Page 112 of The Cupid Chronicles

At that, I laugh, glad for the break in the tension.

He helplessly shrugs. “I knew that was the life I wanted. I was convinced it would be forever.”

But life doesn’t work out the way you plan it.

“What happened?” I ask, quietly. “And you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“It’s okay. I want to tell you.” He pauses. “I haven’t really talked about it at all. With anyone.”

The weight of that isn’t lost on me.

“She was driving home from work,” he says on a tired exhale. “It was dark and icy . . . and . . .” He draws in a slow breath. “She lost control of the car. Skidded off the road. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, it was just an accident.” He drags a hand down his face. “There wasn’t even anyone I could blame.”

Oh.

I stay quiet, not sure what to say, wishing I had the exact right response. Instead, I squeeze his hand, hoping that in the absence of words, he feels that I’m here.

“It was unimaginable.” He shakes his head, and I see tears pooling in his eyes. “The cops showed up at my door, and I thought it had to be a mistake. There was no way—” He stops, overwhelmed.

I hold his hand and wait.

He sniffs, letting go of my hand to wipe his cheeks with his palms. “But then I tried calling Aria. When she didn’t answer, I called her again. I’ll never forget the sound of the line just ringing and ringing and then her happy voice on the recording.”

He goes still. “I’d just talked to her right before she left.” A pause. “I didn’t know that would be the last time I’d hear her voice.”

I picture every second of that moment, easily feeling the pain of it, my heart hurting at his loss, and because I don’t want to be another person who doesn’t give him what he needs, I only say, “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “It’s strange how different we are, isn’t it? You jump into new relationships, wanting to know everyone and not caring at all about the risk of getting hurt, and I?—”

“Hold yourself back because you never want to feel that pain again.”

I take his face in my hands, use my thumbs to wipe away what remains of the tears that escaped his eyes, and place a gentle kiss on his lips. “Take as long as you need to realize that this”—I flick my hand back and forth between us—“is worth the risk.”

“I think that’s what scares me most of all.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Matteo

“Okay, Chef. What’s going on?”

It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m pulling ingredients to prep for lunch when both Val and Nicola corner me in the storage room.

“With what?” I grab a bag of flour from the top shelf.

“Matteo.” Val is using her stern voice. “You were whistling.” And then, as if I didn’t hear her the first time, she repeats, “Whistling.”

“So?” I frown. “Is that against the rules?” My cheeks are hot, and I wish they’d go bother someone else. I turn to go, but Nicola blocks the exit with her hand up against the door jamb.

She’s playfully glaring at me. “You really should just tell us because we’re going to find out.”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I’m not sure I’m being convincing.

“Don’t ever play poker, okay?” Val quips. “You’ll lose everything you have with that face.”

“It’s Iris, isn’t it?” Nicola says.

“No.” But even as I say the word, I know it’s not convincing.I push past Nicola but hear the tiny squeak that ekes out of both of them as they rush to follow me.

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