The Playboy God (Gods of Olympus Book 7)

by Erin Hayes

  My cock immediately hardens in response.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat and think of a satyr’s hairy ass. Instant cold shower moment. I feel repulsed enough to cut through my hangover and kick her out.

  “Morning,” I say timidly. “I guess I’ll call you a limo home, Miss—?”

  Nothing like an unwanted visitor in my bed to turn me into an articulate asshole. And it doesn’t escape her, because her gaze hardens in an instant and those sensuous lips twist into a frown.

  I’m really not winning any points with her this morning, am I?

  “You don’t remember me, do you?” Her tone is flat and matter-of-fact.

  I suck in a breath, ready to lie and tell her that I do remember and that the night before was fun. But then I realize that I don’t give a shit—not really—and I can’t be asked to pretend.

  “No.” I laugh despite myself. “One too many drinks, I think.”

  She doesn’t look amused.

  Fuck, I’m the god of love, and I’m failing miserably at diffusing this situation. I call upon my powers to charm her into forgetting her irritation with me and get her out the door. I’ve done this before.

  And…nothing happens.

  I guess I have enough self-loathing to mask any coherent thought. Maybe she should see the asshole that I truly am.

  She sits up, and I get a peek at those perfect, round breasts. Shit, why don’t I remember her name? Why can’t I make this better with my powers?

  “Damien Eros,” she chides softly, shaking her head. She gives me a sidelong glance. “Damien, Damien, Damien. And you consider yourself a matchmaker.” At least she knows who I am. “You may be okay in bed—”

  “Wait, I was just okay in bed?”

  She snickers at my offense. “But you’re terrible at anything related to love.”

  It’s just sex, why is she talking about love after only one night? And why is she acting so familiar with me?

  Anger clenches in my gut, and I sit up. I’m the god of love for fuck’s sake. I know everything there is to know about love. She can’t make those assumptions. She doesn’t know that love is like spring—everything blooms with promise and beauty, but then it fades and turns brittle like autumn leaves before it finally withers and dies. I’ve been around long enough to know that my gifts as a god are the most fickle of powers.

  Love is temporary.

  There is no such thing as soulmates.

  True love is a lie.

  So, we all might as well say fuck it and just have fun.

  I’m about to open my mouth to tell her to leave when the door to my bedroom opens, and Max is standing there with a cardboard tray of three to-go cups of coffee, one for me, one for my date, and one for her. She takes in the scene with a dismissive frown, and she cocks a hip in clear annoyance.

  “So, she’s not a leggy blond,” she mutters under her breath.

  The other woman narrows her eyes at Max. “Not a—” She looks back at me in horror. “You just surround yourself with women, don’t you, Damien? Yet, you don’t respect them at all.”

  I narrow my eyes in response. I respect women the same amount as I do all mortals—I’m a little offended, actually.

  I swing my feet to the side of the bed and grab my robe. Max has been through this routine enough and knows when to avert her eyes as I stand and tie the robe around me. “Maxine will call you a ride home.”

  The woman glances between us and gives a sharp laugh. “You’re kicking me out?”

  Max thrusts a cup of coffee in her hands with a forced smile. “Just count your blessings that you don’t have to deal with this asshole every day of your life. And you even get coffee as my condolences.”

  Her voice is dripping with sarcasm as she pulls out her phone to call a ride.

  Really, that’s no way for a personal assistant to speak to her employer. Still, when Max gives me a pointed look that dares me to argue with her, I hold my tongue. Hell, if she can get this angry woman to leave my room, then I’ll give her diamonds or a free trip to Disneyland.

  I don’t know which one she’d like more, to be honest. Really, I think it would depend on Max’s mood that day—she’s a prickly one.

  The dark-haired woman glares back at me. “You’ll regret this, Damien Eros. Just wait until—”

  “If you don’t leave this room right now,” Max says quietly, but there’s enough vehemence there to cut the woman’s rant off, “I will give you a ticket for the subway instead of a limo, and you don’t look like someone who has ridden the subways recently. Should I show you that video of Pizza Rat to reacquaint you with what you’ll find? He’s kind of cute, and I think you’ll find plenty of other rats like him down there.”

