The Playboy God (Gods of Olympus Book 7)

by Erin Hayes

  She lets out an exasperated breath as she puts her laptop away in her briefcase. “You fucking forgot, didn’t you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” I lie.

  But she knows me too well even to play. “The Met Gala is tonight. We have tickets to it. Remember how much you complained about paying $30,000 for each ticket?”

  Even my stomach takes a tumble at that, and I sigh. “Right. Yes.” I had a tuxedo pressed for the occasion. Max used some money to buy a dress for it and has been preparing for the last week. Most of the celebrities and socialites will have been planning for months—or had people to do it for them.

  Max has been flying solo through most of this. Admirably so, since she’s competing with the 1%.

  She smirks. “You at least need to pretend that you’re excited.”

  “I am.”

  I sound defensive. The truth is, I’m terrified. With every date that Max and I go on, we’re under the public’s scrutiny. And I’m not worried about not looking like a man in love. I’m worried about looking too much like one, and her catching on to that nuance.

  I think about the velvet box in my coat pocket with the engagement ring nestled in it. Since Max won’t let me propose to her, I’ve been keeping it on hand in case the moment feels right. Maybe I’ll pop the question to her at the Gala.

  Nothing more public. Nothing more surprising.

  She’ll look both excited and mortified. She’ll probably hate it.

  Serves her right for blackmailing me like this.

  Max pauses at the door and looks back at me, curious. “What?”

  I hide my smile. “Nothing. Just had a funny thought.”

  She still looks perplexed as she leaves. I take another sip of my coffee and grimace again. Maybe I can go ahead and get ready for the event too. I head back to my desk and look at my schedule for the rest of the day.

  No more appointments. Business may have stopped backsliding since this whole arrangement began, but it hasn’t picked up again. Maybe I should be worried about it. Then again, I haven’t heard of any of my clients dissolving their relationships since then.

  Maybe things are looking up.

  But I’m still in way over my head.

  9

  Gods like me don’t need to breathe—we only do so because we look strange otherwise. You can put me underwater for centuries, throw me into space, or choke me, and I’ll still be fine.

  But, somehow, Max manages to take my breath away.

  I don’t see her until my limo pulls up to my apartment building. A couple of hours after she left my office, she sent a text asking if I could send my driver to pick her up from the salon. She said she would feel ridiculous in a taxi or an Uber.

  I don’t know what she means until I open the door and freeze, the air sucked from my lungs.

  “What?” Max asks, her voice a blend of panic, irritation, and embarrassment. She sits with her arms crossed self-consciously across her breasts. Like she’s trying to put up a physical barrier to cover herself.

  My lungs still haven’t recovered, so I can’t do anything except look at her.

  Her skin looks flawless, her dark smoky makeup accentuating her nymph-like emerald eyes. Her lips are a sensual red that frame every subtle expression she makes as she looks at me. Her dark hair is swept up into a loose, messy bun at the nape of her neck, a trio of thick braids leading into it. Tresses curl around her face, framing her high cheekbones and strong chin that would look masculine if she weren’t so soft everywhere else. She looks like a Greek goddess, and not just because she’s wearing a soft gray, Grecian inspired dress, although it helps. The draping wraps around her curves, and only one side goes over her shoulder. The other shows off her delicious, inviting collarbone.

  Even Aphrodite would be jealous of this angel in front of me.

  “What?” Max asks again, her voice desperate for validation from me.

  “You look beautiful.”

  Such a simple phrase, one that I’ve said many, many times in my life. But never like I’m praying to the gods above. Never like she is the most beautiful creature ever to grace me with her presence.

  Max has always been attractive. Without the right styling, you’d overlook her for someone else. But instead of coming across as fake or disingenuous, Max’s new look highlights what’s already there. Anyone who ever considered anything different is a fool.

  And I’m the biggest fool of all.

  Max catches my tone of voice and looks at me, curious. “I feel ridiculous.”

