Page 20 of The Cupid Chronicles

This guy!

I’m so stunned, it takes me a slow three-count before I realize that yes, he really did that. He really was that rude to me. Would it have killed him to say hello? That’s just basic human etiquette. Does he think he’s too good to at leastwaveat his neighbor?

Yes, we’re essentially strangers, but honestly. Would a simple “hello” have killed him?

I spin around on my heel and rush down the hall behind him. “Hey!”

No response.

“HEY! Excuse me?!”

He doesn’t stop. He keeps walking toward the third-floor lounge area, reaching for the door to the stairwell.

“Hey!” I call out before he disappears. “Do you want to tell me what kind of trick you’re playing?”

Now, he stops, hand still on the doorknob, and finally—finally—glances my way. He reaches up and takes AirPods out of his ears.

Okay, fine, while that does make his lack of acknowledgement a tiny bit more understandable, he does have eyes. Couldn’t he see me standing in the hallway?

He frowns. “I’m sorry?”

His voice is low and deep, and it almost makes me forget that I’m really, really annoyed with him.

“Did you not see me? I was standing right—” I shake my head and scratch above my eyebrow. “Your newspaper?”

His eyes flicker, but he gives no indication that he understands.

“The newspaper. Thenewspaper!” I’m repeating it like he should just know what I mean. It’s like someone playing charades who repeats the same motion over and over and expects you to guess something different.

He still looks confused.

“Putting it in front of my door was one thing, butinsidemy apartment?” I scoff. “I feel like this might actually be a felony. I don’t know that for sure, but I’m going to find out. Do you have keys to my apartment? Do you know the owner of the building or something? I mean . . . I don’t know howyou’re doing it, but you need to stop, because that is atotalinvasion of pri?—”

“I did what?” He cuts me off. The frown line deepens in his forehead. It’s so deep, I assume it’s a permanent fixture. I’ve known rude people before. I always—always—win them over. It often becomes a little bit of an obsession, which has only come back to bite me once.

Or maybe five times.

I try to remind myself at this moment to not do what I always do.

We’ll see how that goes.

I soften a little when he drops his hand from the stairwell door and takes a step toward me. “What do you mean? What do you think I did?”

His voice is laced with genuine concern—whether it’s for me or something else, I’m not sure—but by the way my body is responding to it, I must have decided it’s for me.

I sigh, realizing in that moment that this is a really stupid thing to accuse him of. I’m blaming my desperation. Ineedthat logical explanation.

“I . . .” I start, but then stop, trying to figure out how to explain this without raising red flags. But Matteo is the only other person who seems to be connected to these newspapers.

Who else am I supposed to ask about them?

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes so I’m not distracted by the weight of his attention.

“I put the paper at your door this morning,” I say. “But it didn’t stick.”

“It didn’t . . . stick?”

Now, I look at him. “It didn’t stick. It didn’t stay where I put it. I turned around and it was back at my door.”

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