Chapter One
Eat your own berry, Cupid
Every morning when I wake up, there’s a single berry the size of a pea sitting on the pillow next to my head. When I was six and they first started appearing, they were as white as a virgin’s wedding gown. Through the years they’ve changed. Today’s berry is magenta. Not quite pink. Not quite red. Not quite a subtle hint to get my ass moving if I wanted to break Cupid’s curse.
A curse with an expiration date. Two weeks, my twenty-fifth birthday. Two weeks to make a choice. Two weeks until the countdown clock strikes “screw you.”
Either find my soul mate or my heart hardens and I’ll never know true love. Lonely forever.
Cupid’s clock is tick, tock, ticking.
My beach house is silent except for the soothing white noise of the morning waves crashing to the shore outside my balcony door. A sound that washed away most of the remaining image of last night’s dream, but nothing can erase the memory of the sexy man saying goodnight under the branches of a weeping willow.
“Until tomorrow night, Alicia, to állo mou misó.”My other half, what my dream man called to me every morning before I opened my eyes.
A dream man who, had he been flesh-and-bone and not dreams-and-fantasies, would have been the answer to Cupid’s curse. The answer to everything wrong in my life.
But the real world doesn’t make men like him. Sexy. Smoldering. Sincere.
I carried too much guilt from my past to search for my soul mate. Being a dealer of death by berries had a way of doing that to a person.
If I thought the poison would kill me, put an end to the curse, I’d suck down a thousand berries before offering them to the person I loved. Again. The fist of guilt that lived in my chest, deep in my soul tightened, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.
I took a deep breath. “Don’t dwell on a past you can’t fix.” My daily reminder to stop being a drama llama.
As far as I’m concerned, Cupid could take his curse and shove it up his uptight ass with one of his own pointy arrows, but that’s not how this game worked. Instead, Cupid got to violate me until the final buzzer. Game over. Suck it up buttercup.
I scooped up that berry the same way I’d done for the past two years, give or take, and squished the tough skin, waiting for the almost silent pop before the viscous poison ran between my fingers. Poison that burned away more of the already scarred skin on the pad of my thumb, that continued to eat its way through my veins, bringing my blood to a constant boil. My way of remembering the death those berries caused. Of remembering my promise I made to myself.
The smell of the berry’s insides, rotten, pungent, nose-burning bad, filled the room.
I got up and wandered into the bathroom, cranked the sink to hot-enough-to-melt-my-bones, and washed the rest of the deadly fluid off before it ate away more of my skin. Then I turned the knob in the complete opposite direction, taking it from boiling to freezing, cooling the molten lava that ran through my veins. One of the curse’s side effects, perma-hot flashes. Something I hoped would disappear when those damn berries stop showing up like a magic reminder.
Stripping out of my “Sassy Since Birth” T-shirt and black lace undies, I went in search of my favorite wet suit, and prepared to surf away my worries and fears.
Sliding into the gray and teal neoprene suit felt like slipping into a second skin, one more comfortable and familiar than my actual flesh. I zipped the front over a black bikini, and pulled my dark waves into a messy bun on top of my head. Blowing a kiss at my reflection, I turned my back on the pathetic girl whose haunted eyes stared back at me.
I stepped out onto the small brick balcony attached to my bedroom—an adopted morning ritual to keep me sane—and took a deep breath. Inhaling the mixed smell of the ocean and wet sand. Watching the water move in the breeze. The crests and curls of the waves made an invisible finger and invited me into their watery embrace.
My body hummed to answer the call.
On my way through the kitchen, I snatched a protein bar off the counter, and munched on my meager breakfast. I headed into my mudroom, where my collection of surfboards lined the walls. Twelve to be exact. Collected since I was six and caught my first wave.
Grabbing an onyx board with cherry blossoms decorating the top, one of my favorites, I walked through the door and sank my toes into the cool sand, then wandered through my small backyard, and past the built-in fire pit. A mere one hundred and three feet from the front balcony, my little slice of paradise awaited.
I dropped my surfboard on the sand, wrapped the cuff around my ankle, securing my favorite possession to my side, and looked forward to entering my own personal therapy session.