  She holds up her phone threateningly, and I can see that she has already pulled the video up on Youtube. The woman pales at the thought of riding the subway. I’m not that familiar with the subway system—being a god, I never had to deal with the trappings of what mortals deal with, and I know that millions of people ride subways every day—but I can tell that she can’t handle the thought of subways and rats.

  The woman wraps the sheets around her body, grabs her clothes, and heads to my master bathroom to change. “Some matchmaker you are,” she snarls at me. “Bastard.”

  The door slams so hard, the hinges rattle, and Max winces.

  I sigh and comb a hand through my hair. “Thank you for dealing with her for me, Max.”

  She whirls on me, fire in her eyes. It takes me by surprise, and I blink at her.

  “You need to get your fucking life in order, Damien,” she says through gritted teeth. I open my mouth to answer, but she keeps going, steamrolling over me in the process. “Be a gentleman, for fuck’s sake. It’s not that hard to do. How are you supposed to be some romantic love guru if you treat everyone like shit?”

  I don’t have an answer. I just stare at her wide-mouthed, shocked.

  Because she’s right. In my depressed state and self-loathing for anything related to love, I have been treating everyone like shit.

  We’re standing so close together, if Max weren’t pissed, we’d be at an intimate distance. But there’s nothing intimate about the anger in her frown. I swallow back the lump in my throat, trying to quell an unfamiliar sensation in my chest.

  A weirdness that wasn’t there before.

  “I’m sorry, Max.”

  She looks like she wants to say something else, but she draws back and shakes her head. “I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” she says. “Then again, I’m not sure who you need to apologize to, only that you need to get your shit together. You’re so fucking hard to work for sometimes.”

  I grin. “And maybe you should fix your attitude. You do work for me, after all.”

  She turns around to make a retort but stops when she sees the grin on my face. She gnaws at her bottom lip before nodding. “Get some clothes on. You have a lot of meetings today, and you’re already running late.” She glances at the door, hesitating. “I’ll take care of her.”

  “Thanks, Max.”

  She nods. “I’ll meet you downstairs in ten minutes. Don’t be late, or I will quit.”

  She slips out of my bedroom, and I’m left alone, looking at the door, wondering what it was that I felt when we were nose to nose.

  Surely not.

  There’s one thing I know from being the god of love—falling for your personal assistant is a bad idea. Some stories make it sound romantic, like some sort of fairytale, but nothing good would come out of making a move on Maxine Galloway.

  I bet she’d be great in bed with her fiery temper, passion, and the way she takes charge of everything.

  It would be so damn hard to find a better personal assistant though.

  I turn away from the door, not following through with the errant thoughts roaming through my head.

  I tell myself that’s the only reason why I don’t do anything.

  Yeah. Right.

  3

  “
Why does the sun have to be so bright?” I mutter, putting on my sunglasses as we step outside my apartment building.

  “Come now, Damien,” Max chides as she gives a nod to Ross, my doorman. “It’s a beautiful day, and you’re complaining?” I give her an unimpressed frown. She whistles before giving a mirthless chuckle. “That bad of a hangover, huh?”

  I groan and rub my temples. “Apparently Zara wasn’t a great date.”

  “No, usually you wait until the morning after to drop your dates and find someone else.”

  I snicker despite myself. She’s absolutely right. I’m a man-whore that way, and I’ve gained quite the reputation among New York’s elite for going through single women like a man possessed.

  “Where did you pick up Nadya anyway?” Max presses, giving me a sidelong glance.

  “Nadya?”

  Max exhales an annoyed little sound through her nose. “The rightfully angry woman you slept with last night.”

  “Her name was Nadya?” Max rolls her eyes at my confusion. “Doesn’t look like a Nadya.”

