Accidentally Aphrodite

Published 2015

Published by Dakota Cassidy. Copyright © 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Dakota Cassidy.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Manufactured in the USA

Author Note

For anyone new to The Accidentals, I’ve included a link to
Interview With An Accidental
, a free, quick (mostly painless), interview-style introduction to the women who are the heart and soul of this nine-book series originally published traditionally. If you’re a repeat offender (YAY to repeat offending, you rebels!), skip right to chapter one!

Blurb

"Sweet Baby Jesus in booty shorts! Thank you, Dakota Cassidy. I'd read the damn phone book if you wrote it!"
New York Times
bestselling author, Robyn Peterman.

Dakota Cassidy,
USA Today
bestselling author of
The Accidental Dragon
, brings you a laugh-out-loud romantic comedy
Accidentally Aphrodite
, Book 10 in the Accidentally Paranormal series. Get swept away to Greece in this international romp where you'll meet a few Gods and Goddesses, and fall in love with Quinn Morris as she transforms from a heartbroken mess to the goddess of love.

Mythology buff Quinn Morris has always wanted to visit Greece, where her inner hardcore romantic envisioned proposing to her boyfriend. And she's finally here—with her friend Ingrid. She might not have found love at the Parthenon, thanks to her cheating ex, but she has found big boobies…and swirly purple eyes…and sparkling skin. Oh, and Greek hottie Khristos, who claims to be descended from a goddess and swears Quinn's the new Aphrodite.

With help from Khristos, and support from Ingrid's employers—Nina, Wanda, and Marty—Quinn has to learn all the tricks of the matchmaking trade, STAT, lest she has her new friend Cupid sticking arrows in all the wrong places. All while dealing with her man-hating mother, guarding her own heart from Khristos, and protecting herself from an invisible foe who might want to snatch Quinn's newfound powers from her—dead or alive.

Author Message

Darling readers,

I’ll confess straight up, I’ve stuck my nose deep into the mythology surrounding Aphrodite and her legend. Then I tweaked, dabbled, distorted, and overall gave it a good shaking up. So please understand, while I mostly adhere to Aphrodite’s basic story, I did put my own spin on her for my own selfish modern-day purposes. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed splashing around in the pool of Greek mythology!

Dedication

First, enormous, humble thanks to Katie Wood, who’s been my cover artist from the very start of this series, and was willing to jump off the cliff with me when I went indie. She’s amazing, kind, insanely talented, and she really listens to how I see my characters. I’m awed you were willing to partner back up with me—humbled by the beauty of my book covers brought to life!

And to my editor Kelli Collins, here we go, kiddo! Welcome to the wonderful world of all the crazy antics constantly zipping around in my brain. You are a goddess among mere mortals for sinking your teeth into this project, and I love you madly for your never-ending support and your dedication to coming as close to editor perfection as any one human can get.

To my BFF Renee George, who helps me plot, hears me whine, loves me anyway. I love you. Always-always.

To my sister from another mister, Robyn Peterman, who just wouldn’t take no for an answer when I doubted rebooting this series on my own. Love you, Pooks. Cassman 4-ever!

Finally, this edition is for all you amazing fans who’ve stuck around for nine (nine!) books, and to my amazing Glam Fam at Team Tiara, for all the laughter on my Facebook and Twitter pages, the emails,
The Walking Dead
and GoT conversations, the sharing, the absolute delight I experience when you taunt me with the color yellow—number ten’s for you!

Dakota XXOO

Chapter 1

“J
esus in a flippin’ muumuu, Quinn! What the hell happened?”

Quinn Morris’s stunned eyes flew to her college study partner and much younger friend Ingrid Lawson’s face, crimson from the heat of the Grecian day.

Hysteria threatened to take over, forcing Quinn to put a hand to her chest to catch her breath before mumbling, “Something?”

Quinn winced when Ingrid lifted a finger and pointed it directly at her. The digit trembled a little as it silently circled Quinn’s chest area. Her mouth opened then snapped shut, as though she couldn’t quite put into words what she was seeing.

Quinn nodded in agreement because, yeah. Holy, holy shit! Plucking at the front of her billowy white blouse, the one she’d specifically picked for this trip because it looked like it was straight off the back of some eighteenth-century poet, she looked down into it.

Then she gazed upon her nearly shredded bra, and gasped. The sound of her shock echoed off the Parthenon columns and reverberated in her ears.

Then she looked once more and gulped.

Oh dear.

Ingrid fisted her hands and brought them to her forehead, shaking her head as though she were trying to shake off some terrible memory.

Which was odd…

When she looked back up at Quinn, her eyes, hidden beneath the dark gothic makeup she favored, bulged from her head. Her words burst out of her mouth like a ball from a cannon. “OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod!
Boobs! Big, big boobies!”
she shrieked, her multicolored Mohawk bending in the humid breeze.

Quinn nodded numbly, a hot wind swishing her flirty skirt around her ankles. “So, so big…”

Ingrid clutched the straps on her backpack, her voice shaky. “
How
did this happen?”

“Um, I don’t exactly know. But I can tell you one thing for sure. They’re no longer the size of crab apples. In fact, they’re a lot more like Shawna Sutter’s cantaloupes now, don’t you think?”