“Lookin’ good, Ms. Mozart of the Waves.” One of the regular surf dudes called to me, using the nickname the surf world had given me at the age of fourteen, then gave me a wave and a wink. “When are we—”
I held up my hand to ward off his daily question of “When are we going to have sex?”
“The answer is always the same, Steve. Not in a million years.” And even after I rebuffed him for the thousandth time, my lips snuck into a smile. My morning just wouldn’t be the same without him.
He folded his hands over his heart. “Go crush the waves like you just crushed my heart.”
“One day you’ll find your Missus Dude and you won’t even notice me anymore.”
He saluted me with a wobbly hand. “Hope her ass looks as good as yours in a wet suit.”
I answered his semi-compliment with a thumbs up, and found my way to the place where the sand and ocean collide.
The water cooled my feet, traveling up, removing that constant burning of my blood, chilling the poison that ran through my veins, the side effect of Cupid being a sadistic bastard, and I felt normal. Well, normalish for an instant.
Getting on my board, I paddled as far away from the wanna-be surfers as possible, finding my spot in the inside, and watched the first wave roll towards me, gaining speed and size the closer it got. The wave reached my board and I stood, feet glued to the rough surface, arms out, balance perfect. Ready to ride or die.
And ride I did, proving to everyone watching why I was known as one of the best female surfers on the California coast. I ripped over the scattered peaks of the wave, feeling the spray on my face, allowing my mind to clear of all things not related to my current moment of bliss.
If only catching a man were as easy as catching a wave.
For an hour the ocean was my companion, lover, and confidant. Years of therapy taught me the value of my morning surf. But my moment of bliss ended too soon when reality came crashing to the shore in the form of a woman who commanded attention in the business world, but who looked hilariously out of place in nature.
My agent and own personal cheer section, Veronica, Ronnie for short, waved at me from the sand, standing out among the bathing suit bunch in her black leather pencil skirt and low-cut emerald silk blouse. I guided my board toward the beach, making sure to splash her a bit on my re-entry.
“Bitch.” She brushed at the water speckled on her blouse, but there wasn’t any heat in her word, only love and friendship.
“It’s odd to see you letting the sun bake your overly protected skin.” I love to tease her about her porcelain complexion.
“Only for my favorite client.” She dug through her five-hundred-dollar handbag and pulled out a pair of Gucci sunglasses to block out the morning rays.
I placed my surfboard in the sand between us. “So, what brings you into the outside world?”
“Theo Castas.” She slid the glasses up, pushing her long blonde locks out of her face, and rolled her eyes when I raised my eyebrows into a large question mark. “Famous sports photographer.” She tugged at her earlobe, one of her weird quirks when I’ve frustrated her. “And you call yourself an athlete and a model.”
“I call myself an athlete, you added model.” I brushed a drop of water off my brow. “So, why do I need to meet Theo Castas?”
“Because he can make all your dreams come true.” She smiled like the time she set me up on a blind date, but she already knew that wouldn’t be happening a second time. “Trust me. You want to meet Theo Castas.”
I halfway listened as she continued talking, but was way more interested in watching a fellow surfer get worked over by a wave than hearing about some big shit photographer. “If you say so.” My answer delivered by auto-pilot.
“He’ll be at my office in an hour to talk to you about being your personal photographer at the Renegade’s next week.” She grabbed my chin and my attention. “In other words, get your ass off the beach, put on something besides Neoprene, and come impress the shit out of this man.”
“Are you saying my natural element won’t impress him?”
Using her thumb and index finger she picked up a piece of my hair, dripping with salt water and sand. “Honey, even your beauty needs a little TLC.” She let go of the strand, where it suctioned itself back to my shoulder. “I’m starting to get hives from this much nature. Promise me you’ll be on time, and dressed in something that you didn’t pick up off the floor.”
I gave her a mock salute with my middle finger. “You, my friend, can kiss my sun-toned ass. I’ll be there. Clean and dressed.” Then I leaned in and gave her a nice, big wet hug.
She shoved me away like I’ve just committed the largest sin known to man. “Water loving, bitch.” She smiled then flipped me off in return, turned on her four inch, really-not-appropriate-for-the-beach heels, and struggled through the sand back to her world of corporate boringness.
