

  There was still the silhouetted figure kicking into the air. There were still words underneath—but they were also still wrong.

  “I thought you explained,” her instructor said, looking over her shoulder.

  “I did.”

  “Oh, he must have misunderstood and thought you meant one L.”

  Now, it said “Titly.” Grabbing the patch out of the box, she waved it around. “What does this even mean? Why would he send this?”

  “Maybe you are cursed,” he suggested.

  Sighing, she grabbed her stuff and drove over to Portland Threads. Okay, so, yes, she’d stood him up, but she’d explained. And, okay, yes, her phone had hung up on him twice, but he had her home phone number, and this patch was just vindictive.

  She slammed through the pr
istine front door.

  Bryant was there behind the counter—he didn’t even look up when she walked in— she thought he might have smiled a little, which made her madder.

  “What does this even mean?” she shouted. “Is this revenge? Is that what this is?”

  “Is it not right?” he asked calmly.

  “No, dammit, and you know it.” It killed her how good he looked. He looked hot and wonderful and dammit, why hadn’t Cody cancelled their date? And why hadn’t she changed out of her gi before coming here? And taken a shower. The chocolate shake look might have been better than this. She should have shown up looking like everything he’d ever wanted but couldn’t have. Instead, she looked like the Karate Kid.

  “At least I made them first place this time.” He finished up whatever he was doing and looked up.

  Looking down at the patch, she saw that he had indeed said she was first-placed in her titliness. Shaking her head and growling, she glared at him. “What game are you playing?”

  “What game am I playing?” he asked, coming from behind the counter. “I’m not the one who agreed to a date and then left a note saying I’d made a mistake, and I was on a date with someone else.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Wow, I did a poor job explaining myself in that note. I was in a rush. The email was better.”

  “What email?”

  “The email I sent to your website.”

  Frowning, he went back behind the counter and punched a few keys on the keyboard. A moment later, his face cleared. “Oh, it went into spam. I kept getting this spam for Russian mail-order brides that used some of the same phrasing, so I set up some keywords to weed them out. Date. Good time. Call. Yeah, that was unlucky.”

  “I said something about calling for a good time and a date?” The email hadn’t been better in that way.

  “You said there hadn’t been a good time to call, but then you couldn’t find a non-work phone number to cancel the date.”

  Oh. Right. Yeah, it said that.

  His eyes scanned the email—explaining about the blind date that she’d assumed wasn’t happening. His clenched jaw eased, and he even smiled. It had been a much better explanation than the note on the door—much better.