Page 74 of The Cupid Chronicles

“Okay, before we open this, I want you to know that what you said to me? At the restaurant? I heard you.” Iris pushes the bread back toward me and folds her hands on the counter. “I won’t ask anyone anything personal about you, and I will stay out of your space.”

I look around my kitchen, and she gets my meaning.

“Yourworkspace. Plus you invited me to come in, so . . .”

“You wouldn’t stop knocking,” I counter.

“Pssh. I never let facts get in the way of my point.”

I smile again. Under different circumstances, at a differenttime in my life, I could see us being friends. And in another lifetime, maybe even more.

“Ah.”

“From now on, we will keep things all about the magic,” she says. “Aaand the food. Can we keep the food in there? Because I can’t be expected to turn that down.” She nods toward the counter.

“You do have a knack for showing up at mealtimes,” I say.

Her face goes sheepish for a second, then turns serious. “Honestly. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” Her gaze falls. “I can be . . . a lot.” A pause. “Too much, really.” And then, under her breath, she adds, “Or so people have said.”

“You aren’t, and no apology necessary. You didn’t overstep.” I want to take back everything I said the other night. Her presence in my kitchen was distracting, and it was an unfamiliar feeling for me.

I liked it so much that I didn’t like it.

That’s why I acted the way I did, which wasn’t fair because it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me. Not that I can tell her that.

“I did,” she says. “You told me you didn’t want me asking questions, and I asked questions.” She squints at me. “You’re just somysterious.”

I turn away to grab the vanilla and cinnamon from the cupboard, mostly because she’s still studying me and I know she’s going to find a way to slide the pieces in place if she keeps it up.

I turn back to find her still watching me. “But if you ever do want to tell me all your deep, dark secrets, I’m a really good listener.”

I make a face. “Don’t hold your breath.”

She shakes her head but looks amused. “See? So mysterious.”

I glance down and indicate the newspaper, anxious for a change of topic. “Should we open it?”

Iris tears off the plastic sleeve. “I thought you’d never ask.”

I watch her, marveling at how excited she is to unroll that newspaper. It’s always been such an inconvenience to me, but Iris is treating it like a gift. It’s like she’s a kid and this is exactly what she wanted for her birthday.

“Let’s see whose life we’re going to change!” Her tone reminds me of a game show announcer. She opens the newspaper and lays it out on the counter. Her eyes flick to mine, and I busy myself by pulling the griddle from the cupboard.

“I’ve never made French toast,” she says. “Is it hard?”

“Eh, I think it’s hard to get right,” I say, considering. “Most people use white bread from the store. The trick is to use a thick slice that will absorb the maximum amount of liquid. And to treat that liquid like a custard.”

She gapes. “A . . .custard?”

It’s been so long since anyone’s made me feel like what I do is special. It’s just food. Big deal. But not to Iris.

It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen someone react to my cooking like this.

“You have no idea what you’re in for,” I say, gaining confidence that this will be the single best breakfast she’s ever had.

I also find myselfwantingto cook for her.Wantingto see her response.

“You like things neat, right?” The question catches me off-guard. “Have you always been this way?”

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