Knowing that my morning me time was officially over, I snagged my board and made my way back to my modest beach house. A house bought and paid for with my modeling money. Not my first love, but the one profession that paid me well.
I hopped in the shower and replaced the smell of the ocean with the smell of lemon, rubbing citrus-scented body wash into my skin and hair, then washing it down the drain.
Sans makeup and hair product, and dressed in distressed jeans and an oversized flannel shirt, something that would make Ronnie’s eye twitch only a little bit, I hopped into my Jeep and navigated through downtown San Diego.
The modeling agency sat in the center of the cultural district of town, right in the thick of all the cool people. Most of whom I tried to ignore because I decided long ago that humans were my kryptonite. Until Ronnie plucked me out of the water and tossed me into the world of high glamour.
Ronnie calls me a loner. I call myself intelligent and independent. Ronnie says someone as beautiful as me should have men buying her all sorts of expensive things. I say who needs a man to pamper you when you can’t promise them a future.
Ronnie and I disagreed on a lot of things. But then Ronnie doesn’t know about Cupid’s curse.
I pushed my way through the revolving door, entering a lobby that was more art deco than welcome-to-my-home. Glossy photographs of models adorned the off-white walls, one of mine front and center. The receptionist, a woman who had never heard of the natural look, looked up from her computer when my uber-comfortable flip flops squeaked on the tile floor. She gave me a small smile and went back to pecking away at the keys of her shiny laptop.
I’m used to being slightly ignored by everyone but Ronnie at the agency. That’s what happens when you don’t fit the typical model stereotype. Five-foot-eight. Legs meaty and muscular, not lean and long. Hair untouched by any expensive product. And skin-kissed by the sun.
Wandering through the halls, I glanced at the portraits of all the models who had come before me. Women who had clawed their way to the top. Something I never had to do. My success came fast and easy, and almost every girl in this building held that against me.
Ronnie’s door was open, and as usual she was chattering away on her phone. Her voice carrying through the crack. I let my mind wander, her business didn’t interest me. In fact, if I had my way, I would spend a lot less time in this office building than I already did. I’d never understand how anyone could enjoy fluorescent fakeness to sunlight.
I nudged the door open with my toe and the hinges creaked. Ronnie looked up and flashed me her bulldog smile, complete with a set of teeth that had taken down more than one man in her life.
She continued to talk and I slipped into one of the padded chairs in front of her desk, noticing the very empty room, no have-to-meet-him photographer in sight. I glanced at my watch. Right on time. I flipped through my phone waiting for Ronnie to finish her business and the minutes ticked by.
Finally, she placed the phone on her desk and scrutinized my attire. “You look…presentable.”
I pulled at my sleeve. “I didn’t get it from the floor.” I pointed to the empty chair next to me. “Where’s this photographer I just had to meet?”
“Late.” She shrugged. “That’s one thing about Theo, he does what he wants, and everyone else just falls in line.”
Irritation played my nerves like an out-of-tune instrument. “So, I busted my ass to get here for this meeting, but Mr. Hot Shot can’t even be bothered to show up on time?”
Perfectly plucked brows formed a perfect arch. “You’re not new to the business.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her mile-long legs. “The photographers hold all the power and someone like Theo Castas…well, he holds a lot more than others. Every girl in this agency would love to be sitting where you are. One seat away from a man who makes all their naughty bits tingle.”
“Are you serious?” I didn’t even try to hide my eye roll, even though it was wasted on Ronnie who was looking past me.
“Your friend Ronnie is dead serious.” A deep voice, one that I heard every night in my dreams, sent shivers to all my personal places, practically making me purr. “Most models would prefer to jump on my dick before they jumped in front of my camera.” His words were more effective at cooling off my hot-to-trots than a man wearing a banana hammock.
I turned to see the man who Ronnie hoped would be the key to my future, and my heart plopped into my stomach then did a somersault.
Oh, for Cupid’s crap.
Standing behind me, arms crossed over his toned chest, was the man I left standing under the weeping willow every morning. The man I had wished was real from the moment I saw him. The only man who I believed could break Cupid’s curse.
Theo Castas. Literally the man of my dreams.