Page 51 of The Cupid Chronicles

I stare at her again, the memory of her saying that exact thing to me two days ago echoing in my mind.

“Well, I don’t believe in magic,” I say, almost robotically. “And I’m really not in the market for romance.”

She shakes her head. “Famous last words.”

I nod, watching them as they watch me back, and then finally, I grab my lunch, excuse myself from the lounge, and rush down the hall toward my classroom, inhaling a very slow, very deep breath because that’s a tactic used to help people deal with anxiety.

And right now, my body is flooded with anxious thoughts.

How can they not remember? How far does this building’s influence go? Am I being watched by the magic right now?

Will I forget?

And one last question that just pops in there without permission—How long before I see Matteo again?

Chapter Sixteen

Matteo

“Chef,there’s someone asking for you.”

I don’t look up. I’m plating apasta carbonara, and my staff knows I don’t make a habit of talking to customers anymore. I’m not good at it.

That was supposed to be Aria’s area.

“No time, Zeb,” I tell the waiter, wiping the edge of the dish.

Across the kitchen, I can feel Nicola and Val staring daggers into the back of my head.

“She says it’s important,” he says. “She’s a little, er . . . manic?”

At that, I stand upright as Val moves toward me and sets the plate up for one of the other waiters to take. “Go, Chef.”

I glance over at her, and she’s moved into the spot where I was, plating the next order without missing a beat. When I don’t move, she adds, “I’ve got this.”

And she does. Obviously. That’s not why I’m hesitating.

After a beat, I look at Zeb. “I’ll be right out.”

Zeb disappears through the doors, and I wash my hands, knowing exactly who is waiting for me.

A part of me, weirdly, is hoping I’m right.

Seconds later, the kitchen door swings open, and I get my confirmation. There, striding into my kitchen, is Iris. Invading my space like she has a right to be here.

She really doesn’t. Not here.

The magic of the newspapers has never shown up at my work . . . until now. Still, seeing her isn’t as annoying as I thought it would be.

“Oh! Uh . . . I’m sorry, miss, you can’t be back here,” my prep cook, Dante, says, angling to get between her and me.

Iris doesn’t seem to hear him. She’s laser-focused, scanning the kitchen with a clear purpose, and when her gaze finally lands on me, she starts walking again. Behind her, I can see the worried expressions of my kitchen staff, and I hold up a hand, assuring them that she’s not a threat. At least not a physical one.

I do find her emotionally disruptive, and that’s something I have no intention of analyzing.

I hang up the towel. It’s obvious she’s not giving any of this up. Unlike the other people I’ve told about the newspapers, she’s remembering. I don’t know why the rules have suddenly changed, but I can’t ignore the magic. It’s to my own detriment. Especially if this really is my chance to be done with it once and for all.

That means Iris is also someone I can no longer ignore.

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