On it were bowls and spoons, and napkins folded into small swans. Archibald had apologized for the lack of proper cutlery, but he’d made the trip all the way in from Staten Island at Wanda’s request and decided a more formal place setting would only deter him from his duties—which was to ease Quinn’s load.
He’d greeted her with the same kind of warmth Wanda and Marty had, whisking her off to a place at the table, where he’d poured her a glass of wine and said, “Do rest, Miss Quinn. Goddess work is hard work. Matchmaking must be fraught with pitfalls sure to test the merits of one’s heart, and surely you’re exhausted from your first day out? Now, we’ve taken care of everything. Supper simmers as I speak, and your sheets are freshly laundered and pressed, awaiting your weary head at days end. I’ve watered and fed Buffy and Spike, whom, if I do say so myself, are a delightful couple, even though guilt burdens my heart, as I was Team Angel. And please, don’t trouble yourself until you’ve settled into your new role in life. I’m at your service for as long as needed.”
And then he was off, calling to Darnell—who was in the kitchen making fresh bread—to ensure he’d taken butter out of the fridge so that it would soften enough to spread in time for dinner.
“Quinn?” Khristos interrupted the pleasure brought by the memory of all these strange new people, sitting at a table she didn’t own, all eating together. They’d laughed and chatted and passed bowl after bowl of food, all while she’d watched in silence.
Yet, secretly, she reveled in their friendships and wondered why she’d spent so much of her time with her nose in a book instead of forging friendships of her own.
Because books never left you. That’s why. It was as plain as the nose on her face she had hang-ups where relationships were concerned. Fictitious families never let you down—all you had to do was turn the page for the happily ever after. In the end, the heroine never fell in love with the wrong hero the way Quinn had done repeatedly like some broken record.
Rather than create real-life connections with real-world struggles, she stuck her nose in a book and ignored everything else to the point of isolating herself with her ridiculous expectations.
It wasn’t absurd to think Igor should have been faithful. It was ridiculous to have turned him into something in her mind he absolutely wasn’t interested in being. Hindsight, and the past few days had taught her that.
But she was done with that. Everything she did from here on out was going to be steeped in realism so real, they’d dub her the realest Aphrodite ever.
Khristos grabbed her hand from across the table of the diner they sat in and squeezed it. “You in there?”
Her eyes were heavy now, but she’d had that feeling again shortly after they’d eaten, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t indigestion. That feeling had led them here, to a diner, where, with Khristos’s guidance, she’d pinpointed the difference between an urgent need to match and the quest for a true match.
If what she felt was what Khristos described, then the unsuspecting couple was somewhere in this vicinity, though the diner was almost totally empty.
She snatched her hand back, almost knocking her coffee over. No more hand holding. No more warm fuzzies and crushing on Greek gods who liked leggy blondes. Real people who wanted realistic things didn’t let men like Khristos into their realms of possibility.
“Sorry. I’m just tired, I think. That stew was amazing, and I overate.”
“No joke. But that’s not even the half of it. Wait until Arch breaks out his pancetta-crusted tilapia. Nothing compares to that man’s cooking.”
She found herself wishing she’d be around long enough to do that. After Khristos was gone, and everyone left to go off and continue leading the lives she was coming to envy, it would be just her and Buffy and Spike again. That felt cold and lonely compared to the warmth these people had thrust upon her in such a short time.
“So you’ve known Archibald a long time?” They’d seemed like old friends, laughing and talking about past get-togethers during the course of dinner.
“Yep. Since he was a vampire and I was just a kid. He’s a good guy and his game-day feasts, especially his artichoke dip, are what dreams are made of.”
She smiled absently, running her finger over the rim of her coffee mug, tamping down her envy. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around this paranormal thing. Hearing the word vampire as though it isn’t crazy is still a bit of a struggle.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“So tell me about you. What do Greek gods do all day long?” Attend orgies?
“I’m not a god. I’m just a descendent of one.”
“But it has its perks.”
“If by perks you mean guarding an apple with the power to make or break humankind, sure. It’s very perky.”