Page 69 of The Cupid Chronicles

In the dining room, I find Dante setting a large table in a room marked “Private.” I assume this is a room people can rent for small gatherings, and apparently it’s also where the staff eats before they open for dinner.

I walk in and set the bowls and napkins down on the table. “So, you’re Dante.”

He grins a wide smile, “That’s me. Dang, you totally ignored Chef’s order.” His eyes go wide, and he shakes his head.

I smile right back. “Yep.”

He shakes his head. “You’re playing with fire, you know that, right?

I shrug. “I’ve seen worse. Is he always like that?”

Dante nods. “He’s the boss.”

“So, yes?” I pick up the napkins. “He’s just got such a chip on his shoulder,”

“You’d be the same way if—” Dante stops talking.

“If?”

He shakes his head. “Ah. Nothing.”

I stand there for a few long seconds, again wishing I could figure out why Matteo is the way he is, but Dante won’t even look at me now. He takes the napkins from me and starts placing them around the table.

“Can I help?” I ask.

He freezes. “Chef said no.”

“I don’t work for Chef.”

“You’re right. But you’re here as a guest.” The deep voice comes from behind me.

I turn and find Matteo standing in the doorway.

“Guests don’t help with prep,” he says.

I frown. “Can you make an exception? I feel totally helpless. I’m just sitting back there, and you already fed me one meal, and I need to repay you.”

“Two meals,” he corrects me.

I give him anexactlysort of look, and say, “It’s just napkins. Let me help.”

“You’re not an orphan. You don’t have to earn your keep.”

I shoot him a look.

“Just stay out here,” he says. “Out of the way.” He glances at Dante. “Can you get her a drink? She needs something to do with her hands. She fidgets when there’s silence.”

At that, I stuff my hands in my pockets, not sure how to process the warm feeling that spreads through me at this acknowledgement. It’s stupid, really, but the teenager in me thinks,He noticed.

Dante shuffles around him, out of the room, and I find myself alone, staring at Matteo and horribly at a loss for words.

“Sorry, I’m not trying to get in the way—” I say, clearly missing something.

He looks at me. “I get it. You have questions about the building? About the newspapers? Great. I’ll tell you what I know. But the rest?” His jaw twitches, and I’m not sure I want to know what else he has to say.

But then, his eyes find mine, and I very much want to know.

“No questions about me,” he says. “No questions about my life, or my past, or the restaurant or . . .” He pushes a hand through his hair as Dante returns with a drink.

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