Page 1 of The Cupid Chronicles

Prologue

A wispof cool air flutters down the hallway, with no apparent source. A faint tinkle of bells, like wind chimes heard from three blocks away. A perceptive adult might hear it, though they may wonder if there was even a sound at all.

Children can hear it, plain as day.

As quickly as the wisp and chimes are there and then gone, something is left in their wake. Something that wasn’t there . . . and then, all of a sudden, was.

But this time, it’s different.

This time, it’s new.

This time, the magic lands in front of a different door.

Chapter One

Iris

Just another manic Monday.

Ever since my mom sang that old Bangles song to me when I was a kid, I’ve woken up at the beginning of every week with it stuck in my head. She’d walk into my room belting it out, office-party-karaoke-night style, as if this is how everyone should wake up.

It stuck. And now I’m stuck.

They say in order to get an earworm out of your head, you have to listen to the whole song, front to back . . . but I don’t have it in me.

Yes, Susanna Hoffs, it is manic. And yes, I do wish it were Sunday.

I’ve got to start going to bed earlier.

But how can I sleep when I’m so close to finishing my third re-watch of the latest season ofThe Great British Baking Show?

Some people have hobbies. They bake, or whatever.

I have Paul Hollywood.

Oh, and crochet. I took that up last year, when I putmyself on a forced hiatus from dating. Given my history, the hiatus probably should’ve turned into a sabbatical.

Toothbrush in my mouth, shirt hanging at a crooked angle, one hand through the sleeve, the other tugging at my pants. I’m like a Picasso if it overslept.

As I move toward the sink to spit, my foot thinks it’d be hilarious to get stuck in the leg of my pants. I tumble forward with a foamy “Ack!” and land in a pile on the floor.

I lift my head, and out of the corner of my eye I see a glob of blue toothpaste on the bathroom rug.

Yep. That’ll stain.

Just another manic Monday, indeed.

Get it together, Iris.

I flip onto my back, slip my arm into my shirt, push my rebellious leg into my pants, and scramble to my feet. “One thing at a time,” I moan out loud, mouth full of toothpaste, so it sounds like “Wha fing anna nyme.”

I sigh at the ridiculousness of this scene before spitting the toothpaste into the sink.

I run my hands through my hair, fingers tangling in the waves, put on just enough makeup to look awake, hustle to the kitchen to grab my coffee, my bag and the stack of projects I spent last night grading, then fling open the door of my apartment, running through a mental checklist in hopes of remembering anything I might’ve forgotten.

This exercise is interrupted as I step into the hallway and nearly steponsomething laying on the floor outside my door.

“What the . . .?!”

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