Page 59 of The Cupid Chronicles

He indicates to his left. “Guaranteed Nicola’s pastries will ruin Pop-Tarts for you.”

I glance over at the small tray of desserts on the desk, then back to his plate, which is now fully in front of me.

“Ooh. I’ll save room.”

He leans back in his chair and watches for a few seconds while I continue to devour more than my share of this dinner. I can’t help it. I have zero self-control. The only problem is, I’m never going to want frozen pizza again.

“So. Newspaper. What happened with it?” I ask.

“It kept coming back,” he says, simply.

Ah. So the same thing that happened to me.

“Didn’t matter what I did or how many times I threw it away,” he says, sounding frustrated. “And then one day, I came home, and my living room was full of newspapers.”

“Oh, my gosh, me too,” I say, almost reverently. “That’s what I tried to show you in the hallway the other day—my apartment wasfullof them.”

He nods.

He understands.

Relief washes over me. Because for the first time since this started, I don’t feel completely alone. Someone else has experienced the exact same thing as me.

“Why didn’t you just tell me in the first place?” I ask, not hiding the accusation in my tone.

He looks at me like I just asked him to add Fruit Roll-Ups to his menu.

“Tell you? You mean, ‘Hey, we just met, and oh, by the way, this building delivers magic newspapers’?”

I shrug. “Fair point.”

“Plus,” he continues, “all the people I talk to about the newspapers don’t remember.”

This makes me pause.

“They don’t remember,” I absently repeat in an awe-filled tone. “Like Brooke and Liz.”

“The only other person I’ve talked to about them is my grandpa,” he says, and then after a pause, “and now, you.”

It’s like I’ve just been let into a secret society, one with only a handful of very elite members.

“So, wait. Is thisreal?” I’m instantly giddy. “I mean, are wereallydiscussing magic like it’s something that actually exists?”

He sighs. “It would appear so.”

“Okay. Okay.” My mind is racing. There is so much I want to know. “How often do you get a new paper?”

“It depends,” he says. “I’ve gone months without one before, but I’ve also gotten two in the same week.” He glances over at the tray of pastries, almost like he’s contemplating whether he should eat one.

I stack my empty plate on top of his now empty plate and move them aside, then pull the pastry tray to the center of the desk. “Do you want to share them?” I pick up one of the clean forks Nicola left with the desserts and hand it to him.

To my utter shock, he takes it, then cuts into a slice of cheesecake.

“It’s like . . . when someone needs something, the newspapers show up,” he says.

“Things like . . .?”

“Bringing a cat to a lonely neighbor,” he says, smirking a little. “Which will ultimately lead to her meeting this swinger.”

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