Kissing Cupid - Julia Mills

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Edited by Lisa Miller, Angel Editing Services

Proofread by Book Nook Nuts

Beta Read by Charlene Bauer and Linda Levy

Cover Designed by Linda Boulanger with

Tell Tale Book Covers

DEDICATION

Dare to Dream! Find the Strength to Act! Never Look Back!

Thank you, God.

To my girls, Liz and Em, I Love You. Every day, every way, always.

Kissing Cupid

“I’m dying. I have to be dying.”

Hand shooting out from under the covers, I slapped at the bedside table like it was a nasty, gnarly palmetto bug on a Florida sidewalk.

Whap!

It wouldn’t die. The bastard just wouldn’t die. Incessantly rattling across the wooden top of the tiny chest, the incessant rattle of my cell phone beat at my poor, hungover brain.

Beating the hell out of it wasn't working, I swear it was only getting louder. “New plan. I need a new plan.”

Ignoring the way the room spun and my stomach rebelled, I rolled onto my side, snatching the blasted device off the table, and threw the son of a bitch across the room. Smiling blissfully as it smacked the wall, bounced off the dresser, hit the floor and finally shut up, I sighed in relief as my eyes slid shut.

Blessed silence filled my room as I curled back up under my heart-covered comforter, drifting back to a headache-free dreamland. As my luck (which is total crapola these days) would have it, my trip to Sleepytown was brutally denied when my phone, (Yes, the aforementioned bastard) now known to me as Satan's Rattler, once again started its dance of death.

Bet you think it stopped there. Nope, no way, that would mean things were looking up, and that just wasn’t the way of my world. Oh no, this time that demon device not only rattled against the wall but also jingled the bells hanging off my brand-new, pink Betsey Johnson platforms.

I know. I know. You're asking yourself why I didn't just put them in the closet? You’re saying, “Girlie, get it together. This all could’ve been avoided.”

Well, my answer to that is…(A) I have no clue why I didn’t put them away, and (B) Who you tellin’?

Throwing off the comforter, I gently sat up while the entire Drum Line of the Chiming Cherub Marching Band was warming up in my head. Letting just the tips of my toes touch the floor, my brain went into overdrive as memories of the night before came rushing back.

Let’s getcha up to speed…

My older sister Chloe is getting married, and of course, she had to have a bachelorette party. And of course, we had to have a night filled with naked Fairy-men strippers, Slippery Nipple shots, Wet Pussy shots, Jell-O Shots, flaming shots, Woohoo, Voodoo, and Blue Kamikaze shots (Notice a theme?).

Yes. We should’ve stopped there. But…we didn’t, oh hell no, we got fucked up Fairy-style, the driver of our glittering silver limo stocked the bar with all the pink champagne we could drink.

Let me tell you, being chauffeured all over the Fairy Mound is nothing short of fab-u-lous. Doing it with a drink in your hand kicks that shit up to a ten.

Somewhere between Devon's Den of Debauchery and Evelyn's Eleven Days in Heaven I came up with the bright idea of texting my boss, the God of Love himself. In my liquor-addled brain it made perfect sense to profess my undying love in the most humiliating and mushy terms known to the entire Fairy Kingdom. (Probably every other species, too. I’ll have to look that up later.)

Now, I know what you're thinking. You want to say, "You're Krissy Kissinger, Fairy Extraordinaire, don't sweat it. He's Cupid. It's part of the gig. He's used to it. He probably saw it, laughed it off and will act as if nothing happened. You've worked for him for hundreds and hundreds of years. It'll be cool. Heck, he's even been the entertainment for more than a few Hen Parties."

Well, see that's where you'd be wrong. Cupid belongs to the Good Ole Boy's Club of the Upper Realm. You know the land where the Gods and the Fairy live? Yeah, that place. Anyway, Cupid, along with Ares, Apollo, Poseidon, Zeus, and the whole lot of them, sit around talking trash and dishing dirt every chance they get.

Trust me. I've witnessed it firsthand. It is not pretty. They are worse than a hundred menopausal women without chocolate and coffee. They. Are. Dogs.

But wait, there’s more. Their favorite, top-of-the-charts topic to rag on is, drum roll please - women who've hit on them.

They yuck it up big time talking trash about