Page 72 of The Cupid Chronicles

I knew itasthe words were coming out of my mouth, but it was confirmed when I walked back into the private room at the restaurant and she was gone.

Nicola let me have it. And rightfully so.

I drag myself out of bed, pull on a pair of sweatpants, grab a T-shirt from my dresser, and plod through my apartment to the door. The knocking never stops the entire time.

A part of me is relieved she didn’t write me off. I think I’ve got the kind of personality that needs a second chance. Oddly, I want one with her.

What am I supposed to do with an intrusive thought like that?

“I’m coming,” I say as I pull the door open, half-dressed and a little frustrated to be up this early on a Saturday. “What?”

Iris lets out a slight gasp and takes a step back, eyes dropping to my bare chest, before quickly looking away. “Were you asleep?”

“Yes.” I pull on my T-shirt. “It’s not even eight.”

Finally, she looks at me. “Oh. Shoot. I’ve been up for two hours.”

I can’t even think about cracking 8 a.m. after Friday night service.

“Sorry,” she apologizes. “I wasn’t thinking.”

I stare back, waiting for her to tell me what she wants. When she doesn’t, I turn and walk away, leaving the door open as an invitation for her to come in.

She just stands there.

“I’m getting coffee,” I call toward the hallway. “You can come inside.”

Eventually, I hear the door close, then see Iris walking cautiously into the kitchen. She looks around the apartment, which I mostly left the way it was when I moved in. I got rid of the clutter, and my grandpa cleared out all his personal items, but this place felt pretty familiar already, so I left it alone.

It’s unnerving, not knowing what she’s thinking as she studies my space.

While I grind coffee beans, Iris walks into the living room, taking in the open floor plan and the large windows that flood the space with natural light. “Is this the apartment they use when new people need a tour?”

I pour boiling water over the ground coffee in the French press, pausing for a second to frown at her.

“No photos. No personal items. No clutter,” she explains. “It’s like the model they show to people who are thinking about moving in.”

“I get it.” I do a slow nod. “You’re mocking me.”

She walks over to the kitchen island, smirking. “Oh, no. I wouldnever. I only tease myfriends.” She hangs an oversized bag on the back of the tall stool and sits.

I wince at the memory of my coldness. “About that?—”

She holds up a hand. “I accept your apology.”

I frown.

“You let the spaghetti and meatballs say you’re sorry. I get it,” she says. “Did Val make you do that?”

“No, I actually felt bad.”

“Well, you should’ve felt bad,” she says, matter-of-factly. “What you said stunk and made me feel like a loser.”

I wince again. “You’re right. It was uncalled for.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re lucky I don’t dwell.”

“Yes,” I say, “I am.”

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