Page 19 of The Cupid Chronicles

But as I close the refrigerator and turn back around, I freeze. Because there, on the counter, is astackof identical rolled-up newspapers.

What. The.

I back away from the fridge and go to set the Dr Pepper on the counter but completely miss, and it hits the floor—remarkably not exploding or spewing soda everywhere. I leave it, walking around the stack, studying it.

Then, in an impulsive rush, I gather all of the newspapers in my arms, fumble to open my door, and haphazardly toss the armload into the hallway and slam the door shut.

I feel a slight wisp of cool air move behind me—were those chimes?—and I tense up. Holding a breath, I close my eyes and spin around to face my apartment. I stand there for a second,not sure if I should listen to the part of me that doesn’t want to open my eyes, or the part of me thatreally does.

Finally, I give in, and the second I do, I stare at what I see—newspapers everywhere.

On my couch. On the side table. There are newspapers stacked on my chandelier. I look over toward the kitchen table, and there is a stack of newspapers on each chair, staged in a mock family dinner.

I barely notice that my Dr Pepper is back on my counter, upright.

I blindly reach behind me and fumble for the door handle, kicking newspapers now stacked around my feet. Pulling open the door, I stumble out into the hallway to confirm that the newspaper I’d just set in front of Matteo’s door is, in fact, gone.

It is.

Something inside me switches.

I’m not scared. I’m not freaked out.

I’m curious. And determined.

I want to find out how this is happening, and I decide that he must have the answers. I leave my door open as I head toward his apartment. Is he some sort of Harry Houdini? Is he the one playing tricks on me?

I answer zero of these questions before impulsively knocking—loudly—on his door.

It’s the middle of the afternoon. There’s no way he’s actually home. Don’t chefs work 24/7? And live in the kitchen? I feel like I read that somewhere.

I take a step closer to the door and lean in, as if I’ll be able to hear anything in what I assume is an empty apartment. As I do, I glance down the hall and see newspapers sticking out of my doorway.

I bang on the door again.

Nothing.

After at least thirty seconds, I give up and walk away. It’s probably better this way. What would I have even said to him?

I walk back down to my door and look inside.

They’re everywhere.

I kick a pile of them back into the entryway of my apartment. As I do, I hear the sound of a door opening down the hall. I spin around and see Matteo step out of his apartment.

Seriously? He could’ve waited another minute before leaving after he just pretended not to be home.

“Hey, did you not hear me knock? I was?—”

He nonchalantly locks his door and starts down the hall in my direction, eyes focused on the phone in his hand. My breath catches in my throat. He looks like he just stepped out of an ad for luxury clothing. Or high-end watches. One of those salons specializing in making people look extra hot. That’s a thing, right?

I’m suddenly self-conscious, which is my least favorite way to feel. I absently run a hand over my shirt and stand up a little straighter, cross my arms, then uncross them and cross them back, trying not to think that he must be a pretty successful chef.

Helooksexpensive.

By contrast, I look like I work in an elementary school. There’s a very good chance I have peanut butter in my hair.

Matteo doesn’t seem to notice. In fact, he doesn’t seem to notice me at all. Infact, he walks right past me without so much as a nod of acknowledgement.

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