Page 71 of The Cupid Chronicles

My heart skips.

I walk over, glance through the peephole, and see a teenager standing in the hallway. “Yes?” I say through the door.

“Delivery from Aria.” He holds up a brown paper bag, and I see the logo of Matteo’s restaurant printed on the outside.

I open the door, and he thrusts the bag in my direction.

“I didn’t order that.”

He shrugs. “Came through with your name on it.”

I frown, taking it awkwardly, as if it’s going to announce how it got here.

“Night, ma’am,” the kid says, taking a few steps down the hall.

Ma’am? Ouch. How old does he think I am?

“Wait. Let me get you a tip.” I wait to make sure he stops.

He turns. “Chef said I’m not allowed to take your money.”

I stare at him.

“He already tipped me.” A shrug. “Have a good night.”

I watch him go, staring after him down the hallway, double checking to make sure there’s no hidden camera, no newspaper, no other surprises waiting for me.

I take the bag inside and set it on the counter, torn between wanting to toss it in the trash—Does he think he can make up for his rudeness by placating me with food?—and wanting to devour every scrap in this bag.

I open it, and the smells of garlic, tomato, and basil fill my apartment—and my soul.

Inside, there’s an entire loaf of bread, cut in half, and two large to-go containers.

I pull it all out and see there’s a small piece of paper taped to the top of one of them. On it, in bold, black Sharpie, are five words.

Stay away from frozen pizza.

Sigh.

Why does the jerk have to be secretly nice?

Chapter Twenty

Matteo

Saturday morning,I wake up, thankfully, not to a smack on the forehead, but to a knock on my door.

Friday nights are late at the restaurant, and I prefer slow Saturday mornings. It’s hard to jump out of bed on the weekend when I know I have to go in and do it all again.

Which is why I’m not quick to answer the incessant knocking.

In the three years I’ve lived in this building, nobody has ever knocked on my door, unless they’re delivery people or maintenance people.

Which is how I know, even before I look, that it’s Iris.

I haven’t seen her since Tuesday, but I had a feeling that even my little “we’re not friends” speech wouldn’t really deter her. Something tells me that if Iris decides to make you her friend, there’s really no escaping it, even if you’re a big, fat jerk to her.

And I was.

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