Page 36 of The Cupid Chronicles

I place the napkin back on the table. And then, as if presenting my dish to a panel of judges, I look at Iris, then at Winnie, and nod again. “Today I’ve prepared for you a Sicilian classic,busiate con agghia pistata. This is a handmade pasta paired with a traditional Trapanese pesto.Buon appetito.” I gesture for them to begin eating, as Winnie claps her hands in front of her face like she’s genuinely impressed.

“Wonderful, justwonderful.” She reaches over and squeezes my arm.

As I sit, my eyes flick up, and I find Iris watching me, curiously.

Her curiosity isn’t something I’m interested in entertaining.

Winnie makes a show of unfolding her napkin and laying it across her lap, then surveys the meal on the plate in front of her.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Winnie in the brief time I’ve known her, it’s that she values well-made and well-prepared food. I’ve gotten the distinct impression she has a refined palate, which really does make her an excellent person to sample new recipes.

Iris, on the other hand, seems amused by the entire scene. “Oh, my gosh, this smellsa-ma-zing.” She picks up the saltshaker.

“Don’t do that.” I nod to her hand.

She looks at the salt and frowns. “But I put salt on everything.”

“Taste it first,” I say, trying not to be annoyed.

She pauses. “Fine, but I reserve the right to add it.” She sets the shaker down.

I nod.

She picks up her fork and starts winding the pasta around it. “So you made this by hand?”

“That’s usually what ‘handmade’ means.” I try to keep my tone light but not teasing. I don’t want her to think I’m flirting. Unfortunately, the second I finish the sentence, I hear the sharpness in what I’ve said.

She deflates a little, and I look away. If they were here, Nicola and Val would both be kicking me under the table.

I’m not great with people.

Not anymore.

My “table side manner” is a topic of conversation in the kitchen more often than I want it to be, but I don’t see the point. I’m not interested in widening my nonexistent social circle. I can be polite and withdrawn at the same time.

Politely withdrawn.

But now, thanks to my rude comment, there’s an awkward silence in the room.

Winnie picks up her fork and turns her attention toward Iris. “Do you cook, dear?”

Iris coughs, then laughs. “Uh, no. Not like this. I do a lot of frozen pizza.”

At that, I wince.

Winnie lets out a long, “Ohhhh. Your words have wounded the chef.”

Iris pulls a face. “Yeah . . . sorry about that. My mom wasn’t very good in the kitchen. I never learned.”

I meet Iris’s wide, apologetic eyes for a moment, then quickly look away.

“Chef Matteo learned to cook right here in this building,” Winnie says.

Iris lifts her fork and looks at me again, one eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

“His grandma taught him,” she says, as I lower my head, which is what I do when others are talking about me whileI’m sitting right next to them. Which happens often. Because I don’t talk about myself. She turns to me. “I bet you have a lot of good memories of this place.”

“I do.” I take my first bite, the flavors of garlic and tomato and almond and basil settling on my tongue as I chew, slowly, assessing the flavor, the balance, the notes.

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