Chapter 11 Felicity
Felicity
As we’re driving into the city, I take in the sky—muddled with white clouds and tinged with burnt orange, every shade of pink and purple. The lights of the Las Vegas skyline paint a twinkling constellation on the other side of the windshield.
I’ve never been to Vegas before—never had a reason—and I expected to be unimpressed.
But I find it’s beautiful in its own way: the mix of old and new, of natural desert and artificial structures.
It’s also hot as hell, and I can feel my hand growing sweaty on top of Cupid’s.
I’ve been telling myself to let go for the past ten minutes, but I fear his touch is grounding me.
I didn’t realize I was so nervous about accepting this last-minute speaking invitation—my primary reaction was excitement.
Now, though, as the city closes in and the time to my presentation creeps nearer, I feel anxiety squeezing at me.
And so I leave our hands, tangled and sweaty, as they are between us. I expect Cupid to pull away at any minute, but he seems perfectly content. We’re locked in a silent game of chicken.
Until my anxiety ramps up to critical mass because, oh no, I forgot to handle one very crucial detail for this last-minute trip. “Shit!” I yank my hand away now, needing it to slap my palm against my forehead. In my periphery, I see Cupid flex the hand that was just holding mine.
I don’t have a hotel room booked for myself, let alone rooms for both of us. What a stupid oversight, and one I wouldn’t typically make. Today has just been…distracting.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, thoroughly confused.
“I don’t have a hotel room reserved,” I cry. “And the hotel rooms are all going to be sold out because this conference is a big deal, and I was lucky to get invited last minute because I need the networking, but now I don’t have a place to stay, and—”
“Whoa, whoa!” Cupid’s palms go up, placating. “Breathe.”
I suck in a deep breath, immediately choke on a gob of my own saliva, and start hacking.
Cupid reaches over to rub small, soothing circles between my shoulders as I cough up a lung and try to stay in my lane. “Look, just leave it up to me, okay? Drop me off at the hotel—I’ll handle the rest.”
The truth is, there are about a million places to stay.
It’s Vegas after all. But the weirdness of the day and the long drive have hit me all at once.
And that was before I remembered that I should be stressing over my presentation.
Of course, I could do it in my sleep…but that doesn’t make it any less nerve-wracking.
I look at Cupid with watery eyes, still recovering from my spit-choke panic. “What are you going to do about it?”
Cupid straightens his sleeves and flashes an easy smile. “Have some faith, Love.”
Even though I’m usually the girl who wants to do everything on her own, who refuses help—especially from men—I decide to trust him in this.
So, I guide the giant gas guzzler through an obstacle of cars and people and drop him off at the hotel’s entrance.
Then I take my own sweet time to park and collect myself.
Crush the presentation. Win the bet. Build your app.
The only thing between me and getting out of this three-day gamble with everything I’ve been working towards is myself—and one very strange, very sexy god.
But, of course, trusting a man—even if he is a god—is always a mistake.
“What the hell is this?!”
After lugging our bags up the stairs because the elevator was temporarily down for maintenance, and weaving through a maze of hallways to get to a hotel room, I opened the door to…this.
Pink carpeting and heavy red drapes over the windows. An ice bucket with a bottle of champagne on the entryway table. Rose petals create a path from the door to the massive four-poster bed. And the pièce de résistance: a heart-shaped hot tub in the middle of the room.
“It’s our hotel room for the next two nights,” Cupid says with a puff of his chest. “See, told you I’d take care of it.”
“It’s a nightmare!”
“No, it’s a honeymoon suite.”
“So your big plan to get me a hotel room was to lie and tell the front desk staff that we’re newlyweds,” I say.
“Bullseye.” Cupid points two fingers at me, thumbs in the air. “And this isn’t just your room. In case you didn’t notice, I like to travel in style.”
My face and my palm connect. “Why does it have to be this style, though?” I ask, aggrieved.
“Aw, come on,” Cupid says. “Cheer up! I got us these digs for a bargain.” He picks up the champagne bottle and hands it to me. “And look, they even threw this in for free!”
I read the message attached to the bottle’s neck: Congratulations on your happy day! “Oh my god.” I press the cool bottle to my hot cheek. “This feels wrong, Cupid. I don’t like that we’re lying.”
Cupid shrugs out of his jacket and jumps on the bed face-first. Through the muffle of sheets, I hear him say: “There’s a little chapel right down the street, Love. I could make an honest woman of you.” He looks back at me.
I frown, annoyed, and Cupid seems to sense I’m not in a joking mood. “Look, this is the nicest room they had available,” he says. “And I wanted you to have that.”
The admission is so surprisingly sweet that it causes me to soften. Realistically, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to share a room with Cupid, even if it is the most hideous room I’ve ever seen.
“Fine,” I concede with a heavy sigh. I’m quickly learning I can’t say no to him when he looks at me with those big, brown eyes, even though I don’t want Cupid to take notice. I can’t have him thinking he’s making headway with me—except…
No. Nope. I’m staying cool, calm, and detached. True to the version of Felicity I’ve been honing for the past ten years.
“Huh,” Cupid says. “I thought you’d put up more of a fight. Complain a little, shout at me. Maybe tell me I have to sleep on the floor.”
“Do you want to sleep on the floor?”
“Not particularly.”
“Okay,” I toss a bag on the chair by the bed. Why is there always just one random chair in the corner of every hotel room? “Then don’t. I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”
Cupid wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You’re welcome to handle me, too, if you want.”
I pick up a decorative heart-shaped pillow and throw it at him. The pillow hits its mark with a thwump before sliding down his face to the floor.