  “She seems like such a wonderful person, by the way,” Max drawls. “All cheery and shit when I had to kick her out of your apartment.”

  I wince at remembering the harsh words that Max exchanged with the woman called Nadya as she tried ushering her out the door. I could hear Nadya yelling at Max, and Max responding in kind.

  “Sorry about that.” I mean it, too, although I can see the doubt in Max’s eyes.

  “I don’t get paid enough for this shit. I call and follow up on appointments with your clients.” She holds up her hand and begins counting off extra duties she’s taken on. “I arrange your personal dates with women. Your clients are required to have a hand in their romance, by the way, so you’re not setting a good example. And I started coming to your apartment in the mornings because you never show up at the office on time. Do you know how pissed off clients get?”

  “You’re right. I’ll give you a raise.”

  Max gives me a dubious glance. I smile sweetly back at her.

  “Don’t fuck with me,” she mutters, shaking her head as she pushes past me, jogging across the street to the office in her smart high heeled shoes.

  “What?” I shout after her as I run to catch up.

  With bad hangovers like this, I’m glad that my business is right next to my apartment. When I started building my matchmaking empire, I did it strategically so that I would never be too far from work. After all, I’m a god, my work is never done, so the concept wasn’t too foreign. And I’ve used the proximity of my office as an excuse to sleep in later and later.

  Which is probably a big reason why Max started coming to wake me up in the mornings.

  Max doesn’t even look at me as she nods to the secretary on the ground floor. The older woman gives us a warm wave, and I find myself smiling back at her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Eros!” she calls after me.

  I whirl back to look at her. “Morning, uh…” My voice falters.

  “Her name is Joyce,” Max snarls under her breath as she grabs my arm. “You’ve seen her every day for the past three years.”

  “Good morning, Joyce,” I amend, smoothing over the mistake. Then I decide to show off a little bit and use my power to look into Joyce’s personal life, pulling out the nuggets I know will make her grin. “How are the grandkids? Is the oldest one still going to the national baseball championship?”

  Joyce giggles. “Yes, he is, Mr. Eros. And the rest of them are doing just fine!”

  Yes, I did use some of my godly powers to butter up Joyce a bit. Apparently, my powers still work on older women, so it’s a bit of a relief that I haven’t lost my touch.

  “How the fuck did you know that, but couldn’t remember her name?” Max whispers to me.

  I shrug. “I’m good like that.”

  She gives me that dubious look again, like she doesn’t believe me but can’t figure out an alternative. I give her a blithe smile, and she makes that annoyed noise again.

  She really shouldn’t treat me this way. Then again, I am enjoying myself at her expense.

  Max strides right up to the elevator attendant, who gives us a curt nod. “Good morning,” he says lightly as we step into the lift.

  “For you, maybe.” Max crosses her arms and refuses to look at either of us.

  I can’t help my smile as I exchange a glance with the attendant, who seems amused himself.

  My offices are on the top floor of the thirty-nine-story building, and my ears pop before we get off the lift. I do take a moment to marvel at the engineering mortals are capable of these days. Nothing like Mount Olympus, but incredibly impressive nonetheless. And without intervention from the gods.

  We step out, and Max gives me a dark look before heading to her desk. “Act like a man, Damien. You have quite a few appointments today.”

  “Max—”

  “And if you keep fucking with everyone, I swear I will quit.” She waggles a finger at me as she opens the door to my office. “I’ve sent your agenda for the day, so stick to it, and I won’t have your balls for decoration.”

  “Max—” I attempt again.

  But she slams the door, leaving me to my view of Central Park. I debate for a moment going out and pestering her more, but she looked so fierce, I decide not. I frown, putting my hands on my hips as I walk to the window.

  After a moment, I lean over my laptop and put the change in the system for a pay raise for Max. I don’t make threats or promises idly, so for her to call my bluff only made me act on it.

  And I realize that my arrogance just cost me an extra $10,000 a year.