Even in her horror, Ingrid managed to scrunch her face up in distaste. “Don’t even mention that woman’s name at a time like this. No one, and I mean no one, wants to be like Shawna Sutter or her stupid cantaloupes!”

Quinn shrugged a little, because even in their shared horror, the truth was the truth. “But you have to admit, she has really nice cantaloupes. Igor seems to think so anyway.”

Igor—her cheating, lying, bottom-feeding almost-fiancé, and the very reason she was here on her dream trip to Greece with Ingrid instead of him—now belonged to Shawna “Cantaloupes” Sutter. Lock, stock, and brainless banter.

“Igor is a bag of dicks!” Ingrid yelped. “Forget about him and that stupid, vapid, silicone-sporting Shawna and explain why you’re literally sparkling like a bunch of rhinestones on some cheap, homemade beauty-contestant dress?”

Quinn’s eyes flew to her hands and forearms, but she paused. “Do you think it looks cheap? As sparkling goes, I think it’s sort of glowy and ethereal.”

Sort of.

Ingrid scoffed her impatience, letting her hands slap her thighs. “Is that really the point here, Quinn?”

She took another deep breath, inhaling the hot air and realizing, no, that wasn’t the point at all. She backtracked in her mind, trying to remember how this had all gone down. “Remember that little old lady on the tour bus on the way here?”

Ingrid nodded and wrinkled her nose. “The one who smelled like a goat?”

“Uh-huh. But it’s not her fault. She raises them to sell their milk. A girl’s gotta make a living. Anyway, did you hear the story she told me about there being a golden apple etched in one of the Parthenon’s columns?”

Ingrid’s breathing hitched, her lower lip, glossed to the max, curled inward. “Was that before or after the anus-head called you to ask where his nostril clippers were? I can’t even believe the size of that dick’s clangers.”

Enormous. Igor’s clangers were enormous. So was his anus-head. “I know, right? Especially seeing as he was doing it from between the very sheets we used our Bed Bath & Beyond fifty-percent off coupon for.”

Ingrid’s eyes narrowed, the crinkle of her leather, spike-studded vest crackling when she threw her arms up in the air. “Did he actually tell you he was in
bed
with that cantalouped trollop?”

Quinn shook her head, letting her straw bag fall to the ground. Suddenly, everything felt very heavy. “Not exactly. I heard Shawna in the background, attempting to pronounce the color
fuchsia
from the package. I know the word was on the package of sheets because it’s hard to find sheets in fuchsia. Or fuck-see-a, as per Shawna’s interpretation. Igor, in all his kindly professor-ness, helped her sound it out.”

Ingrid’s eyes grew glittery with outrage. “Ohhh, I
told
you when you packed all the things you had in his apartment you should have taken the sheets, Quinn. I don’t care if the fifty-percent off coupon came from a sale circular addressed to
him
. He deserves sheets made out of burlap—not Egyptian cotton.”

Quinn’s arms sagged forward a little, but only a little, because it was hard to relax them with her huge new knockers in the way. “You’re absolutely right. I was just trying to be fair, but my regret is real.”

Ingrid peered at her, rolling her hand for her to continue. “So the old lady on the tour bus. Before or after Igor called?”

Grabbing the length of her long braid, Quinn wound it around a finger and tried to remember. “I think it was after. It had to be after, because then she heard you give me hell for even answering the phone, knowing he was on the other end of the line. So of course, she heard my pathetic story about how I’d saved a lifetime for this trip and thought Igor should be the one to take it with me because…well, you know the rest…”

The rest being Quinn’s intention to propose to Igor in the place she considered one of the most romantic on earth.

Ingrid’s head fell back on her shoulders, her pale throat exposed to the glaring ball of buttery Grecian sun. “Oh, you did not fall for that story she fed you, did you? She must’ve heard you going on about how Igor was a total jerk, and how you’d had it with romance and love for good.”

“Well, I have,” she defended. She had, too. All her life, her mother had told her to knock off the daydreaming about her Prince Charming and find a man who was real—if she had to find one at all.

If real meant finding a man who scratched his love sac and burped while watching the Playboy Channel, she’d rather keep daydreaming about her Mr. Darcy.

Until her ugly breakup with Igor, that is. Since the night she’d found out he’d been sleeping with a leggy redheaded waitress who worked at the Spotted Pig, two doors down from the bookstore where she worked, she’d thrown in the towel.

Ingrid’s ringed fingers flashed in the sun in protest. “Stop. Even with everything that’s gone down with that cheating slug, you
still
listened to that crazy woman on the bus. Which means you, in all your unicorns and cinnamon sticks, could manage to find romance at the urologist’s. You’re a diehard, Quinn. Your soul-mate take on life alone could feed a buffet of the love-starved. It’ll come back. Right now, you’re just butthurt. That aside, she was probably just trying to make you feel better. And you, an expert on all things Greek and mythological, fell for it? I don’t get it.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. She
had
fallen for it. Which meant her romantic bone still needed work if she was going to be more of a realist about love. “To be fair, it was a really compelling story.”