Stupid Cupid by Melissa Hosack Page A

throat.
    Violet eyes dominated a masculine face. His cheekbones were
high, his jaw sharp and prominent. And he looked completely pissed off at her
presence. “Vandal!” he accused loudly.
    “Kidnapper!”
Lincoln
shot back.
    “No good, thieving… what ?”
He’d been stomping in her direction with ill intent when her accusation seemed
to sink in.
    “No good, kidnapping…stud.” She blinked at her choice of
description.
    “Kidnapping stud?” the man roared in incredulity. “I didn’t
kidnap you!”
    “Then why am I here?”
    He gave a derisive snort. “You tell me, honey. I have no
idea.”
    Lincoln
frowned at
that. As much as she wanted to peg him as the bad guy, it didn’t make much
sense for him to kidnap her. He was obviously wealthy, and he was extremely
good looking. Why would he need to kidnap a thirty-year-old bachelorette?
    Apparently sensing her confusion, the man let out his breath
in a put upon sigh. “What’s the last thing you remember?”
    “The last thing I remember is going to sleep,”
Lincoln
said slowly, “in
my own bed.” There was a bit of sting to the second half of her sentence. As
unlikely of a kidnapper as he was, she still found it hard to believe she could
have wound up here without his interference.
    Mr. Yummy turned his back on her and returned to his
cooking. “Did anything unusual happen last night?”
    At his unthreatening demeanor,
Lincoln
shrugged and sat the candle holder
down as she slid into a seat at the kitchen table. “Not really. I went out with
a few friends to celebrate my birthday.”
    “Were you drunk?” He reached above his head into a cabinet
to pull down two plates.
    She gave him a sour look. “I’m thirty, not twenty-one. I had
cake. Period.”
    “No ice cream?” he asked with surprise.
    “No.” She gave him a peculiar look behind his back. “For
your information, I don’t really care for ice cream.”
    “Then you’re not eating it right.”
    Lincoln
gave him a
dirty look but chose not to comment.
    The man turned from the stove with two plates of food in his
hands. Making his way over, he placed one in front of her before sliding into
the seat across the table. “What did you wish for?”
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “You said you had cake. I’m assuming there were candles and
singing as well. What did you wish for?” He arched a brow in question and held
a fork out to her.
    “That is none of your business. A wish is personal.” Despite
her defensive comment and haughty tone, she snatched the fork from him.
    “Come on,” he wheedled as he shoveled a forkful of scrambled
eggs into his mouth. “A wish can be a very powerful thing. Let me hear it.”
    Lincoln
lifted a
slice of bacon from her plate and stared at him over it. “Oh, all right,” she
finally said with a huff. “I wished I could meet Cupid, so I could tell him
what a jerk he is to his face.” She rolled her eyes with a snort. “I wanted to
tell him off.”
    He was suddenly choking on his food. He grabbed for the
carton of orange juice in the center of the table and downed half of it in
three long gulps. Coughing, he pounded at his chest. “That’s quite the wish,”
he finally managed to wheeze out.
    “I’m insane. I know.”
    He shook his head with one last cough and sat the carton
down between them. “You’re not insane. There’s nothing wrong with being
frustrated. So Miss…” He arched his brows, silently asking for her name.
    “I’m
Lincoln
.”
She grabbed for the orange juice carton and took a challenging swig. Her eyes
were transfixed on his, daring him to comment. Thankfully, he kept his thoughts
on her dining etiquette to himself.
    “So Miss Lincoln,” he said slowly, “what would you say to
Cupid if ever given the chance?”
    “Well, Mr....”
    “Valentine.”
    “Well, Mr. Valenteen,” she said, stretching out his name.
    “My friends just call me Valen.”
    “Okay then. Valen.” She paused. “I would tell Cupid that
he’s an arrogant