  “I want my money back, you asshole!”

  I look up from my laptop as the door to my office slams open against the opposite wall, and I get a glimpse of Max trying to block an angry woman’s entry. Tears stream down her red face, and if looks could kill, I’d be dead a thousand times over. She’s actually getting physical with Max, forcing her way past her. The few clients I have in the waiting room are all gaping at the intruder.

  I recognize the woman, even though it’s been over a year since I’ve seen her.

  “Miss Elena Sanders,” I say mildly, masking my surprise at seeing her here. “Or should I say Mrs. Stamos, now that you’ve married the man I set you up with?”

  Elena sneers at me, and I can tell that that was exactly what she didn’t want to hear.

  “Mr. Eros,” Max says with measured, weary exasperation. “I tried keeping Elena out of here, but she insisted.”

  I can only imagine how heated their conversation got outside—I have soundproof doors and walls for a reason, although not because I get a lot of unhappy clients. Whether it’s wild office sex or creating my own sanctuary, there are a lot of pluses to being lost in my own little world.

  The door shuts behind them, effectively cutting off the show for those in the waiting room. Hopefully, I won’t have to do much damage control after this.

  “Let her in, Maxine,” I say with a sigh, keeping a wary eye on my former client. “I’m guessing she has grievances to air.”

  “You bet I do, you fucking asshole,” Elena screeches, making a lunge for me. To my surprise, Max steps in the way, easily catching her hands in a smooth, practiced motion, like she’s been taking some self-defense classes. The woman cries out, her hands and fingernails reaching toward me. Those manicured, perfectly oval nails could do some real damage if I were mortal, and I’m glad that Max is capable enough to handle her without getting hurt.

  Maybe I should add another five thousand to her salary. Or offer to pay for her self-defense classes, because they obviously paid off. Needless to say, I’m impressed. I sit back with my arms crossed, watching the scene unfold in front of me.

  In fact, if I’m a hundred-percent honest with myself, I’m a little turned on at Max’s physical prowess.

  Elena struggles for a moment, and then stops, looking at Max with fearful eyes. Based on the corded muscles going through Max’s
exposed forearms and her white-knuckled grip, it must hurt.

  “If I let you go,” Max says softly, although her voice promises more pain, “will you promise not to hurt Mr. Eros? Or will I need to call security?”

  “I—I—” Elena stammers, and I decide it’s time for me to step in before Max snaps her arms in two.

  “Let her go, Max,” I say, getting to my feet. “I’m sure Mrs. Stamos can have a perfectly civil chat with me now that she’s let out her initial anger. Isn’t that right?”

  Elena’s face crumples. “It’s just Sanders now. Wayne told me this morning that he wants a divorce. Got the papers and everything.”

  Well, shit.

  I blink in surprise. Wayne Stamos is a well-to-do stockbroker on Wall Street, rich, and privileged beyond what anyone could hope to have in his lifetime. Elena Sanders was the perfect match for him, in both social status, brains, and compatibility, which I used my powers to reinforce.

  They shouldn’t be divorcing. Everyone who asks Damien Eros for a match gets their happily ever after.

  I glance at the framed article on the wall. COULD THIS MAN PLAY CUPID FOR YOU?

  My reputation in New York’s elite circles says that I can. That you will find your soulmate if you come to me. I’ve matched up mortals with their loves for thousands of years.

  So what the hell happened with Elena?

  “Let her go,” I repeat, and Max finally releases her iron grip on Elena. The woman lets out a sigh of relief and straightens out her pencil skirt and her hair. Max glares at her as she walks to the door. Even though I’m sure Elena’s wardrobe costs more than tenfold of what Max has paid for her clothes, the latter looks better as she turns away.

  Confidence goes a long way in a woman’s beauty. I wish more of them would see that.

  Max stops at the door and glances back to me, although the steel in her eyes is more for Elena’s benefit than mine. “If you need anything, Mr. Eros, don’t hesitate to ask for my help.”