By: Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
To my family. Thank you.

Humble Groveling Goes Out To

Thank you again to Beta Team Accidental (Kim, Vicki, Karen, Ashlee, and Nana). Your LOLs, Whats?, and Huhs? always make these books far more coherent for the general public.

Mimi Jean Street Team: many grovels for so many fun discussions and contributions to the man-parts vocabulary! You’re like my coffee break of laughter every day!

As always, thank you to my editor, Latoya Smith, and the entire team at Hachette! Many grovels for your hard work!

Elise H.: thank you for bringing the word hangry to my vocabulary. It just so perfectly describes how I feel at 11:00 a.m.

Cassie: I can always count on you for naughty brainstorming! Privie goes on the list of world’s best new words.

Final Accidental Note from Cimil, Goddess of the Underworld

Well, my little people-pets, I must say that this journey has been a fun one. However, all things must come to an end, even for us fabulous deities. And though I know not (yes, I do; that’s a lie!) where this last leg of our voyage will take us, I have a few guesses. Would you like to hear them? But of course you would! Because I’m awesome, and you love hearing anything I have to say.

A. Minky, my unicorn, finds the light of Eärendil, learns to mass-produce it, and saves the planet with green energy. (And she marries Legolas. Their children have pointy ears and a uni-fang.)

B. Clowns all around the world rise up from centuries of oppression by my hand and take the gods out with their horrifying, unnatural smiles.

C. I save the day by winning a mean game of Hungry Hungry Hippos, thereby restoring the Universe’s faith in the power of the gods.

D. My stupid jokes finally catch up with me, and I am sent to live on another planet occupied by outrageously tiny, furry men with minuscule ding dongs.

Well, there you have it, my fun little humans. I hope you enjoy. And just remember, YOLO!

Mine Forever,

Cimil (Just… Cimil)


Death is trying to seduce me.

I always suspected he would come for me after I survived the accident, and now there’s no doubt. And death isn’t some ominous creature that carries a bloody scythe, his face obscured by a black cloak, his spindly fingers protruding from the cuff of his dripping sleeve as he enters your dinner party, points to your plates, and declares in a gravelly voice, “You’re all dead. It was the canned salmon.” Oh no. This is no snarky Brit skit, and he’s no monster.

Death is a sex god.

He’s tall, built from indestructible solid bricks of muscle. His cheekbones are chiseled works of art, and his full, sensual lips are meant for doing anything but killing. Like I said, sex god.

How do I know this? He’s been watching me, whispering in my ear while I sleep, quietly hiding in the shadows while I eat, while I work, while I shower.

So for once, I’m turning the tables.

I follow the sound of his footsteps through my beach cottage, out my back porch, and then pick up his large footprints in the sand. I crouch behind the tall, dry grass blanketing the massive sand dune. The crashing waves mask the sound of my thumping heart and heavy, frantic breaths. I’m sweating like mad as the tropical morning sun beats down on my back, and I spot my stalker splashing in the waves.

He stands, and I can barely breathe when I look at him.

Though he’s nearly transparent, the outline of his naked body glistens with drops of ocean water reflected by the sun. I’ve never seen a more beautiful man. Shoulders that span the width of two normal-sized men, powerful arms and legs that make me wonder if he’s not actually carved from rock or molded from steel, and incredibly sculpted… jeez, everything. There’s not an inch on this beast—not a neck, an ab, not a pec or a thigh—that isn’t constructed from potent, lethal-looking muscle. Well, except his hair. Though I can’t see the color, it’s beautifully thick and falls to his shoulders. I imagine it’s a warm shade of brown, streaked with reds and golds. Because he’s utterly beautiful and that’s the kind of hair a beautiful man would have. Yes, he’s a god, not the bringer of death. And I can’t help but wonder why he’s made that way. Is it so that when he comes for me, there’ll be some sort of consolation—getting to see his face? I don’t know, but I’m not ready to see it yet. I want to live. I want to grow old. I want to fall in love. Just once before my time is up.