But Quinn suddenly wasn’t listening. There it was again. That feeling.
And it tugged her—yanked her hard, up and toward an enormous oak tree where leaves fell in soft multicolored flutters to the ground and a couple stood, leaning against it, holding each other close, almost as though they were posing for a picture.
They were beautiful together. Long, lean, perfectly dressed against the backdrop of the overcast day.
“Hang the hell on, Love Maker!” Nina ordered, her feet sounding right behind Quinn. “Khristos said to wait for him!”
But she couldn’t. Whatever was propelling her forward gave her feet a life of their own. Her sneakers thumped against the concrete even as she heard Khristos and Ingrid yell her name.
But it was all a little hazy and muted. Instead, she heard two heartbeats—heartbeats?—crashing out of sync until the sound of them morphed together and synchronized. And it was all she could hear, rhythmic, steady, as she pushed her way through a small crowd of German tourists to get to these two beautiful people.
But what would she do when she got to them? Didn’t Hot Greek Guy say Cupid had to shoot the arrow to make it official? How did one call upon Cupid? Did he have a phone number? A Twitter account?
“Quinn—waaaait!” Khristos barked.
Her mother had always said she wasn’t a very good listener because her head was so high up in the clouds.
Lately it seemed a lot of the things her mother had once told her were all coming to fruition.
Ingrid handed her what was left of the coffee after it had sloshed from the cup as she’d chased after Quinn. “You’re a crappy listener, Quinn Morris.”
She puffed her cheeks out and took the cup, wincing when Khristos glared down at her before he began to pace again.
Oh, she was in trouble. So much trouble. “I did say I was going to suck at this, didn’t I? My head’s all a mess.”
“And I did say to stay put until we returned, didn’t I?” Khristos asked, the tic in his sharp jaw pulsing beneath the dark stubble.
Remorse stung her gut. “I don’t know what made me do it. It felt so right. The rest just happened.”
Oh, had it ever happened. Just not in the way or with the finesse she was sure Aphrodite would have lent to the situation.
Ingrid plopped down next to her and patted her thigh in comfort. “I don’t think that photographer really meant it when he said he’d sue your oversized boobs right off your scrawny chest. He was just talking smack because he was mad. Don’t worry, Quinn.”
According to the ultra-swanky fashion photographer from some magazine whose name she couldn’t pronounce, she’d ruined his ultimate shot.
Of the couple who were not supposed to be together eternally.
The absolute perfect shot. The one they’d waited all day for. The one they needed to have in by tonight so this ultra-swanky magazine could go to press.
She bit the inside of her cheek before she said, “I knocked over his camera. I had no idea a camera had so many working parts. You think it was expensive?”
Ingrid wrinkled her nose and waved a dismissive gloved hand. “Bah. He threw some numbers out, but I bet it’s all just bullshit. You know those creative types. They all think they bleed diamonds and shit Dolce & Gabbana. He probably lives in some crappy apartment in Brooklyn with his mother and her poodle.”
Ingrid’s attempt to make her laugh wasn’t working. “That number he threw out was five thousand dollars.” Quinn blanched. She didn’t have five thousand pennies—not after that trip to Greece.
“Well, yeah, he did. But all’s not lost. You did make a friend. That hot model who looks like he stepped right out of a Hugo Boss commercial was willing to pay good money to get his hands on whatever lotion you use to make you sparkle. He was pretty nice, right?”
“He was gay, Ingrid. Gay, and I matched him with a straight female model—for life.” Oh, Jesus and a fucked-up mess, she’d really done it.
“But Khristos fixed it. It’s all okay now.”
She snorted her disgust. “I could have ruined his life, Ingrid! What if Khristos hadn’t been here? Because the time will come when he’s not. Poor Rolando could have ended up forever in the closet, unsure why he was madly in love with a woman he wasn’t even a little attracted to. And let’s not forget, Shay-Shay—”
“La-Tee-Shay, remember? It’s part of her first name and her last name all mashed together as one. Her agent told her to do it so she’d get noticed. She was pretty, huh? But not as nice as Rolando. Kinda snippy, in fact.”
“Not the point, Ingrid! As if she doesn’t already have enough self-esteem issues about her age—even if she’s just barely twenty, but she could have ended up with a man who physically wouldn’t want her ever, but who she’d love desperately anyway. In her mind, that’s like death!”