  “Why?” I get inside the limo, and my driver shuts the door. Max sits on the back seat, and I don’t know what’s correct. Do I sit next to her? Put my hand on her thigh? Give it a squeeze and reassure her again that she’s beautiful.

  Shit, I’ve become an idiot.

  Max plucks at her bodice. “It’s too much.”

  “It’s perfect.”

  “I got this from a secondhand store in the Garment District,” she continues, her cheeks reddening, “and I spruced it up a bit. But it’s an old style, and—”

  “Max,” I say, leaning in to look deeply into her eyes. “It’s perfect.”

  For once, that shuts her up, and her mouth closes with an audible snap. Her eyes are big as she looks at me, and I can see that she takes a lot of effort to gulp. “You look perfect too.”

  I’m wearing a five-thousand-dollar tux with a black tie. My hair is perfectly coifed, and my jaw has the right amount of scruff that is popular.

  I know I look perfect—it’s calculated to look that way. But it’s that fake kind of perfect, the one that doesn’t catch you off guard, only because it’s so vanilla and expected.

  Max, however, just shines. She’s beautiful. Wonderful. Angelic.

  And I can’t stop staring at her. She keeps averting her gaze when she notices. I tell myself to stop, that I’m making this awkward, but I just can’t.

  The limo lurches forward as we start to move and drive toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It offers little reprieve, because all I can think about is that so many people will be watching us. On the red carpet. And in the event. Three huge celebrities are hosting it this year, and the theme is Happily Ever After: Fashion and Fairy Tales.

  They’ll love that Max is there.

  They’ll be watching to make sure that I don’t break her heart. And that’s the last thing I want to do. Not just for my business. But for her.

  “I’m nervous,” Max admits, breaking the tense silence between us.

  “You shouldn’t be.”

  She scoffs and fiddles with her clutch. “This is a part of society that I’ve always seen, but never been a part of.”

  “You’ve been to events like this before, Max.”

  “Not as an attendee.” She gives me a sharp look. “I’ve always been one of the…” She fights for words. “Common people. You know?” She scoffs. “That sounds stupid, but…” She inhales, her eyes fluttering closed. “The Met Gala has been on my bucket list for forever.”

  “You should have told me.”

  That popped out before I really considered it because she gives me a suspicious look. “And what? You would have bought your personal assistant a ticket? As a pity prize?”

  “No, I—” But I stop, because I don’t know what I would have said. I’ve been to the Met Gala before—hell, even went with a woman I’d been seeing for a while—but until this arrangement, I would have never considered Max as part of this elite circle.

  So, what does that mean now?

  She snickers at my hesitation. “Told you. This is a big fucking deal.”

  I nod. “It is.” I take her hand in mine, entangle my fingers with hers and give a squeeze. “And you’ll do wonderfully.”

  She meets my gaze. I feel that now-familiar flip-flop of my stomach.

  “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay.”

  I didn’t realize the depths of Max’s nerves until the limo pulls up to the red carpet and the attendant opens the door. I get out first and th
en help Max—as a gentleman would—but realize my error as soon as I see the blinding pops of all the camera flashes. I hadn’t prepared her for this, and the cameras on her are like gunshots.

  She freezes like a deer in the headlights, a look akin to terror on her face. She doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe.

  She just looks like she’s going to be sick.

  I slip my arm through hers. “Hey,” I whisper to her. “I’ve got you, Max.”

  She sighs against me, clinging to me for support. I take her hand again to remind her of what I promised on the drive over here. She’ll do wonderfully.

  The problem with her looking as stunning as she is, is that all the cameras and commentators turn their attention toward us. Max looks starry-eyed, as far deep into this whole thing as I am with her.

  I lean into her. “Remember, you’re beautiful, and you’re my girlfriend and a partner in my firm. You have power over these people—celebrities, musicians, singers, designers—everyone. If they come to us for love, we can give them their soulmates. Remember that. And be the goddess that you are.”

