Page 73 of The Cupid Chronicles

“We don’t have to, like, have sleepovers and braid each other’s hair or whatever, but I meant it when I said I don’t have many friends here. I thought since we, you know, have something in common . . .” A shrug.

The admission surprises me. Shames me. But if she’s looking for friends, she’s in the wrong place. I’m just not in the business of letting new people into my life. “Sorry, it’s just?—”

“You don’t like people, I know.” Her eyes drift over to the refrigerator. “Are those your grandparents?”

I follow her gaze to the photos stuck to the front of the fridge. “Yeah, and then that’s my grandpa in Italy. His new wife, Elena, took that photo.”

I open the refrigerator and pull out a carton of eggs.

“That must’ve been hard for you,” she says, but she doesn’t press the point.

Instead, she lets me sit with her observation, and I realize that yes, it was hard. Partly because it felt like he was betraying my grandma by moving on.

Or maybe because he figured out a way to move on—when I can’t.

Or won’t.

I take two mugs out of the cupboard and pour us each a cup of coffee, then set cream and sugar out on the counter so she can make hers however she wants.

“Thank you,” she says. “You’re actually a really good host.” A pause. “When your attitude doesn’t screw it up.”

I shoot her a look and start assembling ingredients—vanilla, nutmeg, heavy cream. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten.”

“It’s not even eight,” she says. “Of course I haven’t.”

“I’m starting to think you keep showing up for the free food.” I take a glass mixing bowl from one of the drawers.

“Well, shoot, I was hoping you wouldn’t figure that out until next month,” she says.

I chuckle at that, despite myself. I can’t help it. Iris surprises me. Most people are so put off by me that they keep their distance. Iris was obviously hurt when she left the restaurant the other night, but she’s clearly decided not to hold a grudge. There’s something refreshing about that.

“But it’s not just the insane food.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a rolled-up newspaper, setting it with reverencebetween the two of us. “It’s also this. And before you ask, yes, it’s addressed to you, so you’re not off the hook yet.”

Somehow, I’m not as disappointed by that as I thought I’d be.

She glances at the ingredients I’ve pulled out onto the counter. “Are you planning to feed the entire building?”

“Planning to make the best French toast in the city.”

Her eyes brighten. “You’re making me French toast?”

I feel the corner of my mouth tug at her excitement, and I do a bad job of hiding the smile. “I’m makingmeFrench toast.”

She smiles back. “Can I have yours, then?”

I chuckle again, shaking my head. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see she looks pleased with herself.

“Did you make the bread?” she asks.

“Nicola made this. I bring a loaf home every week.”

She shakes her head in disbelief. “Can I smell it?”

“How in the world have you been surviving all these years?” I ask, handing over the bread.

“You’d be surprised how long you can exist on straight sugar,” she says, inhaling the fresh bread. “This smells insane. It should be illegal.” She breathes it in again.

I remove my bread knife from the magnet strip on the wall above the counter.

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