Page 116 of The Cupid Chronicles

When she breaks contact, she gives me a quizzical look. “You good?”

I nod. “Really good.”

And I am.

Surprisingly good.

And I’m starting to wonder if that happiness my grandpa’s found after deep heartache might actually be available to me, too.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Matteo

We managea lot of stolen moments over the next few weeks.

Little by little, Iris is knit into the fabric of my life, even more than she was before.

Our routine is pretty much the same as it was, only the newspapers have stopped coming so frequently.

It doesn’t stop Iris from loving them every time, though.

Hiding a business card for a struggling florist in the coat pocket of a bride-to-be.

Facilitating a blind date for two older single people who find out they grew up blocks from one another in the same suburb but never met.

Then there was the dog match. Iris and I secretly helped a young single woman adopt a dog from a local shelter. That wasn’t the magical part, though. The magic came when the woman took the dog to the local dog park and the dog slipped off the leash. He was corralled by the only park employee—a single guy we helped get the job there in the first place.

The two hit it off right away and have been dating ever since.

Through all the magic, the papers are still, inexplicably, delivered to her but addressed to me. The magic still doesn’t make sense, but maybe it doesn’t have to. Maybe we’re the lucky ones for knowing we live in a world where magic exists. And maybe that’s enough.

Slow Sundays have become our sacred time together. The only uninterrupted day of the week when neither of us has work. Because of that, we sometimes go out, but only in the slowest way possible. We get breakfast at local restaurants to support fellow chefs and make a game out of ranking every coffee shop in Serendipity Springs.

Last week, she convinced me to try one of Winnie’s square dance classes, something I deeply regret, though seeing Winnie’s reaction to the two of us when we walked in holding hands almost made up for my humiliation.

Almost.

Today’s Slow Sunday has us shopping for “the perfect birthday gift” for her co-worker, Brooke. We’re in a boutique a few blocks from the restaurant, and while Iris sets off in the direction of bath and body junk, I hang back and pretend to be interested in a wall of wacky socks.

A saleslady asks if I want to see anything, and I shake my head. “I’m just looking, thanks.”

I’m scanning the wall, chuckling at the ones with little guitar-playing avocados and the caption “Guac ‘n Roll!”, when I hear someone say my name.

“Matteo?”

I turn around in the direction of the woman’s voice, and all at once, I’m looking at the world through a foggy lens.

“Lynn.”

Her face lights up, and tears spring to her eyes. She looks mostly the same, hair a little grayer, maybe a little thinner, but every bit as poised and put together as I remember.

“It’s been . . . years. How are you?” She takes a step toward me. “You look good. You look like you’re doing good.”

I feel trapped. Caught. I don’t want to be here.

“I am, uh . . . how are you—?” I give a cursory glance around the store, silently praying that Iris is busy and I can figure out a way out of this conversation before she gets back.

“We’re good. Don’s good. Everyone’s—” She stops. “Did you get my invitation?”

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