Page 111 of The Cupid Chronicles

I frown. And I pause. And then I freeze. “Not divorced,” I repeat.

“Widowed.”

“Widowed.” My voice is so small, I doubt he even heard me. My heart squeezes, and I can feel tears push at the corners of my eyes.

Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who got his heart broken . . .

My stomach sinks as all the pieces shift into place. My comments must’ve seemed so flippant and careless to him. How could I be so stupid?

“So that’s why you keep people at an arm’s length,” I say, putting it all together.

“Pretty much,” he says. Then, through half-gritted teeth, says, “And because it’sreallyhard to talk about. When people find out—especially women—they want to fix me.”

Right. The feminine urge to swoop in and save the broken man. I’m familiar with that. All at once aware that I’m squeezing the water bottle a little too hard. I set it down on the counter.

“I liked that you didn’t know,” he says, half-looking at me. “It was nice not to feel like someone’s project. But I also know that if you don’t know about this, you’ll never really know me.” A pause. “And I want you to know me.”

My heart flip-flops. “You do?”

He sets down his water, then moves around to the other side of the island. When he pulls out a stool, I think maybe I should pull out the other one and prepare for a heart-to-heart, but before I can, he takes my hand and tugs me closer, pulling my body in between his knees and wrapping his arms around me in a tight, warm hug.

There’s something so sweet in the wordless way he does this that makes his pain feel almost palpable. I hold him and let myself be held, clinging to him as the picture of who he really is finally becomes clear.

Minutes pass, and I don’t move, because something tells me it’s been a really long time since Matteo let anyone hold him.

Also because it’s been a really long time for me, too.

I pull back, slightly, not ready to let go. “Thank you for telling me.”

He nods, slightly, then presses his lips together. “Thank you for not treating me like some pity case.”

I hug him close again, and I realize I’m so at ease with him. I don’t know when or how it happened, but I don’t feellike I need to impress him or be someone I’m not. I don’t even feel like I need to make him like me.

I lift my chin, studying him for a long moment. “Tell me about her.”

He holds my gaze, and while I expect his body to go rigid at the question, it doesn’t. Instead, he seems to soften, eyes glazing over in what I can only assume is a memory.

“Her name was Aria.” He looks at me. “We were supposed to open the restaurant together.”

I move away slightly and prop myself on the other stool, but I don’t say anything, hoping my silence encourages him to go on.

“She was a pastry chef, like Nicola,” he says. “We all went to school together—me and Aria and Nic and Val . . . and then Bear, once they got together . . .” He half-laughs. “Aria and I hit it off right away. She was funny and upbeat, and she didn’t take any of my crap.”

“I like her already,” I say.

He reaches for his bottle of water, uncaps it, and takes a drink. “You two honestly would’ve hit it off, and it would’ve annoyed me to no end.” His smile is wistful. “She was the life of the party. The exact opposite of me.”

I force myself to stay in the present with him, to not go down the road of pity, which is exactly where he doesn’t want me to go.

“Not long after we met, we were inseparable. We were . . . best friends, really. And our little group was so tight, it was hard to imagine anything messing that up.” He presses his lips together, and I can see the moment reality sets in. I imagine this is why he doesn’t talk about Aria very often. Not because he wants to forget her, but because reliving it is too painful.

I reach out and take his hand.

He’s cautious. The way I was trying to be.

Heartbreak will do that to you.

“We got married young, and I thought that was it. We’d start our restaurant, have a couple kids, maybe get a dog . . .” He looks at me with a smirk. “Definitelynot a cat.”

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