Page 58 of The Cupid Chronicles

“The smell must’ve been otherworldly.”

He cracks a small smile. “When I was a kid, I loved being there. My grandparents were very social, and there was always something going on. But I never saw anything to make me think The Serendipity was anything other than, you know, just a building.” He pauses, takes another bite, methodically chews.

I do the same, though I’m eating at a much quicker pace than he is. “I think having the ability to make food like this whenever you want has desensitized you to how amazing it is,” I say, a total non sequitur.

His eyes dart to mine, and he frowns.

“Sorry, go on.”

He pauses, like my comment has thrown him, and I tell myself that interrupting someone who doesn’t like to talk is probably not a great strategy for keeping the conversation going.

“After my grandma died, I started coming around more, mostly to check on my grandpa, but still, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.” He takes a quick sip of water, and I watch the muscle in his jaw tense. It’s a well-defined jaw, with just enough stubble to look sexy and not unkempt.

Not something I should be thinking right now when he’s finally about to answer my questions.

Focus, Iris.

“But then, uh . . . a little over three years ago, my grandpa met someone new, got remarried, and moved to Italy.”

“No way! How fun!”

He makes a pained face, and I can’t tell if it’s how I said what I said, or justwhatI said.

“Yeah, he’s just living it up over there,” he says.

I take another bite. “I would too. Italy? It’s like another planet to me.”

He stops talking for a moment, and I suddenly fear that’s all I’m going to get out of him, but then he starts talking again.

“So, I took over the lease on his apartment. Not too long after that, things started to”—he looks at me—“get weird.”

“Weird, how?” I ask, wishing I had more than one bite left on my plate.

He shakes his head, looking like he’s trying to figure out the best way to say it. Finally, he says, “The newspaper.”

I set down my fork and wipe my mouth with a napkin, waiting for him to go on.

“I got a newspaper at my front door. Big deal, right? Thought it was junk. Something everyone was getting and throwing away.” He looks at me, eyeing his food and my empty plate, then quirks a brow. “Are you still hungry?”

Is it that obvious?

I lie and shake my head, holding up a hand becausegood grief, I just devoured another one of this man’s meals, what more do I need?

Little does he know that if the plate were edible, I would have eaten it, too.

It’sthatgood.

He sets his fork down and slides his plate toward me.

“I can’t eat your dinner.” I lean back in my chair.

“I’m good. I promise. Eat.” He watches me as I take another bite. “Better than eating like a twelve-year-old.”

“Don’t knock the Pop-Tarts till you try them,” I say, pointing my fork at him.

“You don’tactuallylike Pop-Tarts,” he says, making a face as if he just ate something sour.

“False. Brown sugar and cinnamon or strawberry. Or both, stacked on top of the other.”

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