Page 57 of The Cupid Chronicles

At that, my shoulders drop. Because no, I’m not. I want answers. The why. The how.

“Because I don’t have those kinds of answers.” He glances at my plate. “Is the chicken tender enough?”

I look down quickly. There’s only one bite of chicken left. “It’s perfect.”

He nods, then arranges his own perfectly layered bite of sauce, pasta and breaded chicken on his fork. The bite looks as meticulous as this office, neatly stacked, as ifthisis exactly how it was meant to be eaten.

He sticks the fork in his mouth, and for a few long seconds, it’s like he’s assessing something. The taste? The flavor? The balance? I have no idea, but the way he chews is wildly different from the way I chew.

I eat like two seals fighting over a grape. Matteo, not so much. I absently wonder when was the last time he really enjoyed a meal. Without grading it or looking for ways to make it better.

After he swallows the bite, he sets down the fork.

“That’s it?” I ask, going in for another bite.

“What’s it?” He looks confused.

“You’re not going to eat the rest?” I take the last chunk ofchicken and do my best to assemble my own perfect bite, dragging it through sauce, swirling on a few strands of pasta. It’s not nearly as neat as his, but it tastes way better. “You should eat.”

“You should stop talking with your mouth full.” He says this flatly, but I catch the slight smirk he’s trying to hide.

“You should pack up your knives and go, because you’re about to be chopped.” I playfully hold up the knife at him.

Careful, Iris. This is what you do.

“If you’re used to Pop-Tarts, I guess I can’t fault you for reacting the way you do to actual cooked food.” The corner of his mouth twitches.

I think he means to tease me, which is a sign that maybe I’m not the most annoying person he knows.

That feels like a win.

“Maybe the food is terrible and I’m just delirious with hunger.” I take a sip of my water.

“It’s not,” he says, confidently.

I smile behind my water glass, and after I set it back down, I shake my head. “So cocky.”

“It’s all the awards,” he says, dryly. “Remember? I’m a big deal.”

And I start to think maybe there’s an actual human behind that robotic facade.

The awardsareimpressive, but I’m not going to gush. That’s the kind of thing the old Iriswould do. Shower him with compliments in hopes of getting him to like her.

My superpower is oversharing. And over-asking. I want to know everything about everyone, which usually ends up suffocating the other person, and then they leave. Some for a few minutes, others for the rest of my natural life.

Enough about that. I’m here for answers about the magic. He’s probably close to reaching his weekly quota of words spoken out loud, so I need to stay on track.

“Tell me what I need to know about our building.” I push his plate closer to him, and after a pause, he capitulates, picks up his fork, and takes another bite.

Look at us, having a meal together.

Magic, my brain, the little traitor, whispers.

“My grandpa lived in my apartment before me. I used to spend summers with him and my grandma.”

“The one who taught you to cook?” I ask.

He nods.

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