How could James have met the Cupids Matchmaking Service's receptionist?

An unreadable expression passes over Cal's stony face, but he merely stands by the elegant four-poster bed that dominates the room. My eyes are drawn to its carved oak posts and red and gold bedspread. This is Cupid's bedroom.

James takes a step closer and wraps an arm around my waist.

"This is Crystal," he says. "She got a part time job at Romeo's at the start of summer."

My forehead crumples. Why would Crystal, a matchmaking cupid receptionist, be working at the diner? Cal gives nothing away; he only casts a frosty look in Crystal's direction. I think back to my time at the Matchmaking Service and recall the video image of Cal in a bowling attendant's uniform, matching my parents.

Sometimes manual interference is required.

A fire flares up inside me as I recall the conversation we just interrupted.

Is she trying to match my boyfriend?!

I'm suddenly furious; with her, with Cal, and, somewhat irrationally, with James too. Crystal ignores the sudden tension in the room and takes a step forward, engulfing me in a cloud of cotton candy–scented perfume.

"You must be Lila," she chimes. "I've heard so much about you."

Her blue eyes glitter, and I know she is daring me to tell James who she really is.

"Nice to meet you," I say through gritted teeth.

"Cal and I were just heading downstairs for a drink," she says. "Care to join us?"

James looks at me and raises an eyebrow in question.

"You go on without me," I say, forcing my voice to sound even. "I'm going to use the bathroom."

Every fiber of my being says I should follow them downstairs, but I'm shaking with anger. I can't be around them right now. They're trying to match my boyfriend.

Cal doesn't look happy but says nothing. The three of them head out of the room. As the matchmaking agent passes me, he shoots me a warning look.

"Don't do anything stupid, Lila. I'm going to go find him once I've sorted things out with Crystal," he says, face contorted as though tasting something sour. "Something weird is going on. I'll check on you later."

Cal doesn't know that Cupid is on the terrace, I realize in relief.

The thought that I've been left alone in Cupid's bedroom makes me slightly exhilarated. This is his personal space; it's private, not meant for my eyes. I move toward the large, four-poster bed—the place where he sleeps, where he dreams. Tentatively, I sit down on the mattress, taking a deep breath to steady the emotions bubbling inside of me. The sheets are silky beneath my fingers and I can smell the faint lingering scent of summer, sweat, and cologne.

Don't go to the terrace, I tell myself. Don't do it.

I peer around, trying to distract myself. On Cupid's bedside table rests a pile of well-thumbed books. I trace my finger along their battered spines, picking out Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, and Pride and Prejudice among many others. I'm surprised. The dangerous, banished Cupid—the guy who made a young guy hurl himself off a rooftop this very afternoon—likes to read romance novels?

My curiosity deepens. It doesn't make sense. None of this makes sense. There has to be a reason for what Cupid did. There has to be a reason he is my match.

I have to confront him. I have to know why he did it.

I head out to the hallway and move toward the terrace entrance, taking a deep breath before I open the door and step out onto the large balcony. Cupid's silhouette is backlit against the dusky sky by the pool lights below.

"Cupid," I say softly.

Slowly, he turns. His eyes lock on mine.

For a moment he looks almost surprised. "Lila," he says, "you came."

My heartbeat accelerates as he takes a step toward me. He is wearing a long-sleeved light-blue shirt over dark jeans. His feet are bare, and his dirty blond hair is mussed, as though he just got out of bed. His expression looks softer than when I saw him at school—more vulnerable.

He could pass for an angel in the faint light of the moon. But he's no angel, I remind myself.

"I know it's you," we both say at the same time.

A flicker of amusement crosses his face. Then he's serious once more, half hidden in shadow.

"I know what you did," I say.

"You're my Match," he says. "You're the one I came here to find."

He takes another step forward. I can smell his scent; it is no longer soft like summer, but intoxicating, like the edge of a storm. I should move back. I should turn away from him, but I don't.

"You saw the Ardor," he says. "The only way a human can see the arrows is if another cupid has shown them what they are. Cal?"

He stares at me, his expression open, beckoning; the green flecks in his eyes seem to dance against the dark blue, reminding me of sea waves splashing against the rocks. Our bodies are so close they are almost touching. I can feel energy racing between us, like warm crackles of electricity, pulling us closer.

What am I doing here? What about James?

"He was trying to protect you," Cupid says, and for a second he looks almost sad. "But he can't protect you," he says, his jaw hardening. "It is already too late."

His words jolt me out of my stupor. It is already too late.

I take a step backward. I don't think he will hurt me, but I can sense danger in the air, like an animal sensing an approaching storm.

"I am not your Match," I say quietly. "You nearly killed someone. I would never be matched with someone like you."

Cupid laughs, and there is a bitterness behind it that I do not understand.

"It doesn't work that way."

I try to keep my voice even. "Why did you do it? Why did you shoot Jack?"

He smiles and shakes his head. "Lila, that wasn't me."

I frown. He's lying. He has to be. The Cupid that Cal told me about would lie. But the Cupid who reads romance novels and has sadness behind his eyes . . .

"I saw you," I say. "I saw you holding the arrow."

He holds his arms up in surrender. "I just pulled the thing out. What would I have to gain from shooting a random kid?"

"Well, who was it then? Who shot him if it wasn't you?" Irritation itches beneath my skin. I just want answers, I tell myself. I didn't come here to look into his wild eyes, or to feel a kind of energy I've never felt with James.

The door closes softly behind me and I start.

"It was . . . someone else," comes Cal's tired voice.

I spin around to see the matchmaking agent standing in the shadows. He shoots me an I'll-deal-with-you-later look before bringing his gaze back to Cupid.

"Hello, Cupid," he says in cold greeting. Cupid's mouth curls into a grin.

"Hello, Brother," he says.