Page 2 of The Cupid Chronicles

I maneuver my line of sight around the armload of things I’m holding and see a rolled-up newspaper sitting on my welcome mat.

That’s weird. Who reads the newspaper? And one rolled up with a rubber band?

I glance up and down the hallway, looking for someone who could have left the newspaper in front of my door.

I huff out a breath and bend over to pick up the newspaper, which is definitely not mine. I could leave it for later, but what if this neighbor—I find a label on the outside of the sleeve—Matteo Morgan.The name interrupts my thoughts.

Matteo. Probably an old guy, if he’s getting a newspaper. And this is probably part of his morning ritual—coffee, paper, crossword puzzle, that kind of thing.

If I had a morning ritual, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want it interrupted.

The image of an older man forms in my mind. He looks like Gerry, the guy who fixes Woody inToy Story, same pointy nose and bald head, and in my imagination, he’s gracious and kind, and when I show him I’ve gotten his newspaper by accident, he invites me in for a cup of tea. Maybe he has a British accent and a million stories to tell.

All at once, I want to meet Matteo. Maybe he’ll become a friend, a wise old neighbor who can give me life advice. The father I’ve always wished I had.

I moved into The Serendipity at the beginning of the school year, but I’ve been so consumed with my new teaching job, my new students, and my promisenotto fall into my old habit of inserting myself into other people’s lives that I haven’t gotten the chance to meet many of my neighbors. I suppose now, on a Monday morning, manic or not, is as good a time as any, right?

I turn in the opposite direction of the elevator and double-check the address label again.

Matteo Morgan. Apartment 3J. Two doors down from me.

The corner apartment. Lucky. He probably has two full walls of windows. As I move down the hall toward his door, I find myself wondering—not for the first time—what the other apartments in this old building look like.

Maybe kind, old Matteo will give me a tour, not just of his apartment but of the whole building. I have a thing for old buildings and the secrets they hold. Think of all the people who’ve lived here—the love, the loss, the stories. These walls have probably seen plenty, first when it was a college dorm, then later, when it was converted into these beautiful apartments.

When I moved in, I didn’t get a grand tour. My space and the common areas—the courtyard, the rooftop garden, the big kitchen, the library—are the only spaces I’ve seen. It’s definitely unique—after all, I don’t know of any other apartment building that has a community kitchenora library—which is one of the things that drew me to The Serendipity in the first place.

I knock on the door of the corner apartment, trying to tip my wrist to see my watch, and stifle a “Gah!” as I’m instantly scalded. The wrist I decided to tip is attached to the hand holding my coffee. And I didn’t close the lid of my travel mug.

I hold my hands out from my chest as the hot liquid trails down into my bra, and I groan an “Oh, come ON!”—loudly—just as the door flings open.

I come face to face with a glare so intense that for a second I can’t remember why I knocked in the first place.

Okay. So . . . Matteo Morgan isn’t a cute old man who fixes toys.

He’s maybe in his early thirties, tall, with olive skin and dark, brooding eyes—brown with flecks of hazel. And it looks like someone ran a filter over his face to make those eyes more vibrant.

He momentarily glances at the coffee in my right hand, then back to my eyes.

I try to laugh.

I must look deranged.

Also, I’m not one to be knocked sideways by a good-looking guy. People are people. I’m good with people. I like people.

I’m a full-on adult now. With adult conversational abilities.

I’m just not sure where they’ve gone because right at this moment, my brain is a whiteboard that’s just been erased.

“Can I help you?” I don’t miss the annoyance in his tone.

I force my gaze to lock onto his.

“Uh, hi.” I paste on a smile that I hope erases the nerves and distracts from what I am sure is a large brown wet stain down the front of my shirt.

It doesn’t succeed at either. He glances down, and then up again.

Get it together, Iris.

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