  She looks at me and gives me a small smile. “Well, when you put it that way…”

  She takes a deep breath, straightens up, and I see the scared woman melt away into a calm, collected, and confident lady. The only indication of her nerves is her white-knuckled grip on my hand, but to anyone else, it looks like she’s just holding onto me. She stands far enough away not to make it awkward, but I can feel how strong she is in the squeeze of her hand.

  She’s a strong woman. I think about those self-defense classes and how she’s tougher than she looks. Then again, she looks pretty tough.

  She poses in front of the cameras, her keen eyes sweeping across the field of photographers and attendees. We pass by a well-known power couple from England. The man, a soccer player, gives Max and me an approving nod.

  Looks like we’re winning them over. Just like I thought we would.

  The camera snaps feel like an assault after a while, and I remember why I don’t like going to these sorts of things. You’re put out on display like you’re an animal at a zoo. It feels like you’re under constant scrutiny, the barest mistake being blown out of proportion.

  My words have worked their magic with Max though. She smiles easier and greets everyone who comes up to her with kindness and answers their questions as honestly as possible.

  “Who are you wearing?” a reporter asks her.

  “It’s vintage,” Max replies with an easy smile. “For the Fairy Tale theme, we went with something that hearkened back to Greek mythology and what some would consider, the original fairytales.”

  I blink at her description and how close it hits home. She sounds incredibly knowledgeable about Greek mythology and how her gown fits into that lexicon. I wonder if she knows about me and my role in those myths.

  This surprises the reporter as well. “Greek mythology?”

  Max nods, oblivious to my shock. “A lot of them are beautiful but have tragic endings. Like Orpheus and Eurydice. Hero and Leander.” Then, to rock me even further to my core, she adds, “Eros and Psyche.”

  The grip in our clasped hands tightens, and it’s not from her. It’s from me. She glances over at me in surprise, but I keep my eyes trained forward, nervous that she’ll see my discomfort.

  The reporter moves on, talking to the next high-profile celebrity behind us, and Max comes in close to me.

  “You okay?”

  I swallow back the lump in my throat. “I’m fine. I didn’t know you knew anything about Greek mythology.”

  She snickers. “I watched a lot of Hercules and Xena as a girl. And you don’t have a boss whose last name is Eros without looking it up.” She eyes me. “One would think you went into the matchmaking business because of your last name. But that’s ridiculous, right?”

  Shit, if she only knew how close to the truth she was.

  I give her an uneasy smile. “Nah, I’m not that sentimental about my last name.” My real name. “I’m just good at my job.”

  She looks down at our hands and nods. “Yes. Yes, you are.”

  “Just for the record, though,” I say, trying to keep that edge of desperation from my voice, “Eros and Psyche went their separate ways centuries after their wedding.”

  Admittedly, I had thought I’d had true love with Psyche. The ballads speak about how Psyche and I overcame obstacles to find each other in one of the most popular love stories of all time. What the old tales don’t tell you though is that we weren’t compatible, and she ended up leaving me.

  I’m still bitter about it, actually.

  Love stories don’t have proper endings. They just end at the happiest moment.

  And maybe that’s been the festering wound in my existence that has caused me to fall out of love with love. I try not to think about it.

  Max pauses and her brows knit together. “So you’re saying that Apuleis was wrong?” she asks, referring to the Latin writer who wrote down my story in the Metamorphoses.

  Impressed, I grin despite myself. “You do know your history.”

  Her green eyes glitter toward me as if she’s trying to read my mind. “And how would you know any different?”

  I shrug. “When you have a last name like ‘Eros,’ you do your own research.”

  I hope that’s enough to convince her to drop the subject. She frowns but doesn’t say any more as her fingers leave mine.

