Page 129 of The Cupid Chronicles

He’s wearing his chef’s coat. Hiswhitechef’s coat.

My shoulders drop. “I didn’t think he was coming.”

I watch him as he makes his way through the crowd, wishing he was here for me and not for work.

And then, our eyes meet.

The world turns to slow motion—not because of the obvious electrical charge connecting us like lightning in the air, but because out of the corner of my eye, I see a tiny, fast-moving black and white blob stumble over one of the sofas.

I slowly realize that the blob is actually Austin Markham, fifth grade whirlwind and class clown, and he has tripped and is tumbling straight toward Matteo.

I call out his name and start waving my arms, but my hysteria only seems to confuse Matteo, not alert him to the fact that he’s about to be broadsided by a tiny human, and there’s nothing I can do but stand back and watch it happen.

As Austin barrels into his legs, the chafing dish is knocked loose, goes flying backward in the air, spilling pasta and sauce and cheese all over the floor, all over Austin, and all over Matteo.

The noise comes to a screeching halt as people realize what’s just happened. I rush over, wide-eyed and a little panicked, not sure what Matteo is going to do, when Austin pulls himself up.

This kid never misses an opportunity when he’s got an audience of any size, and this one is much larger than usual.

He swipes his hand through the sauce, stands and smacks it onto one of the blank canvases set up nearby. “Look, Miss Ellington! Food art!”

He swirls the sauce around on the canvas in big, wide circles, and the crowd starts laughing and applauding.

If I don’t see this kid hosting the Oscars in fifteen years, it will be a monumental disappointment.

“Good use of found objects, Austin,” I say, looking around for Austin’s parents when Liz emerges from the crowd. “Come on, Austin, let’s find your parents and get you cleanedup.” She motions for him to come with her, and I mouth a silentThank you, then turn my attention to the gorgeous man still sitting on the ground in a pile of pasta.

I take a step closer, and he holds up a hand to stop me. “Don’t. I’m a mess.”

“Yeah, you are.” I watch as he struggles to his feet, and only then do I realize that his crisp, white chef’s coat is now a very deep but unmistakable red.

Matteo is wearing red.

“You’re in red,” I say.

He frowns, and he softly flicks a chunk of tomato sauce from his hand onto the ground.

“Yeah, I am.”

“You’re messy—and you’re wearing red.” Tears spring to my eyes.

Austin’s dad walks up and pulls my attention. “Such a bummer. Baked ziti is my favorite meal.” He looks at the canvas of Austin’s “sauce art” and shrugs. “Kid’s got a great artistic eye, though, right?” He walks off, leaving me standing there, staring at Matteo as he gets up off the floor.

Messy. Red.Soulmate.

He cocks his head and looks at me like he’s seeing something he didn’t expect.

“What time is it?”

“You want to know the time?”

“Yes. Please!” He sounds weirdly desperate.

I frown and glance down at my watch. “Uh, 6:05. Why?”

He looks over at the canvas just as a chunk of pasta falls off and onto the floor.

He looks back at me, eyes afire.

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