Beyond the door is an immensely hectic, open-plan office.

It's predominantly white—like the reception area—but with black classical columns that reach up to the high ceiling and a left wall that has been turned into a collage of faces, names, and places linked together with pieces of pink string. Through an arched door in the far wall, I can just make out a weathered stone statue of a woman draped in a toga in the room beyond.

People in white suits rush around babbling into headsets. I can't help but notice that everyone who works here is stunningly attractive, as though they made being good looking a job requirement.

Cal strides through them, looking over his shoulder only once as I follow him between the rows of computers, maneuvering around people who don't seem to care whether we knock shoulders. It looks more like a stock-trading floor than a dating service.

As we walk forward, I notice a number of wall monitors looping through a stream of different images. "Top Ten Undesirables" suddenly flashes across one of the screens, followed by a mug-shot of a guy with penetrating eyes. But before I can focus properly on the rest, the image fades into darkness.

Cal opens the door to a glass-walled office and gestures that I go inside. "Take a seat, Miss Black," he says, his tone of voice still cold.

I glare at him as I sit down in a quaint red armchair.

He closes the door, grabs a black envelope from a filing cabinet against the wall, then takes a seat behind the desk. He sighs heavily, making him seem older than on first impression. In fact, his whole demeanor makes him seem more grown up; there's a cool confidence in the way he maintains eye contact, and I don't think I've ever seen a teenager sit so upright in a chair before.

"You're not what I was expecting," he says while opening the envelope.

"Yes, you said. Now are you going to tell me what I'm doing here?"

Cal slides a piece of paper out of the black packet and scans it. "We recently ran your details through our system," he says, "and you were matched with someone we did not expect to see matched with anyone."

I shake my head. "Why would you run my details through your system? Why do you even have my details?"

Cal smiles coolly. "We have everyone's details, but that is not the issue here."

"Well, can you tell me what the issue is?"

His eyes flash an icy silver. "It's a difficult situation. I risk breaking our . . . our laws by telling you what I'm about to tell you."

"Have a lot of dating-club laws, do you?"

Cal ignores me and takes a deep breath. "We are . . . cupids," he says, running a hand through his perfect blond hair. "We match people. We have done so for many centuries. But we do not dabble with love ourselves. It is too dangerous. Many years ago, one of our own went off the rails. Dabbled with human affairs, human hearts. Obsessed over human women and made them obsess over him. He became very dangerous. His power grew, his ideology became extreme. And we banished him from our organization. Forever."

I stare at him. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Cal shakes his head slowly. "Unfortunately not, Miss Black."

I sit a little straighter in the armchair, my gaze sliding to the busy open-plan space outside Cal's office as I calculate how long it would take me to get back to the exit.

"Okay, Cal, that's great." I keep my voice as even as possible and force my lips into what I hope is a reassuring smile. Charlie's going to love this when I tell her. She'll probably want to put it in her blog: "Dating Service Thinks It's Run by Cupids!"

From the way Cal's brow furrows, my acting may not be as good as I thought.

"So, what has this got to do with me?" I ask, continuing to play along.

Cal stares at me, then takes another deep breath. "Recently, for the first time in cupid history, he was matched with someone." He shakes his head. "He shouldn't even be in the system. He definitely shouldn't have a match. It's dangerous. And if he finds out . . ." Cal pauses but doesn't remove his gaze from my face. "Miss Black, he will do anything to get what he wants. He is the original. The most powerful of us all. He is Cupid himself. And he has been matched . . . with you."

Neither of us speaks for a moment. Then I laugh—I can't help myself. Cal merely stares at me, his cold eyes unreadable.

"You're telling me that my match is Cupid?" I say. "Cupid?! As in the little guy with wings and a bow and arrow?"

For a moment I wonder if I've been brought onto a reality TV show. I risk another glance at the busy office, half expecting a camera crew, but all I see is a stream of white suits and another glimpse of the stone statue beyond the archway.

Cal slowly slides the piece of paper he's been holding across the desk. "No," he says. "This is Cupid."

I take the glossy sheet. It's a black-and-white head shot of a guy with ruffled hair and eyes that seem to pierce my own, even from the page. Although he could be the same age as Cal, there is something more mature about his features; his jawline is squarer and his shoulders broader. His lips are curled into a mischievous smirk and he has a cute chin dimple that softens his ruggedness with boyish charm.

There is no denying he is good looking—the page could have been ripped from a menswear magazine—but there's also something familiar about him.

"You're telling me this is Cupid?"

I return my gaze to Cal, who looks disappointed.

"Your pupils dilated," he says, staring at my face in unnerving fashion. "You find him attractive."

"That's a pretty weird thing to say."

A flicker of confusion crosses his face, as though usually people love it when he tells them about their dilated pupils. I throw the photograph back onto the desk and look him directly in the eye.

"I have a boyfriend. I've already told you that."

I wonder momentarily what James would think about me coming here in the first place. I didn't tell him. He's been so busy working over summer that we've not had time to hang out much lately.

Cal looks exasperated. "Yes, but your boyfriend is not your match. His match is . . ."—he stops himself—". . . someone else," he finishes, ignoring my dirty look. "You have been matched with Cupid."

I look back at the head shot. Then suddenly it clicks where I've seen "Cupid's" face before. "This is the picture I saw on the screen out there. One of the Top Ten Undesirables." Whatever that means.

Cal nods darkly. "The number one undesirable."

I blink. Then I bring back my weird smile.

"Riiight, okay. Well, thank you, Cal. This has been very . . .informative." Hands on the chair's red armrests, I slowly lift myself out of the seat. "Now, I'm just gonna . . . you know . . . go."

"Please sit down, Lila Black," says Cal. "And stop smiling like that. It's quite unnerving."

"I'm unnerving you? Seriously, what is this? Are you trying to con me out of money or something?"

Cal exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You don't believe me. You don't believe anything I'm saying."

"Of course I don't!"

He stares at me. "But you need to. You are in danger. He will come after you."

Suddenly he reaches out to his computer monitor and switches it on with a long slender finger. He has musician's hands, I observe, then shake the random thought off as he hurriedly types something on his keyboard. And after a few moments of silence, a look of satisfaction creeps onto his face.

"I have something to show you, something that will make you believe in cupids."

He grabs a scrap of paper and scribbles down a sequence of numbers. Then he abruptly stands, triumph glinting in his cool eyes.

"Follow me, Miss Black. You're going to want to see this."