Page 10 of The Cupid Chronicles

Figures.

“Nice to meet youtoo, new neighbor who took time out of her busy morning to return something thatbelongs to me. . .” I mumble the words under my breath as I adjust the strap of my bag and start back down the hall toward the stairs.

I’m about to walk past my apartment when something stops me.

There’s a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.

Wait. Is that . . .?

I lean back and peer down the hall toward Matteo’s apartment. The newspaper I’ve just dropped outside his door is gone.

I look back at the one in front of my door. Then at his. Then at mine.

Surely that can’t be the same paper.

I didn’t hear his door open, but maybe he grabbed it when I had my back turned?

But that doesn’t explain why there is another newspaper at my door. I’m certain there hasn’t been another person in this hallway since I walked out of my apartment.

I pick it up and turn it over. Like the others, it’s wrapped in a plastic sleeve with an address label stuck to the outside. Also like the others, it’s addressed to Matteo Morgan.

Super hot chef and owner of Aria, a little Italian bistro down the block and around the corner.

Ok, so,maybeI googled him. And yeah,maybeI lingered a little too long on the photo I found of him in his chef’s whites, turned to the side, holding the knives. AndmaybeI will deny that with the full force of the Acting 101 class I took in college when I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life.

I look once more toward the door of his corner apartment and tromp back down the hall. I drop it again in front of his door and stare at it.

Stay. There.

I wait a good ten seconds, then turn away to walk back down the hall and stop again.

There’s a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.

I look back at his, and the one I left there is gone.

Okay. Okay.Now I’m bewildered and annoyed.

I march back to my apartment, grab the paper, march back to his, and set it in front of his door. Again.

Instead of turning, I walk backwards down the hall, eyes locked on the paper, until I’m right in front of my door. The paper stays put, as papers should.

“Ha-HA!” I say, triumphantly. I relax my shoulders and look down.

There’s a rolled-up paper on my welcome mat.

I whip my head back to his apartment, and the paper I just set there is gone.

What?!

If this is some kind of joke, it’s really not funny. But I don’t have time to figure out what’s happening. I can’t be late for work again.

Mr. Charles Kincaid will not be happy.

I grab the paper, and this time, I walk halfway down the hallway and chuck it overhand toward his door. While it’s stillmid-air, I turn back to my door in time to watch a rolled-up newspaperappearfromnowhereand drop in front of my door as if someone has just thrown it.

I gasp.What. Is. Happening?

Magic,my brain says.

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