Page 66 of The Cupid Chronicles

And he’s frowning. “I’m, uh . . . I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shut the door on you like that.”

I’m shocked. He looks like he’s chewing glass, but was that an apology?

He holds the door open. “Do you want to come in?”

I knew it. I knew there was a nice person tucked away underneath that hardened exterior. It makes me wonder what—or who—hurt him so badly.

“You’re back!” Val doesn’t hide the surprise on her face when I follow Matteo into the kitchen.

She’s short, with dark hair pulled back in a bun, and sheisn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. She’s wearing black pants and a white chef’s coat, which seems to be the uniform.

Despite my best efforts and his “nothing personal” declarations, Iamcurious about Matteo. Why did the building choose him as its Cupid? And why is it now choosing me?

We couldn’t be more different. I don’t know anything about his personal life, but I’m hoping it’s not as bad as mine.

What’s his story? And how do I find it out when he’s definitely not going to tell me?

I stop my train of thought. That’s not the point here. I don’t need to know anything about Matteo—other than the fact that he knows how the magic works. I will think aboutthatand not the fact that my torso turns into a cage of butterflies when he looks at me.

Those kinds of butterflies aren’t real.

Val shoots Matteo a look, which he seems to ignore as he pushes past her and hangs up his winter coat. “She’s probably hungry again.”

He pulls his chef’s coat down from one of the hooks and turns to face us, and only then do I realize I’m staring at the way his plain white T-shirt pulls across his chest, highlighting well-defined muscles and tattooed biceps that could easily carry a person from a burning building.

I would volunteer to test that theory.

I glance over at Val, who chuckles, and I quickly look away, embarrassed.

“Are you joining us for family dinner?” Val asks, hopeful.

“Uh . . .” I toss Matteo a helpless look, but he’s inspecting a box of produce with that same careful consideration he seems to give to everything.

“Chef?” Val calls out.

“Yes, set an extra place,” he says without looking at her.

Val wraps an arm around my shoulder and squeezes. “Welcome to the family.”

My insides squeeze at the word.

Family.

I haven’t had one of those since I was thirteen.

I can still remember waking to find nobody had gotten me up for school. My mom was still in bed, and my dad was just . . . gone. He’d left a note on the refrigerator that just said,Sorry, Iris. Call you soon.

I had friends whose parents had gotten divorced, but it was never something I thought would happen to my parents. We were close—a tight little circle, just the three of us.

And my dad was leaving? Didn’t we matter enough to make him stay?

Didn’tImatter enough?

Yeah, total cliché. People always say it “wasn’t my fault,” that there “wasn’t anything I could’ve done,” but boy, it sure feels like I somehow did something wrong.

People leave.

It turned out that my dad had met someone else. They were married a year later, and her kids became his. My mom remarried a year after that and had another baby with her new husband, Richard. She did her best to make me feel like a part of their family, but I was fifteen. Mostly grown.

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