Page 70 of The Cupid Chronicles

He hands it to me. “It’s a Coke—is that okay?”

I take the glass and nod. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He goes back to setting the table, and I go back to feeling uneasy under Matteo’s watchful glare. His whole attitude has shifted since we walked in from outside, and I’m not sure what changed.

He takes a step toward me. “I can’t have you in my space,” he says, his voice low so only I can hear. “I need to focus.”

I nod, feeling off-kilter and a little weak-kneed at his nearness. “Okay.”

Then, even more quietly, he says, “We’re not friends, Iris. We’re just getting through this weird situation and moving on.”

The words linger, like a bad aftertaste.We’re not friends.

I feel like such an idiot that I’d even for one second let myself think anything else.

But then I think about what Val said in the kitchen. That he’s one of the good ones. That it’s worth it to knock down his brick wall.

That I’m part of thefamily.

“We could be, you know,” I say, knowing my vulnerability is showing. “Friends.”

This is the exact opposite of what I should do.

His eyes flicker for a beat.

I add, “I don’t have that many. It might be nice.”Careful, Iris, you’re going to sound desperate.

I shove the thought aside, and for a flicker of a moment, we connect. Like it wouldn’t be so bad to open up, to get to know each other outside of the magic. Like maybe we aren’t so different after all.

But then, as quickly as it came, the moment is gone, like a mist of golden shimmer.

He shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’m sorry. We can’t.”

I press my lips together and look away, waiting until, finally, he turns to leave.

I stand still, feeling the sting of his rejection, knowing this is my own fault. That, like always, I’m getting invested. I’m getting attached.

And that can’t happen.

People leave.

Only, this time, at least Matteo didn’t pretend to be anything other than what he is. It was me who got my wires crossed.

I glance up and find Dante actively tryingnotto look at me.

I set the Coke down on the table. “You know, on second thought, I’m going to go.”

He looks conflicted, and I smile, hoping to put him at ease.

“I’ve got a lot to do, and I’ve only just now remembered.” I nod. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Of course,” he says, disappointed. “See you next time.”

My fake smile holds, and I duck out of the private room, moving quickly toward the front door, thinking that whatever spell I’ve been under where Matteo Morgan is concerned has been officially broken.

Two hours later, I’m curled up on my couch with my crochet basket, about to see who gets voted off ofProject Runwayand trying really hard to be thankful for the much-needed wake-up call.

I’ve finally got my emotions in check—This is not a big deal. It’s not like you want to be friends with someone like Matteo anyway. Better you realize that now rather than later, after you write a whole story about how you’re going to be the one to pull him out of his shell—when there’s a knock at my door.

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