Page 60 of The Cupid Chronicles

I laugh out loud. “He’s not aswinger.”

“Swing dancer.”

“Squaredancer.” I can’t keep from giggling.

Matteo looks confused for a split second, and when he makes the connection, he hides his smile and looks away.

Endearing. My insides warm.

“Does that mean you think Winnie and my new friend Jerry are . . . soulmates?” I borrow Liz’s word, but I don’t do anything to hide the fact that I’m not buying in to the idea.

“If that’s what you want to call it.” He says it so easily, it catches me off-guard.

“Wait, for real?”

“Sometimes—but not always—that’s where these things lead.” He takes another bite.

“So . . .” I pause to taste a bite of cheesecake and wrap my head around this idea. “You’re a matchmaker, and oh, my goodness, this cheesecake is amazing.”

He harrumphs a reply, and I can immediately tell he doesn’t like that title.

“A grumpy matchmaker with a sweet tooth.” I close my eyes, now focusing on nothing but how this cheesecake tastes. “This is incredible.” I open my eyes and find him still watching me. “Did you make this too?”

He shakes his head. “Nicola is the pastry chef.”

“Right. She said that.” I pause. “So that’s why you’re free to eat it like a human instead of a robot in charge of quality control.” I move to the tiramisu and try a bite.

Heaven.

He frowns at me. “I don’t eat like a robot.”

“You do, but okay.” I take a sip of my water, then smack my lips together loudly. “I need to cleanse my palate.”

He allows himself a tiny laugh as he shifts in his seat. I’ll take it. For a second, I think he’s going to argue with me, but instead, he says, “I’m not a matchmaker.”

I laugh at the disdain in his voice. “Oh, let me guess,you’re one of those guys who got his heart broken, and now you don’t believe in love.”

He reacts like he was just slapped, and there’s a shift in the air.

I feel the mood change from light-hearted to tense, and I know I messed up. What I don’t know is how. And I want the whole story.

Way to go. You don’t need the story, Iris.

He sets down his fork and doesn’t respond.

I desperately try to salvage the conversation.

“I’m . . . sorry if I said . . . I shouldn’t have . . . sometimes I just, you know, open mouth, say stuff, and it’s not always . . .” I tilt my head down a bit to try to catch his downward gaze.

He looks at me, and I can tell there is a really deep wound there.

“I should know better. If anyone knows about heartbreak, it’s me.” I hitch both thumbs back in my own direction. “Definitely the heartbreak queen.” I frown. “That makes me sound super pathetic and—” I wince. “I’m just sorry.”

I don’t expect him to say anything back, and I mentally prepare myself to pack up my things and leave, when he says, “It’s fine. It’s just—” He stops. “But maybe we can stick to . . . you know.”

Understood.

“The newspapers. Got it.”

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