Page 75 of The Cupid Chronicles

I almost knee-jerk a “No,” but manage to hold it in. My tendencies toward order and control intensified after I lost Aria.

I know Iris is one or two questions away from uncovering the truth, but I don’t talk about what happened with anyone. Not even Val and Nic—and they knew Aria. Sure, her namecomes up sometimes, but I don’t have to tell the story. It would be exhausting—emotional—to explain it all.

“I like an efficient workspace,” I finally say. “It’s difficult to cook things, especially things that sometimes have to be timed down to the second, if you’re constantly working around mess or trying to remember where your knife is.”

She nods, considering. “You’d hate my place, then.”

My eyes dart to hers, then back to the loaf on the counter.

“My place looks lived in.” She looks around. “It’s not like a dorm room. In here, you’re definitely leaning in to a minimalist vibe.”

I can feel her searching for common ground. A certain kind of person would take the hint, offer up something—anything—as a point of connection.

A kind of person who’s not like me.

I cut the bread in thick slices and lay them out on a cookie sheet, then stick them in the oven. I glance at her, find her watching. Observing. “You want to know?—”

“Why you put it in the oven, yes.”

“Have you ever cooked anything?”

She shrugs. “Pasta. Scrambled eggs. Toast.”

“Making toast is not cooking,” I say, dryly.

“Tell that to the toast,” she quips. “Sometimes I even burn it.”

I let out a small laugh. I can feel myself relaxing—but part of me has been so closed off for so long, the relaxation borders on uncomfortable.

“So, tell me what you’re doing,” she says.

“Aren’t you here about that?” I nod at the newspaper, and she quickly folds it and tucks it away.

“We’ll do that after you give me a cooking lesson,” she says.

I squint at her. “You’re kind of bossy.”

She shrugs, as if to say “Your point?” and then a smile spreads across her face.

“Why are you here?” I ask. “I was so rude to you the other day.”

“You’ve been rude to me every time we’ve met,” she says.

“And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“Right. Why?”

She steels her jaw, but the question seems to stump her.

And I realize in her silence that I don’t know if I want to know the answer. I don’t want to be the subject of her interest. If she’s trying to figure me out or get my whole life’s story, we’re going to have a problem.

I’ll teach her about the magic—but that’s it.

We need to stay focused.

Which makes me wonder why I don’t say so. Why instead I say, “If you want to make great French toast, the key is thick bread that’s a little dried out. And lots of flavor in the liquid.”

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