  I mull her words over in my head as we make our way to the museum for cocktail hour. We pass by more celebrities, some of them fashionistas and others who are getting up in their years, but dress to shock the public. Truthfully, Max looks like she belongs among them. I can even see some heads turning from the most beautiful people in the world, the women in jealousy, the men in lust.

  I keep her close to me.

  The cocktail hour goes by at a painful pace. It’s one thing to see these people in magazines or work with them professionally. It’s entirely another to rub elbows with them and pretend like we’re all good friends. There’s a superficiality to it that I don’t like. Then again, this is my world.

  While I work the crowd, keeping her at my side, I feel inspired enough to use my powers to give a couple a connection. It’s more out of boredom, but I want to see if my better state of mind has my powers working at full capacity.

  It works—at least for the moment, and the female lawyer begins to chat with a newly-single movie star. I know that they’ll probably at least go home together.

  Beyond that, I’m not sure.

  Max is radiant. She talks easily with anyone who approaches her. She sips from her champagne flute and gives genuine laughs when she’s amused.

  I overhear whispers discussing her, people talking under their breath about the woman I’m with. To my surprise, there are no harsh words against her. Only admiration to be taking a scoundrel like me on.

  As the hour goes on, Max gets more and more relaxed as she settles into her new element. The formal dinner is coming up, and I decide that then would be the best time to propose.

  I don’t think she’ll be expecting it, but it’s perfect. In front of everyone, we’ll have taken this gala and turned it into our own publicity stunt.

  Thinking about it that way makes me sad. Nothing with Max should be a publicity stunt. Shaking my head, I think, she deserves better.

  But what am I supposed to do? She’s a mortal. She has her own life that she doesn’t trust me to know more about. And I’m no good for her. No, what she needs is someone who’s not immortal, someone who—

  Tyche be damned, a ringtone goes off, and we both jump. Max fishes her phone out of her clutch and pales when she sees the number.

  “I have to take this,” she says, turning away from the conversation we were having with the mayor of New York. She doesn’t wait for us to acknowledge it, but she moves to the corner of the room where she can talk in peace. A waiter approaches her with a tray of hors-d’oeuvres, but she waves him away.


  Something’s wrong. I can see it between her tense shoulder blades and her stance. She hugs her free hand to her body as she faces the wall, trying to get a moment’s privacy in a place where it’s impossible to.

  Frowning, the mayor looks at me. “Mr. Eros, is everything all right with Miss Galloway?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, my gaze never leaving Max. She looks tired all of a sudden, and a single tear falls down her cheek. Without excusing myself, I cross the room to see if I can help.

  She hangs up just as I walk up to her.

  “Murphy’s fucking Law,” she mutters, smoothing out her temples.

  “Can I help?”

  She whirls on me, her eyes wide, but brimming with tears.

  “Damien,” she starts, “I—I have to go—”

  “I’ll call my limo.”

  Her bottom lip quivers, which she tries to cover up with her hand. “But the gala. It’s thirty thousand dollars a ticket…”

  “Do you think that matters when there’s an emergency?” I ask softly.

  “It’s probably not,” she says, blinking furiously. “My dad may be getting up in his years, but he should figure out how to take care of Gotham and—” She lets out a small, cute gasp when she realizes that she’s revealed a little more about her family life. Her gaze darts around to see if anyone’s noticed.

  I cup her shoulder. “If it’s family, there’s no emergency too small. I’ll call my limo.”

  “What will you do?”

  I consider for a moment before meeting her gaze. “Well, I have to go with you, don’t I? Otherwise, the newspapers will see you leaving here in tears while I try to maintain the image that everything is fine. They’ll love that.”

  “Damien—”

  I lean forward and lower my voice. “Do you trust me, Max? I won’t do anything that jeopardizes your family. But I think it would be a bad idea to stay here alone. Besides,” I add with a smile, “it gives me an excuse to leave.”

  She watches me for a few heartbeats before licking her lips and nodding. “Thank you.”