God of Wine by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff Release Blast
York Times Bestseller Mimi Jean Pamfiloff…
Book #3 of the Immortal Matchmakers Inc. Series. (Standalone)CAN ROCK-HARD ABS SAVE THE WORLD? HE
SURE THINKS SOAcan, the God of
Wine and Intoxication, has been partying for over ten thousand years. And New
Year’s Eve, when humans around the world succumb to his naturally occurring
spike in powers, is his big night. Only this year, things are bit
different.A plague is sweeping the immortal community, and he’s turning downright evil.
All those New Year’s bashes will turn into bloodbaths if he doesn’t stop it.
Sadly, the only known cure is finding a mate, and he is a giant, rude, beer-bellied
mess. Definitely not husband material.But can a little gym-time and help from the pros at Immortal Matchmakers, Inc.
turn him into a divine sex-machine? Absolutely!
So watch out, ladies! The God of Wine
is lookin’ for love. And he has absolutely no clue what he’s doing.
“You did what?” The Goddess of Forgetfulness winced as she slid the uncapped Corona across the narrow width of the bar into Acan’s awaiting hand.
He licked his lips, greedily grabbing the ice-cold beer, and chugged it down, not spilling a precious drop. He slammed the empty bottle on the counter and pushed it to the side with the other ten he’d just guzzled. “I think you—” Hiccup! “—heard me.”
Forgetty, as he liked to call her, was a tall blonde who usually wore nightclub party clothes—white go-go boots, miniskirts, or little tank dresses like she had on today—because, like him, her life was all about the party. After all, nothing complimented a night of getting hammered better than blacking out and forgetting all about the crazy shit one did the previous night.
We are like peas and carrots.
In any case, his “sister”—the gods were not related by blood since they had no parents—DJ’d at their global chain of successful nightclubs and bars they owned together. She also worked the private parties for their immortal brethren while he bartended, which was his gift. As God of Wine and Intoxication, he merely looked at a person and knew what sort of drink to serve and the quantity they required to reach the ideal state of jubilation. Between him and his sister, they served a vital function that allowed humans—and the occasional immortal—to blow off steam.
Forgetty blinked her turquoise eyes at him. “I did hear you, brother. I merely cannot believe you went into a gym. At five in the morning. Are you absolutely certain you’re feeling all right?”
He tapped his index finger demandingly on the bar.
Forgetty reached into the trough of ice behind the counter, uncapped another cold one, and plunked it down in front of him.
“Feeling great!” He grabbed his frosty treat, saluted her with the bottle, and then threw it back.
“Belch, Belch, Belch.” She shook her head with worry, using his nickname. “I mean this in the kindest way possible, but you just called the elevator woman a cunt.”
He set down his empty bottle and shrugged. “Correction. Fuzzy cunt. And so?”
She tipped her head to one side. “So you called her a cunt.”
Where was Forgetty going with this? He stared at her, hoping she’d open another beer.
His sister sighed and then rolled her eyes. “Belch, don’t you find that just a tad bit abrasive? Even for you?”
“Fuck no! She was being a bitchy shrew. I should rip out her throat and make a Bloody Mary out of it.”
Forgetty stepped back, cringing.
“What?” he snapped defensively.
“Belch,” she said softly, “you are many things—a drunk, a flasher, a very loud snorer, and occasional arsonist. But you are not an asshole.”
“I am an asshole!”
She slammed her fist down on the counter. “No, Acan.” She used his real name. She never did that. “You’re nice, and you’re fun, but you’re never cruel or so outrageously rude. Especially not to women.”
He wasn’t? “Well, fuck that! Let the bitches die. Burn them all.” Belch slapped his hands over his mouth. “What was that?” he mumbled.
Forgetty’s face turned ghost white. “I think—and please don’t panic and break out the absinth when I say this—bad, bad things happen when you break out the absinth—but I think you’re flipping.”
Fuck. “Fuck.” Maybe he was.
She nodded. “Yes, brother. It is the only reason I can think of for your recent change from happy drunk to mean drunk. Which means—well, you know what it means.”
Fuck, I do. Acan sat there on the barstool, staring into the empty bottle, his quickly sobering mind feeling far too lucid for his taste because he actually understood the implications. He didn’t like it one little bit. Cimil—world-renowned garage-sale huntress and Goddess of the Underworld—announced almost a month ago that something had upset the order of the Universe. No one was sure why, but the evidence was there: good immortals were beginning to change into bad immortals and vice versa, the only remedy or vaccination being a mate. Yep, a significant other. Having a special someone seemed to act as a counterbalance of sorts to prevent the immortal from “flipping,” as they now called it.
“Blahhhh!” Belch swiped his hand through the air. “I don’t need a woman, I need women. Lots of them and a new one every night. And I need my mojito tank.” Yes, it took a lot of upkeep, but the mojito tank was the highlight of his day. An indoor two-person glass tank filled with mojito goodness was ideal for total submersion, drinking games, or a very long straw.
“You’re acting too dense, even for you,” she said.
“I am the party god. Density is my immensity.”
“Acan, stop! If you’re turning evil, think about what this will mean for humanity.” Her turquoise eyes—same color as his and all of the fourteen gods—filled with intense emotion. “Everyone else might underestimate your powers, but—” she tapped the side of her head “—I know. We’ve been partying for ten millennia. You have the power to influence an entire hemisphere. You do it every New Year’s.”
True. New Year’s Eve was all him, with New York City being the epicenter. He influenced billions around the planet to drink in excess and party hard. It was the equivalent of his Super Bowl.
“Brother,” said Forgetty worriedly, “New Year’s is less than four weeks away.”
He looked up at his sister, who stood on the other side of the counter, not reaching for the tequila bottle behind her on the mirrored shelf like she should.
“What are you waiting for?” he scolded.
“I’m cutting you off, Belch.” She crossed her arms over her chest.
“You heard me. No more cocktails. No more beer. No more flaming assholes or Jell-O shots or even cough syrup.”
PAMFILOFF is a USA Today and New York
Times bestselling romance author. Although she obtained her MBA and
worked for more than fifteen years in the corporate world, she believes that
it’s never too late to come out of the romance closet and follow your dream.
Mimi lives with her Latin Lover hubby, two pirates-in-training (their boys),
and the rat terrier duo, Snowflake and Mini Me, in Arizona. She hopes to make
you laugh when you need it most and continues to pray daily that leather pants
will make a big comeback for men.
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