Page 3 of The Cupid Chronicles

His brow gives way to the slightest quirk. Why did I knock on his door?

“Hi. I’m Iris?” I say it like it’s a question.

“Are you?” he responds. It’s like having your serve returned at a hundred miles an hour.

“Yes! Hah!” I clear my throat. “I live—” I lift my hand to point toward my apartment and coffee drips from my wrist down my arm to my elbow, where it clings for a dramatic second before hitting the floor.

He notices but doesn’t say anything.

“I live down the hall, and this—” I try to juggle the dripping travel mug, my keys, and the art projects I desperately wish I’d stuck inside my bag, which has fallen from my shoulder and is now dangling in the crook of my elbow.

First impression. Nailing it.

Finally, I inch the paper forward and nod to it. “This was delivered to my door by mistake.”

His face immediately changes. He looks surprised, and . . . caught? He shakes it off and returns to what I’m starting toguess is his default scowl. “Where did you get that?” His tone is accusing, like I’ve done something wrong.

Did he not hear me? “I don’t know. I didn’t steal it, it was in front of my door. Sorry it’s crinkled. I stepped on it.”

He still looks completely confused, glancing down and side to side, as if he’s calculating something in his head. He shakes his head for a second time, then reaches up and slides the paper out from under my arm.

See? He’s just a guy. And apparently, not a very nice one.

I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had a bad morning. Maybe he’s been wondering where his paper was. I meet his eyes. Or maybe he’s just a jerk.

Unfortunately, jerks are my kryptonite. I’m now curious enough to find out what his deal is. And yes, some part of me wants to fix him.

No, Iris. Do not go there. Not again.

I smile, determined to win him over, or maybe to get him to quit glowering at me. “So, you’re Matteo?” I ask. “I just moved in this past fall, and I?—”

“Yeah. Great. Thanks for this.” He holds up the paper, steps back, and shuts the door in my face.

Wait.

Wait, did he . . .?

I’m so stunned, I stand there for a solid ten seconds, staring at the door like a child who’s been sent to time-out in the corner.

Okay. Wow. What a jerk.

“Hey, uh,you’re welcome!” I call out, hoping he’s still within earshot.

Finally, I make a stupid face at his door, confident he can’t see me, and after a few more stunned seconds, I turn and stomp back down the hall.

So much for being a good neighbor.

At this point, I’m certain that even if I had a teleporter, I still wouldn’t make it to work on time.

Matteo

I squeeze the familiar newspaper, peeking through the hole in the door.

“You’re welcome!”

She wanted me to hear that. Can’t blame her. I was a jerk.

I stand stone still, watching, hoping she can’t see the shadow through her side of the door. She makes a face (pretty funny, actually, made even funnier by the fish-eye lens of the peephole), and I hold my breath as I wait for this woman tofinallywalk away.

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