this. I’ve heard people talk about love at first sight, but I never believed in it. Then with just one look—bam! I was a goner. The minute we laid eyes on each other we knew we were destined soul mates. Suddenly, our minds are wide open and the world is the most beautiful place. How have I gone so long without knowing magic like this?
But that’s what you do, isn’t it, Cupid? Fling your arrow and make people fall in love at first sight. Drive them crazy. Send them over the edge of reason.
It’s awful because I’ve been accepted into Oxford University with a full scholarship. I can’t bear the thought of leaving my guy behind, and family responsibilities keep him from joining me in England. My head tells me that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I can’t pass it up, but I ache at the thought of being so far away from him. What’s the point of the finest education in the world if you can’t be with the one you love? Tell me what to do, Cupid. Go or stay? My fate is in your hands.
—Shot Through the Heart
Natalie McCleary folded the well-creased letter and tucked it into the pocket of her Van Gogh yellow sundress. The letter writer’s angst settled in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes, playing Cupid was more difficult than running her bed-and-breakfast, Cupid’s Rest.
It had been over a week since the letter had arrived and she still had no answer for the sender. Her response had the power to change the entire trajectory of Shot Through the Heart’s future, and she did not take her duties lightly.
The trouble was, at twenty-nine, Natalie herself had never been in love. Who was she to give advice to the lovelorn?
You’re Millie Greenwood’s direct descendant, that’s who. It’s your obligation whether you want it or not.
Wasn’t that just the story of her life? Obligation. Responsibility. Tradition.
Natalie shook her head and squared her shoulders. C’mon, don’t be resentful . She’d never been a complainer or shirker and she wasn’t about to start now.
The sole of her right yellow Keds made a slight scraping sound as she scuffed over terra-cotta paver stones. She moved toward the large white wooden box situated underneath the cherubic fountain in the botanical gardens, located in the center of downtown Cupid, Texas. It was just after dawn and the gardens weren’t yet open to the public, but in another two hours the place would overflow with tourists.
Mockingbirds called from pink-blossomed desert willows. Over by a prickly pear cactus, a black-crested titmouse gobbled up a fat grub worm. Undisturbed by Natalie’s presence, a long-legged roadrunner strolled over the limestone rock wall surrounding the gardens. Locusts started a low-hummed buzzing, tuning up for the encroaching late June heat. Dragonflies hovered over the fountain, and a toad peeked up at her from blue pebble gravel around the firecracker plants. From La Hacienda Grill down the street, the smell of huevos rancheros wafted on the air and mingled with the perfume of fuchsia rockroses.
The morning seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. For what, she didn’t know, but the notion dug in so deeply that she hesitated, caught her breath, and glanced around.
Nope, no one, she was totally alone.
You’re losing it, woman.
She cocked her head, listening, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. Off in the distance an eighteen-wheeler ground its gears as it churned up the mountain. The rhythmic sound of a garbage truck’s backup beeper drifted over from First Street, followed by the mechanized wheeze of the lifting arm and the clattering clang of a Dumpster being emptied. From the stables behind the gardens, a horse whinnied.
Home.
Still the same, but oddly different somehow.
Inexplicably, goose bumps spread over her skin. She rubbed her arms with her palms.
Weird.
Junie Mae Prufrock, who owned the LaDeDa Day Spa and Hair Salon next door to Natalie’s B&B, would claim that someone had
But that’s what you do, isn’t it, Cupid? Fling your arrow and make people fall in love at first sight. Drive them crazy. Send them over the edge of reason.
It’s awful because I’ve been accepted into Oxford University with a full scholarship. I can’t bear the thought of leaving my guy behind, and family responsibilities keep him from joining me in England. My head tells me that this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I can’t pass it up, but I ache at the thought of being so far away from him. What’s the point of the finest education in the world if you can’t be with the one you love? Tell me what to do, Cupid. Go or stay? My fate is in your hands.
—Shot Through the Heart
Natalie McCleary folded the well-creased letter and tucked it into the pocket of her Van Gogh yellow sundress. The letter writer’s angst settled in the pit of her stomach. Sometimes, playing Cupid was more difficult than running her bed-and-breakfast, Cupid’s Rest.
It had been over a week since the letter had arrived and she still had no answer for the sender. Her response had the power to change the entire trajectory of Shot Through the Heart’s future, and she did not take her duties lightly.
The trouble was, at twenty-nine, Natalie herself had never been in love. Who was she to give advice to the lovelorn?
You’re Millie Greenwood’s direct descendant, that’s who. It’s your obligation whether you want it or not.
Wasn’t that just the story of her life? Obligation. Responsibility. Tradition.
Natalie shook her head and squared her shoulders. C’mon, don’t be resentful . She’d never been a complainer or shirker and she wasn’t about to start now.
The sole of her right yellow Keds made a slight scraping sound as she scuffed over terra-cotta paver stones. She moved toward the large white wooden box situated underneath the cherubic fountain in the botanical gardens, located in the center of downtown Cupid, Texas. It was just after dawn and the gardens weren’t yet open to the public, but in another two hours the place would overflow with tourists.
Mockingbirds called from pink-blossomed desert willows. Over by a prickly pear cactus, a black-crested titmouse gobbled up a fat grub worm. Undisturbed by Natalie’s presence, a long-legged roadrunner strolled over the limestone rock wall surrounding the gardens. Locusts started a low-hummed buzzing, tuning up for the encroaching late June heat. Dragonflies hovered over the fountain, and a toad peeked up at her from blue pebble gravel around the firecracker plants. From La Hacienda Grill down the street, the smell of huevos rancheros wafted on the air and mingled with the perfume of fuchsia rockroses.
The morning seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. For what, she didn’t know, but the notion dug in so deeply that she hesitated, caught her breath, and glanced around.
Nope, no one, she was totally alone.
You’re losing it, woman.
She cocked her head, listening, but heard nothing out of the ordinary. Off in the distance an eighteen-wheeler ground its gears as it churned up the mountain. The rhythmic sound of a garbage truck’s backup beeper drifted over from First Street, followed by the mechanized wheeze of the lifting arm and the clattering clang of a Dumpster being emptied. From the stables behind the gardens, a horse whinnied.
Home.
Still the same, but oddly different somehow.
Inexplicably, goose bumps spread over her skin. She rubbed her arms with her palms.
Weird.
Junie Mae Prufrock, who owned the LaDeDa Day Spa and Hair Salon next door to Natalie’s B&B, would claim that someone had
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